I spent all day last Saturday watching the Syfy channel. I could say I didn’t feel well, but that would be a lie. I did get up to clean for about 40 minutes. (My usual Saturday consists of cleaning, a Pilates class, more cleaning then watching TV, soooooo glamorous!) My husband was at work, my daughter was at dance class and I had most of the day to myself. I decided to recreate one of the halcyon days of my single years, a full 24 hours ahead of me with no obligations or responsibilities. A day to do anything I chose. I chose vampires, werewolves and succubae. That was this particular day; it could just have easily been super heroes, aliens and hobbits. I am a big ol’ nerd. I am a fan-boy trapped in a middle-aged lady’s body. I no longer feel the shame of hiding my delight at finding out the final five on Battlestar Galactica, or the thrill I first felt when I found out that Peter Jackson was finally bringing a live action Lord of the Rings Trilogy to the screen. You can only imagine my excitement when I found out he was doing the the Hobbit movies!
For a while now I’ve felt that entertainment has finally caught up with my tastes, which veer towards magical little men who live in shires and regular size men who turn into animals. The myriad channels on television might be one reason we’ve seen a surge in genre programming, but I think it’s also because yesterday’s nerds are today’s writers and producers. You can make fun of those weird kids that donned capes to play Dungeons and Dragons, and the shy kids who spent their Saturday nights on a journey to Mordor, but they were the ones with vision and imagination. Sure, the cool kids were hanging out at the sub shop, or sneaking into bars with fake ID’s, but without the geeks and freaks, we’d all be watching nothing but warmed over nighttime soaps and even more reality TV then there is now.
My husband and I have a lot in common, we aren’t one of those opposites attract couples. However, our similarities end with my love of Science Fiction, the supernatural, and Disney World. It’s like he’s had a “whimsy-otomy.” He’s humored me through several amusement parks, especially with our daughter. He even enjoys Disney because most of the attractions aren’t really rides (roller coasters make him turn bright red and sweat like Rush Limbaugh in an Oxy factory). He still has a problem with Walt Disney’s rumored anti-Semitism, but I just pretend that an evil Nazi witch put Walt under a spell.
Since I didn’t have anyone to enjoy my genre fix with me, I decided to groom my daughter to be my sci-fi companion. I watched Buffy the Vampire Slave reruns with her when she was only five. (It’s too late to call Social Services people.) That’s not entirely true, we also watched Angel reruns together. Of course, my daughter’s predisposition to supernatural entertainment backfired on me when Twilight hit the scene. She devoured the books (reading, that’s good) and obsessed over the movies (mooning over boys who are way older than her, that’s bad). It also makes it tough for me to keep her away from watching HBO’s True Blood. That show even makes me blush sometimes, not just because of the sex, but the fact that two of the leads are actually married and I feel like a perv whose sneaking a look through their bedroom window.
I have decided to embrace my nerdiosity. The fan boys might not want to hang out with me, but I could probably hold up my end of any conversation about zombies or Doctor Who. It’s not like I’m a Trekkie, but it is fair to say that I am a Trekkie sympathizer. Between the big buffet of fantasy TV shows and movies, and my HDTV, there’s very little reason for me to get out of bed these days, except to go to the door and get the sushi delivery. I’m glad to pass my love of fantasy along to my daughter, as long as she doesn’t bring home a boy with fangs or fur on his feet.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
A Boomer's Journey Through The Job Market
Next month I’ll turn 54. I’m sliding into my mid-fifties, not as good as early 50’s, but still better then late fifties (and of course, way better than dead). It’s an odd time for many of us. Having acquired a world of experience, it sometimes feels as though the world has already written us off. This is most apparent to anyone who’s looked for a job after the age of 45.
After the company I worked at for eight years closed their New York office, I decided to take some time off to spend with my then 6 year old daughter and work on some creative projects, including forming an all mom standup comedy group called the Full Metal Mamas. My husband had a radio show and worked odd hours, it seemed silly to spend so much money on a nanny and frankly, we had the luxury of being able to live on my husband’s salary. I foolishly thought that I would be able to restart my career as an Executive Assistant when I was ready.
After a couple of years, I decided to dip my toe back in the job hunting waters. I sent my resume and immediately got an appointment with a downtown employment agency. The woman who interviewed me must have thought I was younger when she read the resume (although I did have my graduation dates listed) because after asking me just a few questions, she looked at me with disgust and said, “What am I going to do with you?” She spoke to me like I was a lost dog who had been following her around all day.
I was shocked! First of all, she was a dumpy broad in synthetic stretch pants with dirty hair. And she wasn’t any spring chicken either. Where did she get off being so rude! So much for my vast experience, I ran out of there with my middle-aged tail between my legs. But I wasn’t ready to give up.
A former boss recommended me to another employment agency. This time I was interviewed by a sweet, young woman who really seemed to value what I had to offer. She introduced me to a couple of other agents who appeared to be glad to meet me and promised to let me know if they had jobs that might be right for me. Not long after, I started getting phone calls from the agency telling me about job openings and asking if I’d like to be submitted. I cheerfully chirped “Yes, please!” After about seven or eight calls, not one of the prospective employers asked for an interview, not one!!! I didn’t follow up with the agency after that because I was so embarrassed. I really hadn’t obsessed about my age before, but I suppose I should have. I was so freaked out I didn’t even try to look for a job for another year.
A year later opportunities were still scarce, and this was before the banks crashed and burned. It was clear that the only person who was going to give me a job was someone who knew me before my age turned me into job interview napalm. I got the word out to some of my former bosses and one came through, and she came through like the cavalry. Just 4 weeks after I started working in her office (although not for her); my husband lost his radio show. She has a name, but I like to call her The Reason My Family Eats.
Although radio doesn’t require heavy lifting, my husband also ran onto age discrimination while trying to get another radio gig. He tried networking but radio changes so fast, some of his old bosses had already moved onto different aspects of radio other than programming. Like television, radio programmers try to attract listeners with lots of cash to spend on their sponsors’ products. They often want their radio hosts to reflect that demographic, not the portion of the population they see as retiring within the next 15 years.
Without many radio stations looking for hosts, and even fewer looking for hosts that aren’t staunch conservatives, we realized that it might be time for my husband to make a change. He decided on real estate. Right after he earned his real estate license he got a job with a large real estate agency in Manhattan. He worked at that agency for about a year and now he’s about to move up to a higher end agency. I’ve very proud of him and he’s excited to embark on the next step of his new career.
Has it been easy? Hell no! Tears were shed and savings dipped into. But we’re still here and hopeful about the future. Little by little I’m allowing myself to think about the possibility of having enough income to go out and have some fun, maybe even take a vacation that doesn’t entail driving our 14 year old Kia for a few hours and crashing at a relative’s home. There’s more life to be lived and more fun to be had!
After the company I worked at for eight years closed their New York office, I decided to take some time off to spend with my then 6 year old daughter and work on some creative projects, including forming an all mom standup comedy group called the Full Metal Mamas. My husband had a radio show and worked odd hours, it seemed silly to spend so much money on a nanny and frankly, we had the luxury of being able to live on my husband’s salary. I foolishly thought that I would be able to restart my career as an Executive Assistant when I was ready.
After a couple of years, I decided to dip my toe back in the job hunting waters. I sent my resume and immediately got an appointment with a downtown employment agency. The woman who interviewed me must have thought I was younger when she read the resume (although I did have my graduation dates listed) because after asking me just a few questions, she looked at me with disgust and said, “What am I going to do with you?” She spoke to me like I was a lost dog who had been following her around all day.
I was shocked! First of all, she was a dumpy broad in synthetic stretch pants with dirty hair. And she wasn’t any spring chicken either. Where did she get off being so rude! So much for my vast experience, I ran out of there with my middle-aged tail between my legs. But I wasn’t ready to give up.
A former boss recommended me to another employment agency. This time I was interviewed by a sweet, young woman who really seemed to value what I had to offer. She introduced me to a couple of other agents who appeared to be glad to meet me and promised to let me know if they had jobs that might be right for me. Not long after, I started getting phone calls from the agency telling me about job openings and asking if I’d like to be submitted. I cheerfully chirped “Yes, please!” After about seven or eight calls, not one of the prospective employers asked for an interview, not one!!! I didn’t follow up with the agency after that because I was so embarrassed. I really hadn’t obsessed about my age before, but I suppose I should have. I was so freaked out I didn’t even try to look for a job for another year.
A year later opportunities were still scarce, and this was before the banks crashed and burned. It was clear that the only person who was going to give me a job was someone who knew me before my age turned me into job interview napalm. I got the word out to some of my former bosses and one came through, and she came through like the cavalry. Just 4 weeks after I started working in her office (although not for her); my husband lost his radio show. She has a name, but I like to call her The Reason My Family Eats.
Although radio doesn’t require heavy lifting, my husband also ran onto age discrimination while trying to get another radio gig. He tried networking but radio changes so fast, some of his old bosses had already moved onto different aspects of radio other than programming. Like television, radio programmers try to attract listeners with lots of cash to spend on their sponsors’ products. They often want their radio hosts to reflect that demographic, not the portion of the population they see as retiring within the next 15 years.
Without many radio stations looking for hosts, and even fewer looking for hosts that aren’t staunch conservatives, we realized that it might be time for my husband to make a change. He decided on real estate. Right after he earned his real estate license he got a job with a large real estate agency in Manhattan. He worked at that agency for about a year and now he’s about to move up to a higher end agency. I’ve very proud of him and he’s excited to embark on the next step of his new career.
Has it been easy? Hell no! Tears were shed and savings dipped into. But we’re still here and hopeful about the future. Little by little I’m allowing myself to think about the possibility of having enough income to go out and have some fun, maybe even take a vacation that doesn’t entail driving our 14 year old Kia for a few hours and crashing at a relative’s home. There’s more life to be lived and more fun to be had!
Friday, March 11, 2011
My Furry Valentine
My Furry Valentine by Barbara Singer
I had a great Valentine’s Day this year. My husband and I walked to a romantic restaurant in SoHo and had a lovely dinner followed by some serious cuddling on my couch. Of course, my husband was in the bedroom. I was curled up with my cat Snow. I would like to make it clear that her lame name is not my fault. She’s a white kitty that I rescued from a cage by the cash registers at the Petco in Kips Bay. She was already named Snow, and although I could have re-named her, it seemed insulting to just disregard her former life and pretend she didn’t exist until she entered my apartment.
When I first saw her in the cage at the pet store she had a wandering eye, short fur, and what appeared to be a pretty bad attitude. Still, I was intrigued. It was a crowded Saturday; lots of folks were in front of the cages in what amounts to a casting session for the part of beloved pet. Snow began to have a cat version of a nervous breakdown. She was freaking out; her wandering eye looking to her left while the rest of her looked forward at the loud, fawning throng of well meaning cat lovers. She looked like she could have used a valium. Still, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
I went back to the pet store during the week when I knew it wouldn’t be as busy, there were less people in the store and Snow was much calmer. She even rubbed up against my fingers when I stuck them inside her cage. I went home and proceeded to talk my husband into adopting another cat. Now this was not easy. My husband had already unwillingly taken custody of a neurotic tabby from his previous marriage. I made the case that I had a cat when he met me and therefore my cat loving tendencies had already been disclosed. We had lost both kitties to old age over the past couple of years and I was ready to take home another furry bundle of joy. My husband reluctantly gave in, but not without much bitching that continued for the next few years.
According to the woman who was fostering her, Snow had a back story worthy of a Lifetime movie. Before she did time in the Petco cage, she was taken from a crazy homeless person who was living on the street in Harlem. I was told that he was none too happy to have his pet taken away. They rescued Snow at 6AM. (Apparently, covert cat-napping takes place very early in the morning.) After they put her in the car and started to drive away, this homeless guy ran after them, screaming and chasing the car down the street. They also said that while she lived on the street she gave birth to kittens that were eaten by a pit-bull. She was pregnant again when they saved her. If Dr. Phil had a Dr. Phil House for troubled cats she would have been the first resident.
Once the kittens were old enough, her foster mother brought Snow and her litter to Petco so they could all be adopted. Of course, the cute little kittens went right away. Snow languished in that cage for 3 months, hence, the weird eye and the bad attitude. Still something about her just made me decide that she belonged with me and my family (it may have been the bad attitude).
As I mentioned before, our cats had both passed away and we hadn’t had a pet for a while. I was really happy to bring another furry critter home to the family. I expected Snow to have a period of adjustment, and I thought it might be a while, given the horrible things she had been through. I thought she’d probably hide under the bed for a few days, only coming out to eat. Surprisingly, she hid for about 20 minutes, then walked into the living room and looked at me as if to say, “Well, what do we do now?” Even more surprising, within a couple of days, she was curling up on my lap! I’ve had a lot of cats over the years, but few were that comfortable with jumping up and plopping right down on top of me. It got even better, it turns out Snow must have some kind of pedigree in her past, her fur grew! She has beautiful, long, soft, fluffy, white fur; I’m a sucker for long-haired cats. They’re beautiful; it almost makes up for the buckets of fur that I brush off of every surface in my house.
Up until now, I had cats that doled out affection sparingly. I always had cats that would cuddle up next to me, my cat Baby liked to “hold hands,” (I would hold her paw or she would put her paw on top of my hand). But until Snow, I never had a cat that loved to be snuggled and kissed! Usually if you hug a cat, you can feel their their heartbeat starting to race after a few seconds, then they squirm out of your arms and run away. Snow’s heartbeat actually seems to slow down when you hug her, and she even purrs sighs of contentment! She’ll also let me kiss her until I can’t kiss her anymore, literally. She even won over my husband, Mister “no more pets ever again!“
I’m so glad she’s affectionate, because she doesn’t do anything else. Her time in the cage made her lethargic and as soon as we got her home she started to gain weight, a lot of weight! We were warned that this would probably happen. I’m used to having cats that self-regulate their food intake. Snow just couldn’t get enough of that sweet kibble stuff. The first day we had her she dove head first into her bowl and didn’t come back up until that bowl was empty, and then she cried for more. Apparently, kitties eat their feelings too. We brought her to the vet who looked at us like we were horrible people that didn’t love their cat enough to stop her from binge eating. At least she wasn’t sticking her paw down her throat, she’s a full figured feline and she likes it that way!
As much as everyone loves a fat cat, we did carefully monitor how much food we were giving her. An action met with palpable disdain on her part. She did take off some pounds, finally, she could reach around to groom herself and not roll away. I still would like her to lose some more weight. The veterinarian told me to that she should exercise, easier said than done. Have you ever tried to convince a cat to exercise? If she joins a gym she’ll never go! I’ve tried everything, laser pointers (she just stares at them), fuzzy toy mouse on a string (I get more of a workout jumping up and down and swinging it around, trying to make it look like real prey), I even tried catnip, but she just gets stoned and that makes her hungry (God, I miss college).
Despite her chubby figure and lack of motivation (who can’t relate to that?), we love Snow. She’s a very sweet cat who makes our home just a little warmer, a little cozier, and a lot furrier!
I had a great Valentine’s Day this year. My husband and I walked to a romantic restaurant in SoHo and had a lovely dinner followed by some serious cuddling on my couch. Of course, my husband was in the bedroom. I was curled up with my cat Snow. I would like to make it clear that her lame name is not my fault. She’s a white kitty that I rescued from a cage by the cash registers at the Petco in Kips Bay. She was already named Snow, and although I could have re-named her, it seemed insulting to just disregard her former life and pretend she didn’t exist until she entered my apartment.
When I first saw her in the cage at the pet store she had a wandering eye, short fur, and what appeared to be a pretty bad attitude. Still, I was intrigued. It was a crowded Saturday; lots of folks were in front of the cages in what amounts to a casting session for the part of beloved pet. Snow began to have a cat version of a nervous breakdown. She was freaking out; her wandering eye looking to her left while the rest of her looked forward at the loud, fawning throng of well meaning cat lovers. She looked like she could have used a valium. Still, I couldn’t get her out of my mind.
I went back to the pet store during the week when I knew it wouldn’t be as busy, there were less people in the store and Snow was much calmer. She even rubbed up against my fingers when I stuck them inside her cage. I went home and proceeded to talk my husband into adopting another cat. Now this was not easy. My husband had already unwillingly taken custody of a neurotic tabby from his previous marriage. I made the case that I had a cat when he met me and therefore my cat loving tendencies had already been disclosed. We had lost both kitties to old age over the past couple of years and I was ready to take home another furry bundle of joy. My husband reluctantly gave in, but not without much bitching that continued for the next few years.
According to the woman who was fostering her, Snow had a back story worthy of a Lifetime movie. Before she did time in the Petco cage, she was taken from a crazy homeless person who was living on the street in Harlem. I was told that he was none too happy to have his pet taken away. They rescued Snow at 6AM. (Apparently, covert cat-napping takes place very early in the morning.) After they put her in the car and started to drive away, this homeless guy ran after them, screaming and chasing the car down the street. They also said that while she lived on the street she gave birth to kittens that were eaten by a pit-bull. She was pregnant again when they saved her. If Dr. Phil had a Dr. Phil House for troubled cats she would have been the first resident.
Once the kittens were old enough, her foster mother brought Snow and her litter to Petco so they could all be adopted. Of course, the cute little kittens went right away. Snow languished in that cage for 3 months, hence, the weird eye and the bad attitude. Still something about her just made me decide that she belonged with me and my family (it may have been the bad attitude).
As I mentioned before, our cats had both passed away and we hadn’t had a pet for a while. I was really happy to bring another furry critter home to the family. I expected Snow to have a period of adjustment, and I thought it might be a while, given the horrible things she had been through. I thought she’d probably hide under the bed for a few days, only coming out to eat. Surprisingly, she hid for about 20 minutes, then walked into the living room and looked at me as if to say, “Well, what do we do now?” Even more surprising, within a couple of days, she was curling up on my lap! I’ve had a lot of cats over the years, but few were that comfortable with jumping up and plopping right down on top of me. It got even better, it turns out Snow must have some kind of pedigree in her past, her fur grew! She has beautiful, long, soft, fluffy, white fur; I’m a sucker for long-haired cats. They’re beautiful; it almost makes up for the buckets of fur that I brush off of every surface in my house.
Up until now, I had cats that doled out affection sparingly. I always had cats that would cuddle up next to me, my cat Baby liked to “hold hands,” (I would hold her paw or she would put her paw on top of my hand). But until Snow, I never had a cat that loved to be snuggled and kissed! Usually if you hug a cat, you can feel their their heartbeat starting to race after a few seconds, then they squirm out of your arms and run away. Snow’s heartbeat actually seems to slow down when you hug her, and she even purrs sighs of contentment! She’ll also let me kiss her until I can’t kiss her anymore, literally. She even won over my husband, Mister “no more pets ever again!“
I’m so glad she’s affectionate, because she doesn’t do anything else. Her time in the cage made her lethargic and as soon as we got her home she started to gain weight, a lot of weight! We were warned that this would probably happen. I’m used to having cats that self-regulate their food intake. Snow just couldn’t get enough of that sweet kibble stuff. The first day we had her she dove head first into her bowl and didn’t come back up until that bowl was empty, and then she cried for more. Apparently, kitties eat their feelings too. We brought her to the vet who looked at us like we were horrible people that didn’t love their cat enough to stop her from binge eating. At least she wasn’t sticking her paw down her throat, she’s a full figured feline and she likes it that way!
As much as everyone loves a fat cat, we did carefully monitor how much food we were giving her. An action met with palpable disdain on her part. She did take off some pounds, finally, she could reach around to groom herself and not roll away. I still would like her to lose some more weight. The veterinarian told me to that she should exercise, easier said than done. Have you ever tried to convince a cat to exercise? If she joins a gym she’ll never go! I’ve tried everything, laser pointers (she just stares at them), fuzzy toy mouse on a string (I get more of a workout jumping up and down and swinging it around, trying to make it look like real prey), I even tried catnip, but she just gets stoned and that makes her hungry (God, I miss college).
Despite her chubby figure and lack of motivation (who can’t relate to that?), we love Snow. She’s a very sweet cat who makes our home just a little warmer, a little cozier, and a lot furrier!
Monday, September 27, 2010
J.A.P. Just Another Person
As my daughter starts middle-school this year, I’m facing the daunting task of figuring out how we’ll handle her Bat Mitzvah. My parents weren’t religious so I find it hard to pass along traditions that weren’t passed along to me. My brothers were Bar Mitzvahed, but I don’t remember my oldest brother Ed’s shindig because I was only 3. I remember my brother Carl’s Bar Mitzvah (I was 8), at least I remember dancing and eating dessert, which came in a dish made of chocolate, as all meals should.
My daughter is just about the age I was when the term J.A.P. started getting thrown around. As if the onset of puberty wasn’t bad enough, I attended a junior high filled with a bunch of really nasty kids. Seventh grade felt like Lord of the Flies with spiral notebooks. I guess you can chalk it up to raging hormones. Those kids, especially the boys, scared the hell out of me. Lockers were slammed, freshmen were tripped, and insults were hurled like stones from medieval catapults (or cows if you’re a Monty Python fan). On top of the space in my teeth, my unruly thick hair (which actually became a plus during the big hair 80’s) and my skinny frame, I had the whole Jewish thing going for me. I began to hear the “J” word fairly often, along with the old favorite, “Carpenter’s dream, flat as a board and easy to screw.” Lovely.
The whole J.A.P. thing threw me into a heck of an identity crisis. A Jewish American Princess was an upper-middle class girl who was spoiled and pushy. Granted, you would have to include well-dressed and impeccably groomed, but still, it wasn’t anything I aspired to, except for the fancy outfits and expensive makeup.
Yes, I was Jewish, and I would have liked lots of pretty clothes, but it wasn’t in the budget. My father was a machine shop foreman who had a hard time holding down a job and my mother worked as a bookkeeper. We had a small house on a canal on a dead end street. As a small child, this was heaven! There was water to swim in and empty lots to play in and hold funerals for dead birds (someone had to do it!). Besides, as a rule, 6 year olds don’t size each other up when it comes to fashion. My point is I was fine with what I had.
But then you get a little older and the outside world starts tempting you with newer, better and more…everything! The kids from homes with lots of money began to notice the difference between them and the kids from homes with less money. To make matters worse, not far from our modest home in a middle class neighborhood was a wealthy Jewish area. The homes were large and they had built-in pools and two car garages. Naturally, there was some resentment in my non-Jewish neck of the woods. The resentment led to name calling. I would hear the word J.A.P. shouted at me fairly often.
Calling me a J.A.P. wasn’t just mean, it didn’t make sense. I wasn’t shopping in expensive stores and I was far from spoiled. My mother worked full time, back when it wasn’t common, and sometimes even looked down upon. I would come home and have to clean and sometimes cook dinner for my father and brothers. This is where I perfected my passive aggressive skills. I would usually burn dinner, thus feeling some sort of twisted power over my oppressors.
The worst part of being called a J.A.P., was that real J.A.P.s wouldn’t even glance down at their Chanel watches to give me the time of day. It made me feel ashamed of being Jewish. I got all the flack but none of the benefits. I definitely lacked the “Princess” part of the equation. I really liked it when people didn’t know I was Jewish. I was often taken for Irish, probably because of my fair skin and light green eyes. Those days are long gone; I’m not fooling anyone anymore. I’ve started to look so much like my Eastern European Jewish relatives, that one shopkeeper on the lower east side of Manhattan talks to me in Russian! It seems that we all get more ethnic as we get older. I may have passed for a nice Irish girl in my youth, but now I look like I just came back from the Kibbutz!
By the time I got to college the expression J.A.P. had been thrown around so much that it lost most of its sting, but I was still sensitive about it. One friend of mine insisted it was a compliment. He thought Jewish American Princesses were pretty and refined. I did like that part, but I remembered how mean so many of them were to me in high school. I knew in my heart that I had nothing in common with those girls except my religion. Even if I did have money, I would never be accepted into that particular sorority (Alpha Delta Nu?).
My daughter is just about the age I was when the term J.A.P. started getting thrown around. As if the onset of puberty wasn’t bad enough, I attended a junior high filled with a bunch of really nasty kids. Seventh grade felt like Lord of the Flies with spiral notebooks. I guess you can chalk it up to raging hormones. Those kids, especially the boys, scared the hell out of me. Lockers were slammed, freshmen were tripped, and insults were hurled like stones from medieval catapults (or cows if you’re a Monty Python fan). On top of the space in my teeth, my unruly thick hair (which actually became a plus during the big hair 80’s) and my skinny frame, I had the whole Jewish thing going for me. I began to hear the “J” word fairly often, along with the old favorite, “Carpenter’s dream, flat as a board and easy to screw.” Lovely.
The whole J.A.P. thing threw me into a heck of an identity crisis. A Jewish American Princess was an upper-middle class girl who was spoiled and pushy. Granted, you would have to include well-dressed and impeccably groomed, but still, it wasn’t anything I aspired to, except for the fancy outfits and expensive makeup.
Yes, I was Jewish, and I would have liked lots of pretty clothes, but it wasn’t in the budget. My father was a machine shop foreman who had a hard time holding down a job and my mother worked as a bookkeeper. We had a small house on a canal on a dead end street. As a small child, this was heaven! There was water to swim in and empty lots to play in and hold funerals for dead birds (someone had to do it!). Besides, as a rule, 6 year olds don’t size each other up when it comes to fashion. My point is I was fine with what I had.
But then you get a little older and the outside world starts tempting you with newer, better and more…everything! The kids from homes with lots of money began to notice the difference between them and the kids from homes with less money. To make matters worse, not far from our modest home in a middle class neighborhood was a wealthy Jewish area. The homes were large and they had built-in pools and two car garages. Naturally, there was some resentment in my non-Jewish neck of the woods. The resentment led to name calling. I would hear the word J.A.P. shouted at me fairly often.
Calling me a J.A.P. wasn’t just mean, it didn’t make sense. I wasn’t shopping in expensive stores and I was far from spoiled. My mother worked full time, back when it wasn’t common, and sometimes even looked down upon. I would come home and have to clean and sometimes cook dinner for my father and brothers. This is where I perfected my passive aggressive skills. I would usually burn dinner, thus feeling some sort of twisted power over my oppressors.
The worst part of being called a J.A.P., was that real J.A.P.s wouldn’t even glance down at their Chanel watches to give me the time of day. It made me feel ashamed of being Jewish. I got all the flack but none of the benefits. I definitely lacked the “Princess” part of the equation. I really liked it when people didn’t know I was Jewish. I was often taken for Irish, probably because of my fair skin and light green eyes. Those days are long gone; I’m not fooling anyone anymore. I’ve started to look so much like my Eastern European Jewish relatives, that one shopkeeper on the lower east side of Manhattan talks to me in Russian! It seems that we all get more ethnic as we get older. I may have passed for a nice Irish girl in my youth, but now I look like I just came back from the Kibbutz!
By the time I got to college the expression J.A.P. had been thrown around so much that it lost most of its sting, but I was still sensitive about it. One friend of mine insisted it was a compliment. He thought Jewish American Princesses were pretty and refined. I did like that part, but I remembered how mean so many of them were to me in high school. I knew in my heart that I had nothing in common with those girls except my religion. Even if I did have money, I would never be accepted into that particular sorority (Alpha Delta Nu?).
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Gotta Have It
I can’t stop thinking about it. Trying to avoid it only makes the need stronger. I’m craving it, jonesing for it. It’s my drug of choice and I’m helpless before it. I’m not talking about crack or heroin; I’m talking about sweets, the worst offender – chocolate.
I’m a cancer survivor and a lot of people have given me advice about what I should do to stay well. Friends and family have suggested everything from acupuncture to shitake mushrooms. A couple of people suggested macrobiotics. I’m an open minded gal, so I went to a seminar on starting a macrobiotic diet. I entered the lecture hall and saw a very frail man with sallow skin. I assumed he was a cancer patient who was there for the same reason I was. Then he got up and began the lecture! He was the expert in macrobiotics! Since I have no desire to resemble Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, I quietly snuck out of the room and headed for the nearest Burger King for a Whopper and a chocolate shake.
Before I tiptoed out of the lecture, I heard the anemic macrobiotics expert explain that sugar is a killer! He made it sound like the gangster of carbohydrates. He said it messes with your insulin levels and weakens your immune system. Say it ain’t so! Apparently there are people who believe that “Death by Chocolate” isn’t just the name of a tasty dessert, it’s a prediction.
A few weeks later another friend hooked me up with a medical intuitive (a psychic that specializes in health issues and healing). She had good news for me, she saw a complete recovery, but I would have to change my eating habits. She said lose the sugar. While I was happy to hear that she saw a healthy future for me, I was upset to hear that that future would mean no more Oreos or Twizzlers.
One has to address the quality of life issue. Is a life without Snickers worth living? Is there anything that can substitute for warm, freshly baked brownies? I know that there are people who have kicked some powerful addictions. You would think if Robert Downey, Jr. could stop getting high and sleeping in his neighbor’s kid’s bed, I could lay off the chocolate chip cookies. But how am I supposed to quit eating goodies when I can’t walk two blocks in Manhattan without passing a Dunkin Donuts or a Cold stone Creamery? Gourmet dessert trucks and cup cake bakeries are multiplying like apps for iPhones. Stop taunting me!!!
So where can I go to get this sugar monkey off my back? It’s not like I can go to Dr. Drew for Candy Rehab. Although, I would enjoy the group therapy, “Hello, my name is Barbara, and I’m a chocoholic.” “Hello Barbara.” “Before I came here, I was on an out of control sugar binge for two weeks. I hit Crumbs, Baskin Robbins and M&M World in one day! My husband had to drag me out of the Hershey’s Time Square store after I tried to jump into a fake vat of chocolate!” It would be so reassuring to hear from someone who was in it even deeper than me. Somewhere there’s somebody who has let gumdrops drag them down into the gutter where they’re laying face down surrounded by Nestles Crunch wrappers. Or even worse, there’s probably some poor slob who’s figured out a way to inject chocolate syrup right into his veins.
I would like to cut down on sugar, but I don’t think I could ever cut it out completely. It’s been like a friend to me, perking me up when I’m down. Granted, the perking up had to do with building up a pretty good sugar rush, but aren’t I entitled to one vice?
I’m a cancer survivor and a lot of people have given me advice about what I should do to stay well. Friends and family have suggested everything from acupuncture to shitake mushrooms. A couple of people suggested macrobiotics. I’m an open minded gal, so I went to a seminar on starting a macrobiotic diet. I entered the lecture hall and saw a very frail man with sallow skin. I assumed he was a cancer patient who was there for the same reason I was. Then he got up and began the lecture! He was the expert in macrobiotics! Since I have no desire to resemble Mr. Burns from the Simpsons, I quietly snuck out of the room and headed for the nearest Burger King for a Whopper and a chocolate shake.
Before I tiptoed out of the lecture, I heard the anemic macrobiotics expert explain that sugar is a killer! He made it sound like the gangster of carbohydrates. He said it messes with your insulin levels and weakens your immune system. Say it ain’t so! Apparently there are people who believe that “Death by Chocolate” isn’t just the name of a tasty dessert, it’s a prediction.
A few weeks later another friend hooked me up with a medical intuitive (a psychic that specializes in health issues and healing). She had good news for me, she saw a complete recovery, but I would have to change my eating habits. She said lose the sugar. While I was happy to hear that she saw a healthy future for me, I was upset to hear that that future would mean no more Oreos or Twizzlers.
One has to address the quality of life issue. Is a life without Snickers worth living? Is there anything that can substitute for warm, freshly baked brownies? I know that there are people who have kicked some powerful addictions. You would think if Robert Downey, Jr. could stop getting high and sleeping in his neighbor’s kid’s bed, I could lay off the chocolate chip cookies. But how am I supposed to quit eating goodies when I can’t walk two blocks in Manhattan without passing a Dunkin Donuts or a Cold stone Creamery? Gourmet dessert trucks and cup cake bakeries are multiplying like apps for iPhones. Stop taunting me!!!
So where can I go to get this sugar monkey off my back? It’s not like I can go to Dr. Drew for Candy Rehab. Although, I would enjoy the group therapy, “Hello, my name is Barbara, and I’m a chocoholic.” “Hello Barbara.” “Before I came here, I was on an out of control sugar binge for two weeks. I hit Crumbs, Baskin Robbins and M&M World in one day! My husband had to drag me out of the Hershey’s Time Square store after I tried to jump into a fake vat of chocolate!” It would be so reassuring to hear from someone who was in it even deeper than me. Somewhere there’s somebody who has let gumdrops drag them down into the gutter where they’re laying face down surrounded by Nestles Crunch wrappers. Or even worse, there’s probably some poor slob who’s figured out a way to inject chocolate syrup right into his veins.
I would like to cut down on sugar, but I don’t think I could ever cut it out completely. It’s been like a friend to me, perking me up when I’m down. Granted, the perking up had to do with building up a pretty good sugar rush, but aren’t I entitled to one vice?
Hotel Starbucks
I dropped my daughter off at a play date, oh wait a minute, she’s eleven, so I dropped her off to “hang out” with a friend. I decided to stop into a Starbucks and treat myself to a fancy cup of coffee and hopefully get off my feet for a few minutes. Finding a Starbucks in Manhattan is easy; it’s like finding hay in a haystack. Within two blocks I was at one of the ubiquitous Starbucks that dot the New York City streets like freckles on Clay Aiken’s face.
Lousy economy or not, apparently people are still digging deep down in their pockets to shell out an extra few bucks for a little luxury in a cup. As always, the place was packed. I haven’t gotten a seat at a Starbucks since the first time Anne Heche was straight. I got my cup ‘a joe and looked around for a place to sit. As always, I was forced to walk past all those java squatters in their fluffy, comfy chairs and head over to the skinny bar by the window. Good for people watching, not so good for tired legs.
I noticed that the folks in the chairs seemed smug and self satisfied, like they had something I wanted, which was true. They slowly sipped their caramel macchiato, and I mean SLOWLY. It was clear that I wasn’t going to get near an open seat unless there was a fire drill.
Looking around I noticed everyone had large bags with them. They were the bags that had been filled with books, newspapers and laptops, which now covered their chairs, laps and tables. Then it occurred to me, “My God, people are living here!” It all made sense to me! They have everything they need, their computers, cell phones, food, yummy deserts, and of course, coffee. There are bathrooms and it’s warm in the winter and cool in the summer. You can “work from home” on your computer and you always have a place to meet your friends.
This must be what happened to all those people who lost their homes! They moved into Starbucks! It’s not that I’m not sympathetic, but when do I get to relax and enjoy my café mocha? The java squatters are forcing us to take our Latte’s to the street, or even worse, our own homes! That’s where we’re stuck with kids and spouses who bug us, where we can’t relax because every time we look around we see an unfinished project or something that has to be cleaned. When do our butts get their day in the sun? This trend will only get worse. It’s only a matter of time before Ronald, Mayor MacCheese and The Hamburgler aren’t the only residents of MacDonald’s!
Lousy economy or not, apparently people are still digging deep down in their pockets to shell out an extra few bucks for a little luxury in a cup. As always, the place was packed. I haven’t gotten a seat at a Starbucks since the first time Anne Heche was straight. I got my cup ‘a joe and looked around for a place to sit. As always, I was forced to walk past all those java squatters in their fluffy, comfy chairs and head over to the skinny bar by the window. Good for people watching, not so good for tired legs.
I noticed that the folks in the chairs seemed smug and self satisfied, like they had something I wanted, which was true. They slowly sipped their caramel macchiato, and I mean SLOWLY. It was clear that I wasn’t going to get near an open seat unless there was a fire drill.
Looking around I noticed everyone had large bags with them. They were the bags that had been filled with books, newspapers and laptops, which now covered their chairs, laps and tables. Then it occurred to me, “My God, people are living here!” It all made sense to me! They have everything they need, their computers, cell phones, food, yummy deserts, and of course, coffee. There are bathrooms and it’s warm in the winter and cool in the summer. You can “work from home” on your computer and you always have a place to meet your friends.
This must be what happened to all those people who lost their homes! They moved into Starbucks! It’s not that I’m not sympathetic, but when do I get to relax and enjoy my café mocha? The java squatters are forcing us to take our Latte’s to the street, or even worse, our own homes! That’s where we’re stuck with kids and spouses who bug us, where we can’t relax because every time we look around we see an unfinished project or something that has to be cleaned. When do our butts get their day in the sun? This trend will only get worse. It’s only a matter of time before Ronald, Mayor MacCheese and The Hamburgler aren’t the only residents of MacDonald’s!
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Making of a Moron
Whenever I'm walking in the subway and someone plows into me like their jockeying for first place in the roller derby, I can just imagine what they were like as a child. Now that I'm a mom, I'm around kids all the time at amusement parks, PG movies, and of course, tons of birthday parties. It's always easy to spot the parents who have given up (or maybe they never cared). I'm talking about parents of children who talk out loud in the movies, run around your table at restaurants, or push you out of the way to get in front of you on line. These annoying kids will grow into annoying adults, the same jerks that scream into their cell phones on a bus or blow smoke in your face as you walk out of a building.
Not too long ago, my husband and I took our daughter to see a movie. Out of about 80 kids in the theatre, one kid just wouldn't shut up. He was about 5 and clearly had no idea how to act in public. After 10 minutes we leaned over and asked the father to tell his son to quiet down. He barked back at us, "He's a child he's going to talk throughout the whole thing!" At that point we thought it best to put some distance between us and them. Luckily, we were able to move several rows from the offending father and son, but still, the kid talked so loudly that we heard him at least 5 more times. My only regret is that I won't see that little loud mouth grow up to be a teenager. What I'd give to see his daddy's face after he comes in past his curfew, stinking drunk. I imagine his response to his father's scolding will be, "Come on, I'm a teenager, I'm gonna get drunk!"
Witnessing this kind of irresponsible behavior (on the part of the parents as well as the child) is even worse when your own little angel is watching. I just don't want my daughter to know that crass behavior and lack of consideration for others is an option. I had some extra tickets to the Ballet so I invited my daughter's friend and her mom. My daughter's friend asked her mom if she could take off her shoes and her Mom said yes! I was mortified! There's no nice way to put this, you could smell this kid's feet from several seats away. At one point we were alone and I tried to talk her into putting her shoes back on, but she just smiled and said, "my mommy said it was okay." It was not okay with me, and it probably wasn't okay with the poor people who were sitting around us.
Just this past month I went to the movies with a friend and her kids. Her son slumped into his seat and put his feet on top of the seat in front of him. I know it's not like he was sniffing glue, but he was 13 and he should have known better. His mother should have known better too.
It's not easy to discipline a child, in fact it can be exhausting. "Yes" is easy, there's no begging, no whining, give the kid what he wants and your done. This is not a strategy that works in the long run. After a while a child that doesn't hear the word no, doesn't even understand the word no. All the experts say that children crave boundaries, you're really doing them (and the rest of us) such a disservice by letting them run wild.
As for my 10 year old daughter, she's a doll, she really is. Of course, the years from 3 to 4 weren't easy, and I don't mind telling you that they were tough years for me. I do think that the reason she's so great today, is that we didn't take the easy road. We always made it clear that you respect others and that you don't always get everything you want when you want it. My husband and I did our best to raise her to be considerate, and we did, and do, say no when it's in her best interests. Someone's got to stop her from eating Chinese food and doughnuts every day!
Not too long ago, my husband and I took our daughter to see a movie. Out of about 80 kids in the theatre, one kid just wouldn't shut up. He was about 5 and clearly had no idea how to act in public. After 10 minutes we leaned over and asked the father to tell his son to quiet down. He barked back at us, "He's a child he's going to talk throughout the whole thing!" At that point we thought it best to put some distance between us and them. Luckily, we were able to move several rows from the offending father and son, but still, the kid talked so loudly that we heard him at least 5 more times. My only regret is that I won't see that little loud mouth grow up to be a teenager. What I'd give to see his daddy's face after he comes in past his curfew, stinking drunk. I imagine his response to his father's scolding will be, "Come on, I'm a teenager, I'm gonna get drunk!"
Witnessing this kind of irresponsible behavior (on the part of the parents as well as the child) is even worse when your own little angel is watching. I just don't want my daughter to know that crass behavior and lack of consideration for others is an option. I had some extra tickets to the Ballet so I invited my daughter's friend and her mom. My daughter's friend asked her mom if she could take off her shoes and her Mom said yes! I was mortified! There's no nice way to put this, you could smell this kid's feet from several seats away. At one point we were alone and I tried to talk her into putting her shoes back on, but she just smiled and said, "my mommy said it was okay." It was not okay with me, and it probably wasn't okay with the poor people who were sitting around us.
Just this past month I went to the movies with a friend and her kids. Her son slumped into his seat and put his feet on top of the seat in front of him. I know it's not like he was sniffing glue, but he was 13 and he should have known better. His mother should have known better too.
It's not easy to discipline a child, in fact it can be exhausting. "Yes" is easy, there's no begging, no whining, give the kid what he wants and your done. This is not a strategy that works in the long run. After a while a child that doesn't hear the word no, doesn't even understand the word no. All the experts say that children crave boundaries, you're really doing them (and the rest of us) such a disservice by letting them run wild.
As for my 10 year old daughter, she's a doll, she really is. Of course, the years from 3 to 4 weren't easy, and I don't mind telling you that they were tough years for me. I do think that the reason she's so great today, is that we didn't take the easy road. We always made it clear that you respect others and that you don't always get everything you want when you want it. My husband and I did our best to raise her to be considerate, and we did, and do, say no when it's in her best interests. Someone's got to stop her from eating Chinese food and doughnuts every day!
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