Category: Uncategorized

Ten Hut

Of course, the Bush people who dreamed up and made legal the practice of torturing prisoners should be investigated and prosecuted. 

I think that the underlings who carried out the orders should be held accountable, too. 

For this reason:

“How was school today, sweetie?”

“It was okay. A bunch of boys beat up a kid on the playground.”

“Really.”

“But the kid is usually the one getting into trouble and the playground monitor let them do it before he brought them to the principal.”

Or, at summer camp:

“We put shaving cream in Olivia’s bed.”

“Did the counselors let you do that?”

“They used to do it when they were little and they showed us how.”

Joining in, when you know you shouldn’t, is really a bad thing for kids to do. So, we teach them to be the one to stand up and say that what is going on is wrong, then leave the scene. We teach them not to follow orders simply because they are orders, let alone orders from people who shouldn’t be leaders. I’d rather my child trust her instinct and her knowledge about whether those orders should exist in the first place. Sometimes, it is not obvious. Safety, danger, violence, that’s pretty obvious, even to a kid. We do not want them to say, one day…”Okay, I’ll do it to because someone told me to.” That is Parental Doomsday. Okay, I’ll smoke. Okay, I’ll taste that drink. Okay, I’ll let you do that to me.

I realize that the military functions on hierarchy, on taking orders and not contesting them. I guess that might be useful in combat. This was hardly combat. Prosecute away, I say, sir, yes, sir.



Oh No, It’s Just Me

Married moms often get flustered when their husbands are not around. They worry about how they will do everything, how they will get the kids where they need to go, how they will put dinner on the table, gas in the car, homework in the brain, whatever it is they feel they need to do. 

“Bill is out of town and I’ve been a wreck.”

Sometimes, they say this in front of me, without realizing. I must be a wreck all the time. If they did realize, they would probably think I am a wreck all of the time. 

I am not a wreck all the time. I am not a wreck anytime, because I can’t afford to be. If I am a wreck, it is when all of the above is completed, everyone else is dreaming about the fabulous days they had, and I collapse on the couch.

The other day, I heard a new concern. “Bill is out of town, and I am really glad I have the dog.”

Huh?

Does the dog mow the lawn? Wear a suit? Buy anniversary gifts?

“When he’s not home, she sleeps by the door.” 

Being the only adult in the house, I had forgotten that male adults can provide a feeling of safety for females and children. Well, certain male adults. Should I be scared, then, every night? Should my daughters be fearful every night? Should we think we are sitting ducks if someone should intrude? Our dog is deaf and blind. Are we crazy, living this way? We are a police action waiting to happen.

We live in a safe community. We have an alarm. We are very careful about the things you need to be careful about.  I am confident that I, as the sole adult in the house, could handle any incident as well as a person with bigger pectorals. It is not a choice to think otherwise. It is not a choice to think otherwise about this, or anything else, in the house or out. 

When I was living alone in New York in the late 80s, someone robbed my apartment when I was gone for the weekend. I came home to find my stereo and jewelry missing. Immediately, I called the police, my parents and my friend Stephen. Feeling afraid, I locked up the apartment and slept at Stephen’s. My parents came into town the next day and we outfitted the doors and windows with all sorts of contraptions. When the armor was in place, I assumed we would hop in the car and head up to Westchester, have some Chinese, play a little Monopoly. I’d take the train back in the morning. But my father told me I wasn’t going. He told me I was staying put, like Houdini in a box. Did I think I was going to run home every time something bad happened? Well, kind of.

I woke up the next day unscathed, and the day after that, too. No one broke in again. No one could, it was like Alcatraz on 71st Street. 

When I was married, I don’t recall feeling any more or less safe than I do now. I used to check all those doors and windows each night before going to bed, too, and turn on the alarm. It is not good to feel at risk in your own home. I felt bad for the woman and her dog.


 

The Sound of Success

The thing about plumbing, and yes, there is a thing, is that it is, well, just like plumbing.

“It’s plumbing,” you’ll hear mentioned with regard to all sorts of endeavors.

“Fixing the aorta? It’s plumbing,” the cardiovascular surgeon will say.

“Containing a nuclear meltdown? Plumbing.”

The only people who won’t say something is like plumbing, in fact, are plumbers. To these guys, plumbing is microsurgery. It is quantum physics, engineering to the nth degree. It is like nothing else. 

I guess it is admirable to have gusto for your chosen profession, even if it is inflated a little. Why be a plumber and not think it is a great thing to be. I have always respected plumbers, and other tradesmen, with similar enthusiasm. When you are not skilled at something, you always revere the people who are. I have tried to perform many tasks that other people make their living doing, and have succeeded a portion of the time. So, I can appreciate those who do the harder of these jobs. The other day, I tried to be a plumber. It changed my life.

The toilet in the kids’ bathroom had been running, on and off, for months. They had become conditioned to jiggle the handle as part of the whole toilet process. You could hear it across the house. Fast clanks, then the filling sound, then silence. On Friday, the lever stopped levering. It hung down, lifeless. “Mom, I can’t jiggle the handle.”

I arrived at the scene with no tools, just annoyance. We will have to call the plumber, something I had been putting off. It is not so inconvenient to jiggle. But this… Meantime, I would investigate. Lifting the lid off of the tank, I saw immediately that the chain had fallen to the bottom of the tank. I could reattach the chain. When I reattached the chain, the long metal stick broke off of the part with the wing nut. I have since learned this technical term. Later that day, we went to Home Depot and bought a new chain/metal stick/wing nut/handle apparatus. I enlisted the aid of my older child, who would act as scrub nurse. We dismantled the old parts, using a wrench to remove a stubborn shaft. There is always a stubborn shaft in a home improvement project. In fifteen minutes, we had installed the new equipment, improvising one of the steps with a pink paperclip.

Then, the test. Flush. Not only did the lever perform superlatively, there was a beautiful quietude afterwards. During the transplant, I had somehow repaired the running. A bonus. A spiritual message. A pat on the self-reliant back. Though the first instinct now is to jiggle, the children are enjoying newfound freedom in simply walking away.


These Are No Pirates

The dictionary defines “pirate” as a person who commits “robbery on the high seas.” This sounds so grandiose, so cinematic, romantic, even, from a literary point of view. These are the wrong words to use, I think, for the useless criminals off the coast of Africa. 

I think of puffy-sleeved shirts and athleticism, rakish hair and accents from Central Casting. I have never met a pirate. Pirates are from the olden days, and while they did terrible things, they have been glorified a little in their representation, swinging lithely from sails and speaking cleverly, even if threateningly, sometimes in rhyme. Now, kids dress up as pirates at Halloween. What do you want to be? I want to be a pirate. Let’s get out the eye patch.

So, I suggest we use some other words to describe the out-of-work, out-of-purpose, ungoverned, lawless thieves who think they can stop global commerce and humanitarian aid efforts because they are out of work, out of purpose, ungoverned and lawless. Let’s call them “kidnappers,” “thugs,” “felons.” Let’s call them “pathetic,” “weak” and “degenerate.” 

These are not buccaneers…woohoo!…or picaroons. I will go to a movie if I want to hear about one of them. These are people who would rob a convenience store if there were one to rob in Somalia. Just a hunch, no child is coming to my door next October 31 wearing an orange T-shirt and a string of bullets around his neck. 



Watching Michelle

Okay, so now, even the Queen likes her. But we knew she would. Michelle is every woman, every experience. She’s been to all the bus stops on the route. And she’s still riding, with just the right attitude, appreciation and contribution, which is what we, as women, love about her. 

Since January, she has selected certain areas in which she can influence thinking, mainly focusing on family, children, the home. Of course, we know, though, that she can have a farther reach, given her own professional and educational pedigree. I am waiting for that. 

I know, as a mom with young daughters, and as a mom with similar pedigree, that when you become a mom, the pedigree doesn’t go away. You are a pedigreed mom, approaching the job with the same gusto, research skills, academic prowess and sensibility that you would if you were running a small nation, or a large one. Raising kids is most important, and if you do it right, everything else follows, as best as it can, for the most part. It also informs you in many other venues, beyond the garden, the school. You become better in the boardroom, in the state house, in the operating room, if you use mom skills, rather than separate them, or leave them at home. I think women have learned this since the 1980s, when they wore the bowties. 

Anyway, my hunch is that Michelle will stretch out, naturally, into some other places, and I hope she does. 


 


All Aboard, And That Means You, Haughty Editor

I read, with horror, this morning about yet another stunning blow to the publishing industry. It seems that three, count them, three magazine editors in New York descended into unspeakable depths. Down they went, step by well-heeled step, into the bowels of common experience. 

They took the subway.

Gasp.

It is not clear to me whether they ventured underground en masse, an imposing triumverate braced against the riff and raff, or whether they rode solo, belongings clenched under arms, eyes spinning around their heads like siren lights. However they traveled, the fact that their foregoing the Mercedes limo for public transportation is news, disgusts me. On several levels.

First, as “New Yorkers” (one is actually the editor of the magazine named the New Yorker, another of Gourmet and the last, Portfolio), you’d think they’d want to feel the beat of the place on a regular basis. I don’t know, but when I report on the circus, I want to ride the elephant. Sure, these people felt the beat years ago, when they had to because they weren’t editors and didn’t have drivers, but I don’t think memories are good enough. If you write about food, you have to shlep, as it were, on the sidewalk and smell the aromas. If you write about money, you have to rub up with the people putting tokens in the turnstyle, especially these days. And, heaven for bid, if you write about a city, or direct other people to write about a city, you have to, well, feel the city.

Second, I don’t like when people think they are better than other people because they have more money, or access to services that money provides.

Third, I don’t like when people toss aside the things that most people rely on out of necessity and could not live without. Toss out Oreos. 

Fourth, it gives my profession a bad reputation. It is hypocritical. Why didn’t these people take the subway, and the bus, before they lost all the ad pages and fired huge segments of their staff, the ones who routinely take the subway and the bus? 

When I had my first job as an editorial assistant at Working Woman Magazine on 43rd and Madison, I took the bus to work. My editor didn’t like that I was sometimes late. But, I told her that I come up with ideas on the bus, and write them down in a notepad. The ideas always came from what I saw, in the seat next to me, in the aisle, from the lady screaming to the driver before she got on. Sometimes, I nearly missed my stop. My editor tolerated the lateness because I was doing my job.

I think these editors should get out their little notepads and look around, again. My hunch is they’ve been missing the best stories.



I Am Woman, Hear Me Sizzle

I have a grill, purchased when we moved into our house five years ago. Every house should have one, I thought. I have put food on the grates and cooked, myself, without assistance, about three times. Grilling, still, in these modern times, is male domain. About sixty percent of all outdoor cooking is done by men. A casual sampling of males I know turns up a higher percentage, even on gas or electric contraptions, on which women tend to participate more.

We have a charcoal grill, which requires some knowledge of science and engineering, I am learning. On Saturday, I thought we should use it. The weather was just right. At 5:15, I lit the fire. We ate at 8. This is a long time to the plate for a process that is supposed to be convenient. About three coals turned gray. The other 900 didn’t. I tried to cook four hamburgers and four chicken breasts over the three coals. After a half hour, the meat was raw. I could put my hand on the grill without incident.

“Girls,” I said to my daughters and their friend, “I don’t think it’s getting hot.”

Laughter all around. I threw an entire box of matches on the mound.

“Should I call my dad?” the friend asked. 

Horrified I was at the suggestion, four-foot long tongs clenched in my fist. “Absolutely not. I can do this.”

“Maybe, start over,” she said. 

I took the meat off of the grill and put it on a plate. Then, I sprayed the coals with the lighter fluid that I am afraid of, and tossed a match on the pile. I stood across the street to do it. Thinking the coals were lit, I put the meat back on the grill. I was getting really hungry. My entire being smelled like a smokehouse. I was a smokehouse. It took an hour to cook the burgers and the chicken, and that is without the finale in the microwave. And, we needed new buns because all the pink juice drenched the original ones. 

When we were done eating, the fire was perfect. I filled up the teapot with water and poured it on the grill. Sizzle sizzle. 

Strong Woman Lesson No. 9042

The thing about people who try to strong arm women just because they are women is, it is so old. People used to do it years ago and then, women realized they could say, “Don’t do that” and actually get results. So, fewer males, I think, try because they think, perhaps, they won’t succeed. And, this type of male is inherently lazy, so the extra effort, with no guaranteed gain, might not be attractive. Still, there are ignorant fools who continue to try to intimidate, disrespect, insult, pick your term, women, just in case they, in fact, do get away with it.

This comes to mind because of a situation in which some male tried not to pay me for my writing services. It is really boring, actually, because it is so, well, old, and because the idiot in question is such a, well, idiot. But…of course there is a lesson. And when you are a mom, and a single mom of girls who don’t see male-female discourse on a daily basis, it is important to make a lesson of it. That is a thought in and of itself, perhaps for another time, the notion that parents who do not have another adult in the house feel the weight of talking about, describing, making sure the kids know what you take for granted if you grow up with two adults in the house. For now, we will talk about the idiot male person who tried not to pay me.

So, I accept a silly assignment knowing I probably shouldn’t because the people doing the assigning seem a little incompetent. But, I figure it’s a quick job. Spending cash. While I am sitting in the office of the assigning man watching him try to work the fax machine, I am reminded of something my first Managing Editor told me back in 1985. I happened to run into her on the Madison Avenue bus heading uptown in the evening, and she told me that whatever I do, wherever I work, make sure it is for reputable people. Take a lesser position, she said, with a smarter operation. I have put this into practice for many years. The few times I’ve accepted assignments from less worthy companies, I have, in fact, encountered trouble. 

But, when you freelance, you tend to accept most anything that is offered. These days, you don’t even think about it. You will write about nail clippers. Anyway, the man, let’s call him John, tells me after the piece is turned in that the piece is not good. Of course the piece is good. This is a tactic. Tell the person the piece is not good, after you already told her it was good, so that you don’t have to pay her. It has been a month since John has had my invoice, and no check has arrived in the mail. Meantime, I email John and all of his coworkers about how it is time for them to pay me. John, of course, gets mad that his coworkers now know that he cannot operate a fax machine.

My kids think this story is funny. I tell them that people will try to take advantage of you, and no matter how significant it is or not, you cannot let them. This is insignificant, but we will use all we have at our disposal to make sure we are treated fairly. My older daughter suggested we all go to John’s office to demand the check. She wants to watch it. 

Meanwhile, John called saying that he will pay me if I sign a statement saying I will not email his coworkers and tell them that he cannot operate the fax machine or is trying not to pay me or looks like a mushroom. I told him I won’t sign anything so insane and that he should mail a check to the address on the invoice, just like real businesses do. 

He said he would. We are taking bets. Lesson No. 9043 is in the works.



Nadya, Shmadya

What is the difference between a woman who chooses to have 14 babies and raise them alone and a woman who chooses to have two babies and winds up having to raise them alone? Babies aside, the former decision is ill-advised. When Nadya Suleman chose to have the 14 babies, she was in no position, objectively, to care for, shelter and feed them properly, no matter how purposeful she felt as a mother. Now, having been given nurses, cribs, housing, food and apparently, manicures, by people who feel compelled to “help the babies,” the babies are in no better position to be cared for by their mother. What these kind people have done is create an orphanage in a private home, one with a thousand square feet more than Nadya’s previous one, not to mention Starbucks coffee.

It is too bad the generous people couldn’t add seven more mothers to the house. If they had given me a thousand more square feet, or extra cash each month, or gas for a year to drive to soccer games and dance lessons, I would be most thankful, and frankly, I would be as deserving. There are more than 10 million single mothers in the United States. Some become single mothers because their decisions, like Nadya’s, were foolish. Some become single mothers for other reasons. I did not intend to become a single mother; most women like me didn’t intend to, either. Most of us do not have 14 children. Most of us get no help. Most would appreciate a babysitter for two hours a month, let alone a staff around the clock.

Two babies deserve as much as 14 babies. It is not about the babies.