My Son Is a Great Example, Thank You

This has been bothering me for an entire week…

My first reaction was to scream into a pillow about how asinine people can be. Then I wanted to post something on Facebook, but I didn’t want to embarrass my son (who is no longer active on Facebook but his friends are).  And it was only about a week ago that I made a #yesallwomen post on Facebook about an ass that catcalled my 23-year-old daughter in a suburban neighborhood and followed her for about a quarter mile in his truck.  I didn’t want to start to look like a ranting mom.

But damn it, this is really bugging the s#!@ out of me.  So, I’m sharing here.

First you need to know that my son, who is 20 years old now, is genuinely a nice guy. I was going through old report cards and teacher notes as I winnow down paper files, and the theme was consistent:  “…nice, quiet boy who perhaps takes too much too heart, very sensitive. Lots of friends. Happy child.”

Okay, so, there you go.  That’s my son in a nutshell.

Then there’s this:

He and I were just casually chatting about the world and how people can be real jerks sometimes.  Then he and my daughter, who both worked in a local supermarket (he has for the last 3.5 years, she only could stand it for about a month), said, “Mom, you have no idea of how often the people around here (West Windsor, NJ and Newtown, PA) are rude and condescending.” And then they each proceeded to tell me a string of “bad customer” stories.  His included a few doozies, including one where customer threw a loaf of bread at one of his friends behind the bakery counter because she didn’t know where to find capers.  The guy threw a loaf of bread at her and called her a “stupid bitch.”

I myself worked in a supermarket, a different one, as a part-time job when my full-time job wasn’t paying me enough to live on early in my career, and I do remember how rude some people can be.  So I started to tell both of my kids that yes, there are a lot of rude people, but so many more people who are nice, but we tend not to remember or remark on the nice ones, because, thank goodness, they are in the majority, and we only remember what is terrible and unusual.

And then my son shares this:

“Well, you’re probably right, but when I was just starting working at the store, and was going to school and working there, some man pointed at me and said to his daughter, ‘Do well in school or you’ll wind up like him.’”

So, my son, who was working to save money (he was in high school at the time) while going to school was made an example of what not to do.  There are sooooo many things wrong with that-- it makes my blood boil.

First, and most personally, my son takes things to heart, even when he says he doesn’t. I’m sure that while he says the man made him angry, there was a part of him that was hurt, too.

Second, who the hell puts down someone working for a living?  When is someone working EVER a bad example?

Third, I have a number of friends who work in retail. The snobbery inherent in the comment made by that man is disgusting.  I wonder what he does for a living that has warped his brain to the point that he believes it is correct to look down on someone and, worse, share his stupidity aloud.

Fourth, what a terrible father he is.  If his daughter was older, she was surely embarrassed, or should have been, by his commentary. If she was younger, what a sad example she has for a father.  Poor kid either way.

Fifth, and on a more positive note, this story made me think of my own father. He had a tough life. His father died when he was very young, during WWII. His mother had to send my dad and his siblings off to live with relatives while she found a job and had money to support them. According to stories he shared over the years, during that time he lived without a lot of supervision.  He met a lot of people, some down on their luck, a few very well off, and a lot in between, though mostly not well off.  Remember, it was during the Depression years. He was exposed to all kinds of people and their behaviors during a tough time in our nation’s history and in his own. 

Yet, my father came out of it all with a true appreciation for individuals and the paths they take, the choices they make, and how their lives evolve.  He always said to me, “I don’t care what you do for a living, just do it well.”  (I love too that he taught me early on that I could have a career—pretty ahead of his time.) 

He would talk with the garbage truck drivers as easily as his colleagues at the office. He would show equal respect to police officers, street sweepers, and doctors.  I grew up really truly believing that every job exists for a reason and that people gravitate to work they can enjoy and feel good about.

So, I promise not to rant to often about the stuff that happens to my kids as they become adults and have to deal with the crap the rest of us are dealing with on a daily basis.  But I couldn’t keep from commenting about the jerk in the supermarket who had no right to make my son feel less than when, in fact, my son is so much more than.  

My son is a very handy example of a real man.  I’m proud of him everyday.

Sparking the Spirit

When I was a kid, I accepted that my grandmother, who loved a clean house, had a small, ceramic Christmas tree on a table in her living room.  It was a Christmas tree, so there was acknowledgement of the holiday, and also acknowledgement that her children were grown and the primary reasons, as far as I could see, for anyone to have an elaborate tree, had grown up and moved away, creating little reasons for trees of their own.

Like so many things in life, I never imagined I’d not have a Christmas tree in my house.

2012 was a very challenging year for me on many levels.  Among so many other things going on, I felt overwhelmed by the notion of dragging out the Christmas decorations, trying to decide between tree options (live that could be replanted, live that was giving its life for our amusement, and fake), and decorating the tree. 

You need to understand, too, that my kids are very creative and every year, decorating the Christmas tree is NOTHING like in the movies.  At our house, it turns into a constant, fluid, flowing set of skits, rifts, impromptu roasts, and sometimes-hysterical chaos.  So yeah, I wasn’t up for it in 2012.

But at the last minute, two nights before Christmas eve, I was enveloped by a sense of nostalgia and guilt.  How many times did my parents not feel like “doing Christmas?” I wondered.  So in the freezing cold we drove to the place we always got our trees and in the howling wind, I pointed to a pathetic foot-tall thing and insisted we get it into the trunk.  The kids protested.  I overrode them.

We got the poor relative of the Charlie Brown Christmas tree into the living room and I hand-selected the few ornaments that were so special that it wouldn’t be Christmas without them.  Then we attempted to decorate the little bastard.

“Ow!”

“Ouch! Damn it.”

“Son of a bitch!”

“I told you this tree would suck!”

“What the hell?”

Apparently, the tree was part cactus.  We were literally bleeding all over it trying to put the ornaments on.

We laughed so hard we were now crying on the Cactus-mas tree. 

Game over. 

We left the ornaments on that we managed to airlift and drop onto the sickly branches and called it quits.

Then, in 2013, we were in our new home.  We went to the Christmas tree farm and picked out a beauty.  A cut tree, 8’ tall.  Picked it out in 3 minutes flat.  It was perfect.  It was placed neatly in “the perfect spot” in our living room and remained up for several days after Christmas.  It was so pretty.

And then came 2014.  It has been a crazy, roller coaster year.  Mostly good, but not all good, and certainly even the good was not streamlined.  It’s been a year of learning, let’s leave it at that.  Translation: it’s been an exhausting year.

So I asked the kids (who are 19 and 22), do you care if we don’t have a tree this year?  I mean, I’ll get a little tree in a plant stand so there’s “a tree” but do you care?  I texted this question so they replied in kind.  “No, we don’t care.”

Except they did care.  So on December 19^th, they both said they thought it over and really wanted there to be a tree here. 

But you have a tree at your dad’s house, isn’t’ that enough?

No, we need a place to put all the presents, and we need it to be under a tree.

“Do you care if it’s real or fake?”

“No, but it can’t be that 12” thing you tried to pawn off on us in 2013.  It has to be tree height, not a pseudo bush.”

Marc volunteered to go to the storage unit where he was convinced we had a fake tree.  He returned with a big plastic box marked “Fielding Christmas” but there was no tree.  “Hon, I think we sold it at the garage sale,” he offered.  I told him I thought he was right.

“Can you just go to the store and pick up a small, table-top, fake tree,” I asked him.

“Sure, I’ll do that,” he said.

So on Sunday, December 21, I woke up and emptied out the plastic box of its Christmas decorations, placing them just in the kitchen, dining room, and living room, sparing the rest of the house.  I was pleasantly surprised that Marc had brought my two favorite decorations:  the 3 wise men and a ceramic reindeer.  The two things that I would feel badly about not having up at the holidays, despite my apathy.

And strangely, the Christmas spirit started to take root.

I worked for a few hours in my studio and when I came down, I noticed Marc had bought the two remaining grab bag gifts we needed for my brother’s house.  I thanked him, and then he said, “Did you see the tree?”  I’d completely forgotten that I’d asked him to pick it up.  I figured it would be in a box for me to inspect.  Nope.  He’d put the little tree up on the living room table in the same bay window where the massive tree had stood the year before.  He’d decorated it and put a pretty tree blanket beneath it, covering the tabletop.  I was so strangely gleeful.  I said, oh, you decorated it too.  Thanks for putting the decorations in the bag on the tree too.

He looked perplexed.

You know, the ornaments in the bag in the plastic box.

Still he looked puzzled.

Then I looked more closely. The ornaments were just simple silver balls.  So I thanked him and went to the plastic box and pulled out the ornaments in a small gift bag.  Just a fraction of the many ornaments we’d collected over the years.  And here’s the Christmas miracle part…the ornaments that he’d put in the bag were my very favorite ornaments:  the bumble bee, the wire heart, the rose heart, the ornaments with the kids’ names on them, and probably my favorite, a dough wreath with a photo of my favorite pet ever, Addison, the boxer I had when I was first married.  That ornament was a gift from two of my colleagues at work.  It was the one thing, besides the reindeer and the wise men, that I was feeling badly about not having in the house for Christmas.  And now, there it was on the tiny tree in the window.

I’m reading a lot about being and staying balanced, and trying very hard (seems oxymoronic) to balance my chakras, particularly the first and second ones.  At Christmas time, I was feeling stressed and trying to calm myself by taking things one step at a time and trying to choose wisely between what had to get done and what I could live without.

How grateful I am that the man who means the world to me knew me better than I knew myself.  That in simply simplifying the madness of the holiday season down to a few decorations, a tiny tree, and a handful of ornaments, I could reclaim my vitality and a sense of joyfulness in the world around me. 

I now understand what my grandmother knew all those years ago:  the longer you live, the less you need to rekindle the Christmas spirit.  You just need a few special sparks.

I'm Terribly Sorry

A friend’s father passed away Monday, so on Wednesday I ordered a gift tower of breakfast treats from Harry & David to be delivered on Friday when she and her husband had people staying at their home.

On Friday, I received a call from Harry & David telling me they were sorry, but there was a delay and the gift tower would be there on Saturday morning instead. Was that okay? I said it was.

On Friday evening, I received a voice mail from Harry & David. There was also an email.

The voice mail asked me to call because they needed more information to process the order. The email said the gift tower was no longer available. Which was correct? Keep reading…

I called and was told that they were “terribly sorry” but the gift tower was indeed still available and would ship out “expedited” at their expense for arrival on Monday or Tuesday. [That means Tuesday.]

I said that was unacceptable, as my friends’ family members would be gone by then and now I had to go out [time expense] to purchase something for them to replace what Harry & David had promised to take care of for me. She said she was “terribly sorry.”

I said that I didn’t understand the repeated delays. That’s when she shared “what really happened.” Make sure you’re sitting down because this is good…

To paraphrase this robot who kept repeating sorry-ness on behalf of Harry & David, “You see, we’re on the west coast and that’s where the package is. But the sympathy cards, well, there are no more here, they’re on the east coast. So we’re waiting to get them here so we can ship out the order.”

I said, “Are you kidding me? So you mean to tell me that at Harry & David there is no one who could take a piece of paper that looks anything like a card, write the note I typed into the computer form, and send it in the package?”

“No,” was her response.

“So Harry & David would rather disappoint a customer, i.e., me, who orders from you quite frequently, than to take the extra step to fashion an expression of sympathy to go in the package.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” was the response.

“Okay then you leave me no alternative. You don’t sound ‘terribly sorry’ and I have no confidence that the package will ever arrive, so please cancel the order and send me an email confirmation so I know this has been done.”

“Yes, I can do that,” said the robot, and she added, according to her program, “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Well, I will be saying something about this online and I won’t be ordering from you anymore because it’s not just the package that didn’t get there on time. It was the way I chose to express my condolences and the timing of that expression that I was entrusting to Harry & David —that’s what I purchased. I was counting on you to deliver on your responsibility, and you didn’t. I now longer trust Harry & David and won’t be purchasing from you anymore.”

“I understand and I’m terribly sorry,” the robot said as we hung up.

By the way, there was no offer of anything monetary to express apology for the botched order. In fairness, it wouldn’t have changed my mind, but for the record, there was no offer to go along with being “terribly sorry.”

The cancellation email didn’t arrive so I called the next day. Another customer service person cheerfully said she would send the confirmation email and apologized for it not getting to me.

“Did you get it yet? I just sent it,” she said.

“No.”

“Wait a few seconds, it should be there.”

“Nope.”

“A few seconds more, any second now…”

“Nope.”

I said I’d look for it later. Perhaps it was trying to sync up with the east coast system to make friends with the sympathy cards there.

After 20 minutes I called back and another customer service person apologized for my frustrations (this one seemed to actually understand that all of this was costing me time) and said that she had to go talk with a supervisor, because they don’t actually have a cancellation email.

When she returned to the call, she said her supervisor would send a customized cancellation email that would look like an order but would say “Cancellation” in it. I could hardly wait.

This person offered me 20% off my next order because apparently if you have to call because of issues, you get a discount she told me. I reminded her I wouldn’t be ordering from them again.

In 5 minutes the “customized” cancellation email arrived.

Harry & David, I’m terribly sorry for your loss.


Post Script:  Got a lovely box of truffles from Harry & David today (12/22/14).  No note inside but the label on the outside said "With our apologies, Harry & David."  Well that was classy.  I accept, Harry & David, but I don't want to waste a perfectly good post so it will stay along with this P.S.

A Mole by Any Other Name

What's that on my neck?

I've had skin tags for as long as I can remember. When I was about 45, I started to get red spots too. Today, a black mole appeared on my neck where nothing had been yesterday.

Quick, to the bat cave. Google it. Black mole.

WebMD: Melanoma can take the form of dark colored, flat, irregular moles.

Is it flat?

Wait, there was a mark on my leg the other day. I thought it was a bruise.

Oh no! I shouldn't have joked when my daughter asked what the mole on my stomach was when we were sharing a room in NYC the other night. I laughed and said it was a tick that had to fall off by itself and I keep forgetting to put Vaseline on it. Her horrified look made me laugh and shift gears, "Rach, it's just a mole."

But now "just a mole" is not so funny. Because there's a new, black mole on my neck.

Is it flat? No. Its very rough. What does WebMD say about a new, black, rough mole?

Suddenly a series of doctor visits and procedures flash before my eyes.

What is that on my finger? What? The mole fell off! Am I bleeding? Oh this isn't good.

Wait, it's not a mole, is it? No, it's...just...a piece of something black.

Something that blew off the road while I was driving the convertible this morning.

It's going to be a very different day.

Perspective, what a concept.

"Being" a Woman in the US

The #YesAllWomen posts from last week made me reflect on "being" a woman.

It’s very challenging being a woman in the US, because there’s so much “being” to it. Men just seem to “be” without working so hard at “being.” The messages from our society, filtered in large part by the media, are so mixed for women. Be sexual but don’t be a slut—or a virgin. Be beautiful but don’t focus on your looks. Be brilliant but not too much. Be kind but not a push over. Be strong, but don’t be a bitch, never mind, don’t be strong, you’ll be a bitch. Embrace who you are, but don’t look over 30 doing it. And on and on…

Men just seem to be able to be without any judgment, or far less of it.

Or so it seems right now.

Sadly, In America

I read something that disturbed me very much this morning. It was a news story about a New Mexican woman who was coming back to the US in December 2013 who was (allegedly) repeatedly strip searched and sexually violated by the Customs and Border Protection authorities and the hospital staff at University Medical Center of El Paso who examined her.

By the way, that’s not how the authorities are casting it—that’s my interpretation of what this woman, who is identity is being kept private—just like a rape victim’s identify is kept out of the media. According to the legal complaint the border authorities and the medical staff at University Medical Center of El Paso thought it was appropriate to:

1. Have government agents strip searched her and made a visual and manual inspection of her genitals and anus.
• No drugs found
2. Then they subjected her to an observed bowel movement
• No drugs found
3. X-rayed her
• No drugs found
4. Then THEY THEN SHACKLED HER TO A TABLE(!) inserted a speculum into her vagina and performed a rectal exam on her
• Still no drugs
5. So they shoved 2 hands in her vagina to keep searching
• Still not satisfied, they did a CT scan
6. Still no drugs
• Wait for it…
7. Even though these searches were all against the will and without her consent, the Medical Center billed her more than $5,000 for her
repeated rapes by their staff. They called the rapes “services.”

This 54-year old woman has not been able to have relations with her husband or go out in public after this traumatic series of sexual assaults.

Here’s the story I saw on Huffington Post: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/03/06/border-cavity-search_n_4907225.html?utm_hp_ref=tw

And here’s a link to the legal complaint, it’s more detailed than the 7 points above and I warn you, you will be sick to your stomach at how these agents and doctors treated this woman, what they did to her, who watched, how it was not done privately, etc. http://big.assets.huffingtonpost.com/Doe-v-elpaso.pdf

Oh, and I’m writing about this on International Women’s Day. How fucking lovely.

2013 Was a Year of Learning. A Lot of Learning...

2013 was a challenging year, personally and professionally. I learned a lot. About me. About other people. About expectations. And about assumptions. At my company, DBE, a few of us have started referring to 2013 as the year of the assumption. Which means, as we are a learning organism, 2014 will be the year of communication and understanding.

On the challenging side of the business, the changes that I started to put into place in 2011 had some positives and some areas where improvements were still needed. 2012 was a year of digging deep into myself to see where the issues that were keeping us from experiencing “real” growth lay. In 2013, I turned the magnifying glass elsewhere, and, with the aid of some new power players, kept uncovering all kinds of issues and areas for improvement.

The team is rocking and we’re about to start a wave of hiring to staff to the levels we need, in the places we need them, for the growth we are experiencing. That feels good especially when I look back on what it took to get from “there” to “here.” I’m encouraged by what I’ve learned about people. If you look hard and closely, you can find the right ones to work with you. I feel very lucky for the ones I have now—and they know who they are because I thank them just about every day.

As the year draws to a close, and not wanting to jinx anything, it looks like 2014 will be at least 50% ahead of 2013 in terms of revenue and profitability.

2013 was very stressful, even when things were going well, and it definitely was a tough year for my body. First it was a series of problems with the nerves in my mouth, requiring repeated root canals and oral surgery. Then in the spring, my digestive system went haywire. In preparing for testing, I learned that a person can develop lactose intolerance (I thought it was something one had a birth—or didn’t). Once that was resolved, I injured my left knee (ripped muscle) and then had problems with both knees (they’re on the mend). Then I had a solid week of not being able to sit, stand, or walk right from extreme lower back pain (I literally jump out of bed every morning since I was a kid…one morning, my legs were ready but the rest of me wasn’t). As the year wraps up this evening, I am thankful that I can enjoy food again, and I am walking normally on flat surfaces (stairs are still a comedy show). It makes me really appreciate the saying, “When you have your health, you have everything.” I’ve taken steps to improve how I balance my energy and have joined the gym right across the street from the development where I live.

Speaking of which, one of 2013’s stresses was the move from New Jersey to Newtown, Pennsylvania. The company is still based in Plainsboro, but the new house is about a 25 minute commute. It’s lovely here in PA and the people are very congenial. Though the move was crazy with all the usual nonsense that I’ve come to expect from moving, once we were in, all has gone relatively smoothly. The views are wonderful, the neighbors are friendly, and I love being able to cook in the new kitchen (the oven in the last house kept setting off the smoke detectors).

Wil graduated from high school and started college this year, and he didn’t like that we moved further from his part-time job, college, and girlfriend, so one of 2013’s challenges was adjusting to seeing him less because he stays at his dad’s house more often to be closer to the rest of his world. He doesn’t like driving on highways (he got his Aunt Barbara’s driving anxiety genes, which I suspect were all directly transferred from my mother who made driving an extreme sport every time she got behind the wheel) so he doesn’t stay here often, and that is a big transition for me at a time when there’s a lot of other transition in my life.

Rachel got an apartment in Brooklyn in August and that was a major stress too. Not just for her, but for me, riding shotgun. OMG. She can make me look like a calm person. I learned a lot from her apartment hunting escapades so when the time comes for an apartment in NYC, I have a better sense of what to expect.

For 2014, I’d like to keep working hard and seeing my company grow. I want to be an even better mother, girlfriend, and friend to those in my life, and I want to feel like I’m making a positive difference in the world, even if it’s only on a small scale.

I’d like to focus more on my personal—not just professional—development. I’ve learned (and am still learning) to set and achieve goals in incremental steps. Success happens best when you have the time and opportunity to reflect on the little wins along the way so that you can leverage them to win more. So in 2014, I’m going to focus on learning to meditate for health, to find time to write a little since I’m not going to find the time to write a lot, and to exercise regularly to reduce the stress that my life generates and to feel better while I’m enjoying this ride.

Good-bye 2013. Hello 2014!

Random, Really Random, Warning, Really Random Thoughts

In no particular order, this is what’s popped into my mind over the last few hours.  I leave it to you, dear reader, to decide what, if anything, any of it means.

• I thought my toes would look better if I let the nails grow longer.  They are the longest they’ve ever been and my feet are still ugly.

• It’s my sister’s birthday today.  I remember being 5 years old and eating an apple, bragging to my friend Michele that I had a baby sister.  I felt like I was putting on airs at the time, as if I were being filmed for posterity. I remember feeling that at the time, and perhaps it was my memory doing the filming because that is 1 of the 2 first memories I have of my amazing sister.  The other is of seeing her in my mother’s arms through the windows between the hospital cafeteria and my mother’s hospital room.  She was just a bundle in blankets, but she was my sister.  And she still is.  She loves me through all kinds of craziness—hers and mine—and our friendship grows stronger by the day.  Who would have thought when I asked God to give me a sister that he’d give me a best friend too?

• What would happen if a meteor the size of the one that hit the moon the other day hit earth?  Done thinking about that…moving right along…

• I bought some pens at Staples today because I like the feeling of writing by hand.  Then I got writer’s cramp and started typing again. 

• Why am I so fascinated by Paris?  I have more postcards, stationery, phone cases, and assorted other images of the Eiffel Tower than anything else.  I really loved Paris when I was there, but it’s as if the idea of Paris is stronger than my actually memory of Paris.  As if my dream of what Paris is was untouched by actually having been there.  Maybe I lived there in a past life?  Or maybe the preponderance of Paris-related postcards, stationery, phone cases and assorted other images of the Eiffel Tower are available in such volume that they prompt thoughts of Paris and dreams of Paris at every turn.  A Paris-22.

• I really am afraid of zombies.  I feel I could reason with a vampire…and they seem to go for really pure or really evil people.  I’m more towards the good end of the spectrum, but years beyond pure, so I think I could take my chances with a vampire and come out okay.  Werewolves, they seem to go after people for revenge.  I don’t know anyone who hates me that much (not counting my ex,) and even if there are a few haters out there (including my ex), I don’t think they’re werewolves, so again, I’m on safe ground, I think.  But zombies are irrational and they scare me to no end.  I’m terrified of being eaten by a shark or a bear, so I would put zombies in that category—I don’t think I could reason with a shark or a bear either.  Maybe I should be more afraid of sharks or bears since they’re real, but I don’t know, zombies are just way scarier.  Though the shark with the 14” dorsal that swam behind Marc in Florida was really scary.  I still have a little residual PTS from that.  And yet, zombies still win.

• Watched the Preakness yesterday.  Guessed really badly on the winner, but did guess correctly that Orb wasn’t going to win.  Also, I am now convinced I was a stable boy in one of my past lives.  I have to go to someone who can verify this as it does explain a lot.  A lot.

• I made salmon pate today following a recipe online.  I am curious to see how well it goes over tonight.  As with 95% of the items I serve my guests, they start with a recipe and end up an improv.

• Why do all the other women who get gel nails get 2⁺ weeks out of them and I get less than a week?  Why do I peel the polish off?  Why can’t I stop peeling until all 10 nails are once again naked, only to repeat the whole polishing process again each week? 

• Wil has agreed to go to his senior prom (victory #1) and for me to throw him a graduation party (victory #2).  I feel so much like Barbra Streisand’s character in “Guilt Trip.”  Sweet movie.  A must-see for every mother of a son.

• My daughter is having a blast in South Carolina with her friends.  I’m so glad she headed down there after graduation.  She deserves a little R&R after working so hard all semester.  Can’t believe she’s now a senior in college.  Where the heck does the time go?

• Had a nice chat with my brother today.  Short call, but good to talk with him.  I wish I could see him more.  He has a good soul, good spirit. It just feels good to talk with him, even if we don't talk long or say a lot.

• I like my new haircut.  It looks very much like my old haircut.  There was a time when that would have been a bad thing.  Now it means I made it through getting my haircut without having anything to stress about.  Looks the same, just shorter.  Cool.

• I am remarkably calm for someone who is going to be moving in 4 months.  Remarkably calm.  Remarkably calm.  If I keep typing it maybe I will believe it.  Remarkably calm.  Remarkably calm.

Calling Out the Sexists

This weekend’s New York Times brought two opportunities for ire.  There probably were many more., but there were two that really got under my skin.

The first one was a comment in the magazine section. Steve Sailer of Los Angeles wrote a response to the previous week’s article about the woman jockey, Rosie Napravnik.  His comment was titled  “Can a Woman Win the Kentucky Derby?”  Here’s what he said:

“The door has been open to female jockeys for more than 40 years. That women haven’t, on the whole, had more success lately than they had early in the feminist era suggests that racing is one of those sports in which an exceptional woman, like Lynn Hill in rock climbing or Judit Polgar in chess, can make it to very near the top, but the bell curve of talent and drive is shifted more in the men’s direction.”

There was one woman jockey, Rosie Napravnik , in the Kentucky Derby on May 4; there was one African American man, Kevin Krigger. 

If the same thing had been written about African Americans as was written by Sailer about women, I don’t think the Times would have published such racist nonsense.  But claim that women aren’t as talented or driven as men and you can earn yourself a spot in the editorial section of the New York Times magazine.  Does the Times editorial staff even recognize sexism as hateful? 

And then there was the piece in the Sunday Review section of the Times by Frank Bruni.  In this case, I agree 100% with Mr. Bruni.  The reason I got angry is that he is right on every point he makes regarding how the mainstream media makes a woman’s sexual experiences wicked and titillating while a man having had the same number or types of experiences would be treated as pedestrian at best.  He concludes his piece called “Sexism and the Single Murderess “with this:

“When we chart and lament the persistence of sexism in society, we look to the United States Congress, where women are still woefully underrepresented.  We look to corporate boardrooms, where the glass ceiling hasn’t’ really shattered.  But we needn’t look any further than how perversely censorious of women’s sex lives we remain, and how short the path from siren to slut and from angel to she-devil can be.”

I’ve been leaning in for my whole life.  I’ve been patient, I’ve been assertive, I’ve been a mentor and a mentee.  At this point, I’m really angry.  Where is the tipping point?  When does sexism stop rearing it’s ugly head? 

And let me be clear:   the “Them and Us” isn’t women and men.  The “Them and Us” are old thinkers vs. the new. 

Women are well represented as graduates of higher education, and well represented in the workforce.  Very good.  Next Challenge:  Women need to stop trying to go along to get along and to call out sexism of any kind where and when we see it.  We've already proved on multiple fronts that we're capabile--more than capable.  Now let's make sure that sexism in any form, from the most overt to the most subtle, gets called out, shown in the light of day for what it is and erradicated.

Let’s stop giving people exhibiting sexist behaviors the benefit of the doubt.  Let’s be more reactive and more vocal in our reactions to the sexism we see in our world.  Let’s try this:  If you think it’s sexist behavior, regardless of whether it’s undermining women or men, speak up.  Call it out.  Get a discussion going.  It’s pretty clear that many men and women just don’t recognize their behaviors and language as being sexist.

Recognize sexism the way you recognize racism and then do something about it.  Confront it the way we confront racism.  Sexism is real and it will take a commitment to change to abolish old thinking.  Patience and doing the right thing are not working.  “In your face” anti-sexism is my call to action.

Proactively Alleviating Violence in America

Hello Representative Holt,

The social media channel is being lit up with condolences, outrage, and expressions of deep sadness over the shootings in Connecticut yesterday.  But people are lost as to where to put their anger and misery.  Some people are blaming guns, others are more specific in blaming assault weapons, others are blaming poor mental health services, violence on television and in film and video games, poor parenting, etc., etc., etc.

As a leader, can you suggest what we can be collectively doing to get our heads and hearts around solving the problem of violence in this country?  Can you spark a task force, or committee, or some kind of special project fueled by people who are passionate about changing the way America deals with these issues?  Can we get out ahead of the problems, identify the multiple causes that lead to these horrific acts, and find ways to address them? 

Isn't there some kind of computer modeling we can do to demonstrate that, for example, that not dealing with a disturbed child properly in school can have x# of consequences, but by investing in Option A, B, or C, we reduce the likelihood of a violent act by that child by 90%?  Couldn't this modeling be applied to the other factors, and perhaps we can create a visual representation that will help people see that we need to take the consequences of inaction more seriously?

We just seem to be stuck in reactive mode in our society, but with technology, education, tools and proactivity, perhaps we can get people to invest in changing our approach to the problems that beset us.

I'm like the other people who are so angry, disgusted, and struggling to find a solution.  I'm wondering if as an elected leader there is some initiative that you can start or tag onto that can build a groundswell for change.  And of course if you can, I am there to assist as I know thousands of others would be too.


Veronica Fielding

Black Friday Eve

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.  It was the one holiday that had no agenda other than getting together with family and close friends and sharing.  Literally remembering to be thankful for what we have.

So it’s with true and deep sadness that I reflect on my favorite holiday being corrupted by commercialism.  They got to Halloween, the Easter Bunny, and of course Santa, and now they’ve gotten to Thanksgiving too, henceforth known as Black Friday Eve.

My daughter is a student at NYU Tisch and was causally speaking with a student from the Netherlands on her way to the train on Wednesday to come home for Thanksgiving. This is how their conversation went:

Him:  “So you’re going home for Thanksgiving.  Where do you go for Black Friday?”

Her:  “We don’t go out on Black Friday.  You couldn’t pay me to go near a mall on Black Friday.”

Him:  “Really?  I can’t wait!  The pushing, the shoving, the grabbing at bargains.  It looks so exciting! This will be my first one, I can’t wait!”

Her:  “Umm, that’s not what we’re celebrating.  Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for what we have, not planning to get what we don’t have yet.”

Him, with a pitying look:  “You have to get out there on Friday!  Thanksgiving is for the old, Black Friday is for the young.  Happy Black Friday!”

And with a nod to Kurt Vonnegut…and so it goes.

It seems that I’m becoming aware of this phenomenon of Thanksgiving Eve at about the same time as the rest of the masses.  This story from CNN chronicles the rise of Black Friday:  http://www.cnn.com/2012/11/18/opinion/greene-black-friday/index.html?iid=article_sidebar

I saw another short news story that said this Black Friday broke all kinds of records.

My sister, my anecdotal direct connection to mainstream America, was out there in the mix, but she didn’t get up uber early, she just headed to the big boxes around 11 a.m. and reported back that yes, the lines were crazy long, yes there were great deals, yes, the deals weren’t as great as the stores touted, e.g., “They say I saved $300.  I know that’s not right.  The stuff should have cost about $250.  And I spent $180.  So I saved $70.  Which is still great.  And here’s all the stuff I got,” and like a child rattling off to another what Santa left under the tree, she detailed all the buys she got.  She ended with, “It was fun.  I had fun!”  I love my sister’s joie de vivre.

So I will continue to host Thanksgiving at my home each year, no matter how big or how small the gathering.  And I will continue to quietly be thankful for all the good things my life has brought me and I will continue to wish the best for mankind.  I will be hopeful on Black Friday Eve, despite the frenzied preparation all around me for National Shopping Day, the celebration of grabby madness and over the top commercialism gone wild.

I think I will be in the minority, but so what else is new?

So Close and Yet So Far

Well, as I suspected, things did not go well after my Raspberries and Frankenstorm post on Sunday, October 28.  That was the day before the “biggest storm in 100 years.”

However, keep this in mind as you read this:  on the day there was sun again, there was one, lone, bright, ripe raspberry in the very middle of the raspberry patch.  It was gleaming, just begging to be picked.  In the middle of the patch means you cannot get to it, because raspberry vines are covered in thorns.  Okay, do you have that visual?  Let’s proceed.

So on Sunday after my post we discovered that the hot water heater was leaking.  We have a PSE&G “Worry Free” contract, so they came out within hours, as promised, to check it out.  I had said to Marc beforehand that no matter what they said, don’t let them turn off the hot water heater—I would rather deal with a leak or minor flood in that section of the basement than no hot water for days.  The tech said the hot water heater could break and water could go all over.  He shut off the heater and left.  Then Marc told me it was off. 

And so it began.

Because of the impending storm, none of the plumbers in the Worry Free system would come out to replace the hot water heater, but one promised to call after the emergency to make an appointment to come out right away.  Heavy sigh.  No showers Monday morning. (Thankfully I had done laundry all weekend, so at least we had clean clothes.)

Monday, October 29 we were taking the storm seriously and preparing for the hit that was to come sometime Monday evening.  I had convinced Rachel to stay here and not go back to the city on Sunday, so it was the 4 of us at the house:  Marc, Rachel, Wil, and me. My entire company worked from their homes to stay safe.  All day Monday there was unbelievable wind.  Trees wer bending 45 degrees or more, stuff was flying everywhere; I could not fathom how most of the leaves were still on the trees.  I had a surprisingly productive day and was ready to call it quits at 6:00 when I made dinner for everyone. 

It was right around that time that the real rain came.  And the wind that we thought was bad…it got worse.  A lot worse.  I don’t think I’ve experienced that kind of wind except once when I was a small child and lived closer to the shore and there was a hurricane.  Not sure what year.  I was very small.  I just still have an image in my mind of the world gone black and white and grey, with pine trees bending over unspeakably.  Lightning, thunder, and being told to get away from the windows.  So this was familiar in a prehistoric memory kind of way. 

Then a little before 9:00 the power went out.  It had been flickering most of the evening but kept righting itself.  This time, the ship went down.  I said aloud, “Well, that is real and it’s going to be off for a long time.”  Just didn’t know how long long was going to be.  Well, let me tell you about long.

I insisted the kids sleep on the couches in the family room rather than in their beds upstairs as a precaution against breaking glass.  Marc and I slept in our room on the ground floor as usual.  The cat was happy for the kids’ company and slept between them on the floor.

The worst of the storm was over by the time we woke up on Tuesday morning, and foolishly I thought “it” was over.  Marc went out to reconnoiter as he likes to say, and came back with dismal news.  Trees were down everywhere, he’d never seen anything like it.  So many roads were closed, it was almost impossible to get around.  There were hardly any traffic lights working, even on the major roads.  And there was no power at the office.  In fact, there didn’t seem to be power anywhere.

With no power and no hot water, Wil went to his dad’s house.  Rachel decided to hang out here. She started hearing how badly hit Manhattan was, and after the talk of parties turned to talk of dismay at no power and no water pressure, she seemed glad to be with us and not in the city.

I worked to get Internet connection on my devices, but it was tough.  Everyone at DBE worked remotely using their smart phones to connect to the Internet.  We had no email because our ISP that hosts our website had no power after his generator died.  No website meant no domain level email.  We created temporary Gmail accounts and alerted our clients to use those or texts to reach us—as predicted, texts worked better than phone calls.  Phone calls didn’t go through, texts went through slowly, eventually, or after you resent them several times.

With no hot water, we heated water on the stove (lit the burners with matches) and then cooled it with cold water to wash ourselves.  I became the family shampooer.  I didn’t mind.  It was kind of nice washing their hair over the kitchen sink in the morning light.  It felt spiritual and primitive, a necessary rite. 

Wil’s dad came to pick him up because it was his day with Wil and he had power at his house.  Rachel decided to stay here.  We took a ride around in the afternoon to reconnoiter again.  Things looked bad.  Marc said they were no improvements from earlier.  We saw not 1 PSE&G truck.  Rachel was doing well during the day, but as night approached and the thought of another night with no creature comforts encroached, she was open to being driven to her dad’s house.  She seemed to feel bad about leaving, but of course it was better to be warm, showered, and Internet-connected than not, not, and not. It took us almost an hour to get there with all the downed trees and detours, coming back the way we had gone there included a few additional detours we hadn’t expected.  By the time we got back to the house, we just went to bed and hoped there would be light and heat by morning.  Wrong.

Wednesday was spent trying to get an Internet connection and to stay warm.  The temperature was dropping.  We lit the fireplace and left it on all day.  Our neighbors generously allowed us to keep recharging our devices because they had a generator at their house.  Made a note to research generators, the new “must have” item for climate change survivors. 

Honestly, the day was a blur.  I prioritized my work down to the most essential things to keep the time on the Internet to a minimum because the connection was so slow, unreliable, and aggravating.  Wil showed up unexpectedly—he was taking someone’s shift.  He said he was staying the night and I was trying to imagine what that was going to be like—where would he sleep that he would be warm.  When 5:00 rolled around, I declared the work day done and had a shot of bourbon.  We were going to go to dinner but I didn’t want to put on makeup and I didn’t want to risk Wil coming back to an empty house if we were delayed.  We ate prepared food from McCaffreys on the couch in front of the fireplace and chatted. 

When Wil came home, we talked for a while and then I insisted he sleep in front of the fire on the couch instead of upstairs.  He agreed.

In the middle of the night, the carbon monoxide monitors started going off.  The first one went off at midnight.  Two hours later, the other one went off.  I was now convinced the monitors were trying to tell us something. The fireplace!  Of course, it must be the fireplace.  Try Googling carbon monoxide monitors at 2:30 a.m. and you’ll see that they are set off by gases from an assortment of things, including faulty furnaces.  Fireplace =furnace to my bedraggled mind.  Of course!  That’s why the day was such a blur!  I was being poisoned! 

So we shut off the fireplace and told Wil he’d be fine and that there was low risk of becoming a popsicle.  Then the other monitor went off at 4:00 a.m.  Marc decided to read the manual.  I fell asleep, exhausted beyond imagining.  Maybe I was being gassed to death, but I was too tired to care.  Marc discovered that the monitors are meant to run on electricity,; the batteries won’t last more than 20 hours.  He pulled the batteries on both monitors and went to bed.  That seems logical.  And I was surprised to not wake up dead.

In the morning the temperature was easily less than 50 degrees.  Even if I could see the temperature app on my iPhone, I didn’t want to know.  Marc was going to work at Deepa’s and I was going to work at Bethany’s.  Marc reconnoitered like the dove leaving the ark but came back with no olive branch.  He learned that a client had power and decided to work there since he needed to meet with them anyway.  Bethany wasn’t feeling well, so I went to Deepa’s.  It was very nice there.  Warm people, warm home.  They kept trying to feed me all day—Deepa worries that I don’t take care of myself.  They don’t understand that I don’t like to eat during the day, and kept bringing me fruits and crackers with peanut butter, almond milk, and some salty water beverage that Deepa insisted I drink when I stood up too fast after sitting for 4 hours straight at the computer.  (I had no idea when I’d have broadband Internet again and wanted to make good use of every second before I headed out at 5:30, grateful for their hospitality.)

I got back to the house before Marc but after a series of unexpected detours due to closed intersections.  I saw my first line for gasoline and felt panicked.  Lines anywhere make me nervous, even if they’re for something nice, like cheap theater tickets.  I always sense agitation on the part of the people in the line and am fearful of an eruption of tempers.  I don’t like crowds in general—when they line up, it only makes them a little less scary.

When I did finally get home, the house was cold.  Bone chilling cold.  I wrapped myself in a blanket and wandered through the house.  It felt sad and forlorn and that’s not good karma for a house.  Marc came home and we headed right out for dinner at KC Prime, a local steakhouse that has an identity crisis.  On the way there, we saw 30, maybe more, utility trucks just sitting silently in the mall parking lot.  Just.  Sitting.  There.

KC Prime was warm and our reservation got us a table right away.  The food is consistently good and the drinks are awesome—that’s where I discovered my favorite cocktail, the sidecar.  The servers are always attentive but not unctuous.  You can show up there wearing sweat pants if you want to—I’ve seen people do it—and that’s okay too. 

Joe Queenan has this very funny piece in his book Red Lobster, White Trash, and the Blue Lagoon.  He writes about how the people who regularly eat at Red Lobster think it’s upscale and they dress up in their leisure-suit best for it, and then look down their noses at the people who “just don’t get it.”  I’ve turned into that person at KC Prime.  Not that I’m rude about it, but to me, it’s where we go after work so we’re usually wearing our business-casual best.  We’ve had a hard day and we want a nice cocktail in an upscale but relaxed environment, close to home.   So it’s funny when people show up in shorts or sweats because, well, hey, “they” just don’t get it.  J

Our waiter Thursday night was friendly and smart.  He didn’t need to be told that we were two of the barely washed masses who were there for a meal.  He paced everything beautifully so that a dinner we typically have in 90 minutes-- if that--lasted well over 2 hours.  I blessed him the way one best blesses waiters—with a sincere verbal thank you and a tip that relayed the same message in the coin of the realm. 

Back to the house.  Icy cold now.  My brother and sister both had power and offered for us to stay with them.  We can’t go until Saturday, after Wil takes his SATs that morning.  We make plans to go to Barnegat on Saturday to spend the night.  Marc found us a hotel room for Sunday and Monday night.  Tuesday we’d already made plans to stay with friends after the election.  But how long would this all go on?  My friends Carol and Mark texted—they had a hotel room and had offered us to stay with them.  We thanked them and didn’t want to intrude.  But we would take them up on the offer of a hot shower the next morning at 8:00.

But first we had to get through Thursday night. Marc brought Rachel’s twin mattress down to the family room and we repositioned the couches to be opposite each other, perpendicular to the fireplace.  The mattress went in the middle.  After a few rounds of “Do you want the mattress or the long couch?” I flopped on the mattress and ended the game.  I was exhausted when I managed to get through to my sister on the cell—4 bars!!!—and we talked until the call failed and we texted our good nights.  

The cat slept on the edge of the mattress right next to my head all night and as cats do, he considered me the intruder and was annoyed every time I moved around, which I do a lot when I sleep.  It was so cold!  All I kept thinking through this whole ordeal was, “What are people with little kids doing?”  I really felt bad for them.  I fell asleep thinking about the stilled trucks in the cold outside and the stilled children in the cold inside.

It had to be in the 40s when we woke up and got ourselves dressed to head over to the Westin and our showers.  On the way there, we saw that the traffic lights near the office were working.  After our showers (thank you Carol and Mark!) we swung back to the office instead of to our client’s office in Pennsylvania where we were going to work. 

Delight! Sheer delight.  The office had power and wi-fi!  We worked there all day.  We offered our space to others who needed power.  We planned to sleep there if there was no power at the house, but Wil texted at 4:00 that yes, power was back at the house!

I texted Carol but she said they were still out of power, so I offered for them to have dinner with us but they had plans for that night and would come Saturday instead.  We offered them to stay with us until they got power, and they said they would. 

I cleaned the house up, went shopping, arranged for the cleaning lady who usually comes on Thursday morning to come on Sunday.  Bought thank you gifts for our neighbors of the generator, Dave and Donna, and met Donna for the first time.  Their generator was still running; they didn’t realize power was restored.  They thanked me.  And I thanked them again.  Lots of thanking back and forth.  We’re going to have them over for dinner soon.  I like them a lot.

Back to the house.  Wil was supposed to go out with friends but plans fell through.  He was stuck with us, poor kid.  Friday night is pizza night.  Yeaaa. 

“What’s on TV?”

What?!?  Comcast is out.  No TV, no Internet.  The DVR worked but nothing else.  We assumed we would have lost everything on the DVR as happened with other outages but there must have been a quantum leap with technology when we weren’t looking because all our recordings are still there.  Sweet.  We watch Jon Stewart’s Night of Too Many Stars and laugh our butts off.

Bedtime 11:00.  I didn’t sleep well, have no idea why other than maybe too much coffee during the day.  Gotta work on that.

Up at 4:00 a.m., can’t sleep any longer.  I didn’t try to go back to bed because I had to drive Wil to take the SAT in Princeton.  At 5:30, Wil came downstairs and said the SAT was postponed according to the email he got.  Made Wil French toast and chatted a bit.  I was convinced he would stay with me because there’s no Internet so no video games.  Ha!  How foolish of me!  He said he was cold and invited me to go upstairs with him.  I said, “What are you going to do up there if there are no games?” 

“Well,” he said, “I’m going to sit, or lay down.”

“Really?” I asked.  “You can do that right here where I am.” 

“Well, I’m probably going to get warm and stay in my bed,” he said.

“Oh, so you’re going to, what do they call it, sleep?” I asked.

He smiled and headed up stairs.

And so he’s upstairs, sleeping I think. 

I’m training the cat to be more doglike than he already is, and finishing this blog post.  I’ll upload it via hotspot if I can get one going.

The hot water repair guys are here.  They forget you can hear everything they say, they’re just below me in the basement.  I am enjoying their conversation.  Work banter.

I’m picking Rachel up from her dad’s house at 3:00.  Carol, Mark and their boys are coming over at 6:30.  I think I’m making chicken stew.  Ali and Marc will be here.  It will be nice to all be together.  Am I asking too much to have hot water and Internet by then? 

Honestly, as long as there’s Internet at the office on Monday, and heat here and there, I will be thankful.  Because you know what really sucks?  Five days after the storm, half of my neighbors still don’t have power.   This isn’t a remote location.  It’s New Jersey--the most densely populated state in the country. 

So after all of this, I’m wondering about that raspberry out in the patch outside the kitchen window.  Is it a sign of hope, or is it taunting me?  So close and yet so far….