Farewell 2007

The time has come, the end is fast approaching when we can count 2007 as the present. This day is a strange mix of melancholy, wistfulness, and a sense of anticipation. It is a holiday that I have never really understood. Perhaps, my views are colored by the fact that once the clock strikes at midnight, it also becomes the day I become a year older--A New Year's Baby. I've always lamented my birthday coinciding with such an occasion, synonymous with champagne and a crystal ball dropping. The years I've received combined birthday and Christmas gifts is enough to make one wish for a birthday that coincides with the day of the Black Plague's devastation around the world. I know I will surely receive calls from friends, it is a very easy birthday to remember, their voices hoarse from the previous night's festivities. Aside from the birthday issue, this holiday is one that makes me feel wistful more than anything else. Even the song we're supposed to cap off the occasion singing is a bit maudlin, if you really listen to the lyrics. It is one of those songs that makes me feel teary, no matter, where, or how badly it's being sung.

This year, no different than any other, is again a bit wistful. However, this emotion is not nearly as strong or overpowering as in year's past when this event was marked three hours behind the rest of my family's, and I would awaken to a sun-filled day where floats of flowers and other edible items would parade down Colorado Boulevard. But like years past, it is a time to reflect, to mourn the people or places now far away, and a time to reassess for the upcoming year. This need for everyone to take a moment and to think long and hard, unless you're out at Times Square with all the people who probably frequent cruise ships, is something that should occur daily, but for some cultural reason is only encouraged once a year.

This year we will, including my gourmand son, be heading to Bolo for an early dinner. This request, unfortunately, came from our five year old and not one of the adults. I try not to imagine how much more obnoxiously precocious he will be in a few years time after living here as a New York City kid. I dare not try to picture him wearing Ascots to events, but one never knows when you have an only child. My son has requested we cap off the evening with a rousing Family Dance Night. Yes, we are a strange lot, but hopefully all this exposure to good music will prevent him from listening to any artist coming off of the Disney Channel.

New Year's Resolutions will abound as each news report and the food channel will devote whole segments or shows to healthy eating and losing weight--the new cultural obsession for all Americans. We will not think about the significance of a woman killed halfway around the world where the new year will surely bring about more calamity, the rumble of it just barely audible in the din at Times Square. The passing of such literary giants as Norman Mailer will be reflected upon the pages of Time Magazine as they list those who have left our world during the year of 2007.

I try and not think too hard about all that awaits, personally and professionally, in the upcoming year. I have a massive load of pages to revise, a child to get into a New York City private school, and a permanent home to find. As one ages, our grandeur for our lives take on a more realistic shape, one becoming more philosophical about change, some of it unwelcome. There is just the tiniest hint of apprehension with the anticipation. One hopes family, particularly your aging parents, are healthy, that friends will remain married, their children unmarred by fate that can make God and life seem unbelievably cruel, that your own marriage will continue to grow and change as your bodies do the same, and that it will all end on December 31st much as it had in years past--wistful, melancholy, and anticipatory. Amen for just such a year, indeed.

Cruise Ship

I am one of those snobs, whose disdain for those hotels on the water, otherwise known as, cruise ships, has me making disparaging remarks about never being stranded on one of those vessels with all of those people. You know the type. True, I did grow up watching "Love Boat," where each new batch of lonely souls arrived on the ship being greeted by perky Julie, the cruise director, and Gopher. But somehow, the idea of traveling, or rather, seeing the world from the limited purview of a ship seemed wholly unappealing, again an assault on my snobbish views about people who experienced the world this way. And yes, I do know such people who travel the world on board a cruise ship. They are, each in their own way, a bit provincial (no matter how much money they have), and one of those people who, if they didn't have as much money, would be shuttling on and off tour buses in far flung destinations. They would be the tourists I held in such disdain when I lived overseas.

So, you can imagine my disbelief as I pulled my overnight suitcase up the gangplank of the newest Gem of the Norwegian Cruise line. I was, along with my husband and new friends, headed for a 12 hour cruise around the New York harbor, a glorified booze cruise for adults being hosted by American Express. The evening was sold as a dining experience for the gourmand since some of the hottest chefs in New York would be cooking dinner, all capped off with a performance by John Legend in their theater. And since I and my husband have such strong feelings about cruises in general, we thought this would be the most ideal way to do it since the whole venture was no more than 12 hours.

As I headed toward the Norwegian Cruise Ship greeters, I noticed two Purell dispensers, which we were told to use liberally. Yes, there have been all those strange ship viruses that had run cruises aground, its participants heading to hospitals, some unknown virus taking down an entire floating hotel. After dousing my hands with that strange cool liquid, I found myself surrounded by people of all sizes, mostly large, and colors. I made my way to my cabin, which was the size of a hotel room in Japan. Again, I marveled to find myself here, of all places. We met our friends for cocktails, and then headed up top to see the ship leaving the New York harbor. The view of lights as the ship sailed further away made this strange trip well worth it. The dinner was fine, not as good as I've had at Gramercy Tavern. John Legend gave a heartfelt, condensed version of his show. It was a bit strange seeing him perform in a setting similar to a Las Vegas hotel. Wasn't that the place performers ended up as their name became synonymous with what had once been cool? For someone, whose career, should still be relevant, well, it was odd indeed.

This evening would have been fine, if not for the hordes of people on the ship. I don't consider myself a true misanthrope, but it is experiences much like this that makes me think living among the people is not for me. I had the same feeling when I had to serve on a jury in Los Angeles, a jury that was in no way a 'jury of my peers'. What was most striking about the ship was how much like Vegas it was. There was the sense of time being inconsequential, so much so, that the ship actually promulgated the idea of the watch or clock's irrelevance on board. People, despite the short duration of this trip, partied as if it were 1999. The casino was full, people gambling away the hours, much like I've seen in Las Vegas. The Duty Free shops opened once we got into neutral waters, so that people could browse after dinner for that Rolex, which would now be duty free. Couples lounged in the bar where beds were used instead of chairs, all in their quest to live out a long held Bacchanalian fantasy.

After watching John Legend, my husband and I headed to the disco where they promised an evening of reliving "Saturday Night Fever." Images of John Travolta in that infamous white suit was not far from my mind as I figured the disc jockey would be spinning tunes from that much parodied era. You can imagine my shock when we arrived to find the dance floor empty, a few overgrown adults dancing to familiar songs coming from, not a disc jockey, but a band of performers from Manila. I had noticed the plethora of Filipinos, who worked on board from maids, waiters, to bar tenders. But this band of performers, singing all the old standards from the era of Studio 54, were definitely Filipino. It was as we watched this band perform, "We Are Family," that we had to leave.

Aside from the Filipino staff on board this Norwegian cruise ship, the thing I noticed most was the amount of food available for consumption at all hours of the day. It seemed as if you couldn't walk more than ten steps without hitting another restaurant, hence, the explanation for the numbers of overweight adults. But then, that's a problem prevalent throughout this great land of ours.

After sleeping too little, we packed our overnight bags, and headed to the breakfast buffet (a staple of cruise ships, I've learned). Again, I was struck by the sheer number of breakfast foods available. I could see, if one were inclined to overeat, how tempting it would be to sit there for a few hours, sampling everything from the omelet bar to the waffle station. We disembarked, heading out into a gray New York day, a bit wiser, definitely feeling our 40 years, but definitively clear in our knowledge that a cruise would not be in our future.

International Luncheon

My son, who'd read and reread Rosemary Wells' "Yoko" book--a cat, named Yoko, who is Japanese takes sushi to school. Kids make fun, prompts teacher to create International Luncheon, sushi is eaten and liked. All's well in this particular school of cats and dogs--was reliving the book's story since he had requested Korean sushi as our contribution to the luncheon. We also added Korean dumplings my mother has made by some Korean woman, she's enslaved in Philadelphia. My mother arrived the day before, such a luxury for us that she could hop on a train and land in Penn Station, just a mere hour or so later. This trip was to coincide with her spending the night with our son, allowing my husband and me a night away.

The day of the luncheon arrived with much anticipation for my son. My mother and I pan-fried the dumplings, rolled the Korean sushi, and carted everything to school in large foil roasting pans. There were two Jewish dishes, a few Eastern European dishes, a West Indian curry, and of course, the requisite Irish dish of boiled beef. Someone, who could claim an Italian heritage, brought in pizza, which got devoured by all the kids, of course. My son was happy and proud to have his Korean grandmother there, all bedecked in her fur, meeting his classmates' parents. We sampled a few of the dishes, noticing the dumplings were disappearing rapidly, the sushi almost nearly all gone.

My son ran over with the classroom copy of the "Yoko" book. I had already connected why he was so excited about this luncheon, but the confirmation was all the more poignant. This day, the last before Christmas, is busy with people standing on every corner with a suitcase next to their feet, their arm raised desperately hoping to hail a cab to the airport to Penn Station, all heading home for the holiday. The roadways are especially congested, making getting from one part of the city to the other a challenge. We, so delirious to be here, aren't grousing about any of this yet. I'm sure that will come in a year or two when we start whining like every other New Yorker about those pesky tourists, making our daily lives extra difficult. Never mind that our economy lives off of the tourists.

It's nearly impossible to imagine our lives a year ago, exiled in LA, so desperately helpless about how we'd gotten ourselves stuck there, of all places. Or, that was the way I was feeling. If nine months can bring about such radical changes, well, it does give one pause about what could be around the next corner--hopefully, all, or at least some of it more positive than not.

White Trash Woes

I've held myself back from commenting on Brittany Spears, and the likes of the other limited talent but overexposed posse of young women, littered on the pages of enough magazines to have spawned a whole new industry or two. But the recent revelation of her 16 year old sister that she, too, is pregnant is beyond belief. The best part of this is that their mother, that woman whose parenting skills warrant dissection of a different sort, had written a book about just that--parenting. Amazing, isn't it? I find it so. It is just another example of the disintegration of so much that is wrong in our culture of voyeurism and exploitation.

First, let me say, I find Brittany's travails more tragic than funny or amusing. She could, in a dozen years or so, end up the way of a much more talented, but equally troubled mega star, Michael Jackson. Now, whether she ends up on the headlines again for child molestation is not the question. But simply that her troubled life, which didn't take many years to unravel compared to Jackson's demise, is an indication of the hyper-speed with which we are living our lives. Compare Jackson's illustrious career before the downfall--he'd been part of a mega successful family group, he then went on to record two chart topping albums. It was a little after his hair catching on fire that his descent started. Despite all the personal woes, most of which can be attributed to his parents and poor choices, his talent can't be questioned.

Brittany, on the other hand, is a product of today's music industry that is all about packaging pretty faces with limited voices. Her rise was meteoric before the media turned on her, just as she was acting out the way most adolescents do, albeit most of our shenanigans are done privately. So, who's to blame for all the mess that is her troubled, sad, disjointed life? Well, her parents would be a good place to start. And then the industry that exploited her while making gobs of money off of her, and has now kicked to the curb, as they say. Then there is just the young woman, who has to take a large portion of her blame.

It is a sad day when her sister is a role model for other young girls. It's amazing that a show, Hannah Montana, can create a frenzy where parents are buying scalped tickets for hundreds of dollars. Hopefully, the young woman behind this newest phenomenon won't go the way of her predecessor, who is seen all over LA, driving around aimlessly filling her time shopping and giving chase to the hounds of media. But I wouldn't hold my breath. I guess the next question that begs to be asked is what's to become of the progeny of these young women? Chapter Three--Brittany's boys are seen crashing cars, drunk, on drugs, in and out of rehab, spending money they no longer have, trying to sell themselves to this same industry so that they become known as more than Brittany Spear's lost boys.

Voices From Afar

I'm not sure how this happened, but the Luddite in me is all but gone. It seems I'm a techno geek of the worst variety--you know the type, the ones who are all hooked up to Blackberry, Outlook, computers and gadgets synching as if by magic, so a small glich means absolute catastrophe.

Most of you know what a musicphile I am, added to the list of 'philes' next to my name. And that this, long held obsession is all about my Ipod. Now the sad part of this tale is how much an ignoramus I am about technology in general. One small click, which I'm never too timid to make, and somehow I've erased all sorts of information that took hours to amass and document. I've done this once to my Outlook, much to my Computer Person's amazement. He insisted it was impossible to lose all that info, therefore he would search my hard drive for all of it, and of course I had, somehow, zapped it all away. This is a terrible thing for a person, whose entire work is loaded on to one of these machines. And in truth, on a scale of one to ten, my knowledge of the computer is probably about a 7.1, just above average, but hardly savvy enough to fix whatever mess I've created.

What does this mean? It means I spend an inordinate amount of time talking to tech people, mostly men, although when I was on Verizon in LA, most of the tech people were in Bangladesh and a fair number were women.

After receiving the newest Ipod Touch for Christmas, I was, of course, trying to plug it into my system and to upload music for my listening pleasure. Well, for whatever reason, I couldn't download the newest Itunes software, something that is supposedly easily accomplished. After several attempts, I called tech support, speaking to a young man, obviously in his late to early thirties. I could tell he was Caucasian, casual in dress, and tall. During a lull as I rebooted my computer, at his advice, I asked where he was, to which he replied New Mexico. He was, what they refer to as level one in tech support since what he advised me to do erased my entire Itunes from my computer. After a minor freak out, I phoned back, shrieking at the next tech person, who appeared older, still male, and Caucasian. He seemed less insouciant, and more conscientious, which led me to believe he was older. He took me through the steps, and realized I would require the assistance of the second level tech person. He patched me through to another man, older than his last predecessor and still Caucasian. This man, whose name was Don or Dave, was the voice of reason, so reassuring from so far away. He was infinitely patient as I went through the steps he asked, never making me feel stupid when I admitted I had no idea what he was saying.

Of course he was the one who fixed the problem, this man who was in Austin, Texas. During our brief interchange as the computer booted up, and during a lull, we revealed minor details about our lives. I learned he lived in Austin, had a son, and that he worked for Apple as a tech voice on the ends of so many calls like mine. I also learned about his wish for more adventure, perhaps living in a place like New York, which may feel more alive to him than the suburban life he must lead in Austin. Perhaps it's my curiosity about people, but it never fails that these faceless voices on the other end of each of these calls ends up taking on a two dimensional feel as I ask probing questions, in my need to place these people on to some geographical map, of sorts. That is the thing about this life where a caller so many miles away can fix your machine half way across the world, in some cases, and in yesterday's half away across this vast country of ours--this need to be able to place a voice to some geographical area. After laughing about my own technological idiocy, we laughed and then had to say our 'good-byes.' There was just the slightest catch on his end as he wished me well and a 'happy holiday,' this man, who was patient enough to teach me how to fix my own computer. I felt the slightest twinge as I, too, hung up with this stranger. In the end, this weird intimacy I'd just shared with this stranger seemed the summation of our world where all of this technology has brought together such disparate lives. My Ipod Touch is up and running, ready for me to start fiddling around with what music can be loaded.

The Great American Bake Off

This weekend was the Great American Bake Off in our house, otherwise known as Cookie Hell. I attempted in my small, galley-size kitchen to replicate the pandemonium that ensued for days on end in Los Angeles. As I measured cup after cup of flour, whipped enough butter to single-handedly raise anyone's cholesterol score by a few hundred points, and measured out copious amounts of granulated sugar, I became nostalgic about Los Angeles for the very first time since arriving in the city. Of course when I say this, I mean I became nostalgic about my neighbors, our charming, drafty house, and especially, my son's Tia, not the city at large. Performing the rituals of this holiday, decorating, baking, wrapping gifts, made the absences of those individuals who'd been a part of our lives for so many years so acute. Our Tia, who grew to delight in these tradition as much as I did, had been my stalwart right-hand woman in most of these endeavors, except the baking. So, going through these acts, albeit on a minor, scaled down version has made me miss her so very much.

As sugary confection after another came out of the oven, I did as I'd always done, placing them on cooling racks until they were cool enough to be stored into large storage bins. I thought about all the Christmases where these treats would be bagged, gift cards attached, all distributed by our son and his Tia as they made their way down our street. I learned from more than one neighbor that these bags of home made goodies had become and expectation for them during this season of giving and receiving. I suppose that is what brought on this sentimental nostalgia as I sifted flour and measured out baking soda, that this ritual would not be taken up by anyone else, that each of these neighbors, some who live alone, will feel the lack of these bags more than I could ever know.

My son and I attempted the same tradition as we walked up and down our apartment building's hallway, distributing these delicacies to neighbors, who seemed taken aback by such a sign of neighborliness.

This season has been such a strange mix of delight and wistfulness. Giddiness hits me as I walk around the city, going into stores as go about the business of shopping for family and friends. At the same time, the wistfulness of missing those that had been such a fabric of my time in Los Angeles presses down upon my chest, serving as a reminder of what had to be lost in order for what we've gained. Aha, c'est la vie!

I know, in the end, I continue these traditions as much for my son as for anyone else. It will, hopefully, be for him the touchstones of what this holiday season meant, and will continue to mean to him as he goes on with his life, creating new traditions of his own. How does the world benefit, you wonder? Well, for one, the dairy industry should be grateful that so many pounds of their precious commodity gets purchased and used during this season. Gyms should be eternally blissed since membership rates should jump within the new year after the caloric intake of this season--of which the cookies are no small portion. All in all, my little 'tradition' of baking and distributing cookies should make many more people, other than those who are the recipients, quite content by my largess.

Holiday Shows

When you are a parent, it is expected you will sit through interminable performances of your child singing, banging instruments, and in my case, flitting across the stage. And despite my better efforts to avoid these nights, we found ourselves scrunched in between eager parents, sitting on hard chairs, as we were 'entertained' for the next hour.

I know, I know. Most parents love this stuff, and think these evenings are the culmination of all the arduous work in parenting their kid(s). My excitement, much more muted than is politically correct, was more a result of my son's excitement about performing the three songs his class had been practicing for the last month. And since this is a public school, even thought most of the families are white, Irish, and Christian, there were none of the traditional Christmas songs that I remember singing when I was his age. Let me just say how much I despise this watering down of the holidays to insure no one religious group gets offended. Who are we kidding? And why discount the religious significance of Christmas that goes beyond garland, Christmas trees, and the massive consumerism that results in non-Christian families putting up trees and exchanging gifts on this day?

My son, after much negotiation, allowed me to put him in tie and jacket, but only after I gelled his hair into spikes. He expressed his anxiousness about singing in front of so many people--all the usual expected build up to the night.

The show was ear-splitting, the song selections strange, none of them referring to this holiday season. I'm convinced the music teacher must drink heavily every day to endure eight hours of this endless cacophony. The best part, of course, is the one or two 'odd' kids, whose antics on stage keep me entertained. There is always some strange kid, whose tics, outsize personalities take all of my attention. And last night was no exception. The strange kid was a boy, a plump bespectacled boy, whose carefree performance (as in acting out the songs and doing a little robot dance in between) stole the show each time he was on the stage, much to my sheer delight. Yes, I'm one of those who laughs out loud and makes declarations like, 'he's hilarious,' with no regard for the possibility that his parents might be sitting next to us, or worse, in front of us.

The evening, thankfully, came to an end after a hair-splitting finale. My son, delighted to have performed in his first Christmas evening show, chattered away during the short walk home. I know I'm supposed to enjoy these nights since they will, too soon, come to an end. Or rather, his exuberance and delight that his parents were there, will come to an end. I'm sure in a few years, my ringing laughter will be the source of his embarrassment, so that our walk home will be sullen and quiet. Ah, the things to which we can look forward to.

Bah Humbug

This holiday season careened toward us too rapidly, making it impossible for me to comprehend it's here, yet, again. Perhaps it is the life altering changes we've made in our family, but I am five steps behind, it feels, in all the preparations for this season. The pressure is even more intense since I am juggling working, desperately attempting to stay on schedule, and taking care of my son--full time. My mind is on such overload it will only be a matter of time before I leave the house forgetting to brush my teeth, or worse, forgetting to pick my son up. This happened once before in grad school, not forgetting to pick up my son, but leaving the house without brushing my teeth. It was one of those 'uh-oh' moments when a vacation is seriously recommended.

In the midst of all this stress, a package arrived yesterday from one of my writer friends. I couldn't imagine what she would be sending me since we've never exchanged gifts of any kind. Our relationship's boundaries are firmly defined to the internet and the yearly retreat we all take together. After ripping open the thick envelope, I was stunned to discover an antique cook book, one of those regional books put together by church groups, that I love and collect. Her note said she'd found this in a second hand book store, and thought of me. It was one of those thoughtful gestures that will linger in my mind for months. And it is a gesture that is rare, and seems to become rarer in our world.

I'd always said your friends teach you how to be a friend to others. And one hopes in a lifetime you've had enough such teachers. I'm grateful for those that I can call my friend. Even during this short time here, I've made a friend, who will phone me from a dive shop, putting aside the remaining wet suits in the shop, insuring I get the right one for my son. Now, sitting so many miles away from those I'd long considered 'friends,' the tenuousness of all relationships becomes more apparent.

As we brace for snow, I am tucked inside, hard at work, grateful to be able to work. The work day will end with a cup of tea and my new cookbook in hand as scour recipes that reveal a history of the region the book comes from. It will be a perfect end to a hard day.

Ghettos Behind Gates

The writers' strike is slowly affecting most Americans' television watching. The news reports very few shows have many episodes left to air, which can only mean more of the nonsense that proliferates the airwaves--reality television. One of shows I find myself watching in horror and utter disbelief is "The Real Housewives of Orange Country," a show that follows a group of forty-something, Botoxed, silicone-enhanced, bleached blonds as moms, real estate agents, and BIMBOS. There are so many shows that mirror the debasement of our culture, but this one is all the more disturbing because they are women, who are, supposedly, raising kids--the future generation.

What's fascinating to note, once you've watched enough episodes, something I found myself doing during Bravo's marathon last night, is how all of their "money" is made by selling something. Whether it is real estate, insurance, cars, or worse, themselves, they are all hawking a commodity. The show's purpose, I assume, is to highlight the life of privilege that these women live. But somehow behind the facade of shiny, fancy, expensive cars, and the horrific McMansion subdivision that is the center of their universe, their lives appear small, shallow, and a step above middle America's mall-shopping, chain restaurant eating, and endless turnstile life of gluttonous behavior and endless dieting. Each restaurant scene shows, yet, another restaurant that is essentially a chain restaurant where the size of the portion is more important than quality.

All of these superficial judgments about their lifestyle is nothing compared to their roles as mothers to their troubled, troubled, out of work, barely in school kids. A few of their progenies turned 21, which meant these women felt it appropriate to take their kids out to nightclubs, downing shots to show their children they are still 'with it'. It does make one question the state of our country when you watch these barely intelligible kids and their mothers on television acting more than a fool.

The other thing that is shocking is the profligate use, or rather, misuse of grammar by each of these morons. It goes beyond split infinitives. Someone should clearly give them a thorough lesson on the use of subjective and objective pronouns. Really, if you closed your eyes and simply listened, they sound no more educated than the stereotype of a 'ghetto' kid, who delights in the use of Ebonics. The difference is the ghetto, in this instance, is behind gates in Orange County. There are cab drivers in New York city from places like Nigeria, Trinindad, or Dominican Republic, whose English use is more proper and articulate. I'm sure it is shows like this that give fodder for the extremists in the world, the ones ranting about the moral lapses of this great nation.

I can only imagine what the networks will come up with to fill all those hours in the day since writers on both coasts are busy walking up and down blocks holding their placards. You would think the dearth of quality shows, always questionable even when writers aren't on strike, would propel to read more, spend time with their kids, or take up other meaningful hobbies like crochet. I'm sure once this season's "Biggest Loser" reveals another obese person (there are so many of them, the statistic say) to be booted off the show, leaving the 'champion,' we will turn into a show about the fastest pie eater in the country. And we learn each day just how big it is, this country.

School Skirmishes

As a parent, you find yourself having to advocate on behalf of your child at all times, particularly in the public schools. And we are no different than any other parent, who work over time as parents. My son's recent school project has raised many concerns for us as a family, all of which has ended in a letter being written to his teacher. My son, who is a mere 5 years old, brings home endless notes from his teacher, it seems every day. I knew his class was working on a family project, the culmination of which would be an international luncheon. The international luncheon part is hilarious since his class is, for whatever reason, predominantly Irish-American. I know this has to do with the fact that the previous owners of this mammoth real estate didn't allow blacks to rent in their apartment buildings. And as my son noted, there are no Korean students in his class, unlike his preschool in LA, which was situated smack dab in the middle of the largest Korea community outside of Seoul, Korea.

A sheet was sent for us fill out with prosaic questions like: Where are you mother's family and father's family from? I, of course, filled in Korea for me and North Carolina for my husband since that is where his family is from. The teacher took me aside to ask what country my husband's family origins trace back to. Hmmm. It took me but a minute to respond his family were slaves. Of course she was flustered by my direct response. The urgency to know the origin of country for the kids' maternal and paternal family was a result of the flags the kids would make to correspond with whatever country their ancestors traced back to. She said she understood the sensitivity of slavery, a topic we have yet to discuss with our child. But she pressed the point in us identifying a region or, more specifically, a country in Africa where my husband's family could be traced. This is the point where I wanted to deck her, not only for her doggedness, but for her absolute dimwittedness about all of this. The worst part of this discussion was her revelation she'd run into this same problem before with other African-American students. Hmmm...Yes, this is an educated person in charge of teaching young kids.

You can imagine the discussions that ensued in our house. My husband, rightly, declared we should tell her to use the American flag since slaves were largely responsible for building most of the institutions of this country. And if she had a problem with this logic, she should call him at the office so he could make his point. Obviously, this was not an ideal solution for the situation since I'm the one having to deal with her daily. After some research, really just typing in Pan African flag into a search engine, I discovered there is such a flag. Again, why she couldn't do this is beyond me since she's the one who created this particular curriculum. I printed out the information sheet on this flag and attached a letter we wrote to address our concerns this project raised for us, but would certainly raise for others,most notably and ironically, the only true Americans--Native Americans.

My husband always points out that the majority of the country is run by C- students, a most sobering thought if you give thought to this. We know the top job in this country, namely the Presidency, could be attained by those with far less on their academic records. A certain idealism on my part would have hoped teachers would be more worldly and rigorous in their own classrooms. But that's expecting more than is the reality.

The Economist recently had an article about the academic rankings of countries. Finland, it seems, is the most ideal place for one to be uber-educated. The United States didn't even rank in the reading scores--a grim statistic indeed since Bush's "No Child Left Behind," touts its successes. The article pointed out the one stark differences between countries with high scores and those with scores that don't register is how the top scoring countries take only top students as teachers--hardly the reality in this country. We all know this stems from the devaluation of teachers in our culture, a trend that has reached an all-time low. What does this mean for our children? Well, it seems they will be behind many of their international peers in reading, math, and science. What does that translate into for our country's future? It means innovation, those ideas that can spawn entire industries, will occur more often on soil other than the US. It means the dumbing down of our cultural institutions will occur without the citizenry, smart enough, or engaged enough, to take note or to argue for more. It will mean the constant polarization where religious fundamentalism will take place of intellectual curiosity. People, finding their world confusing (and too dumb to understand why) will turn to the "opiate for the masses"--mega churches to answer all the ills of a world where children's futures are just a bit more hopeless than the previous generations'.

It is a grim picture indeed. It's enough to make us want to immigrate to Finland, the only biracial family to ever arrive on their shores.

Rockefeller Center

My son and I trekked to Rockefeller to meet our friends, who were visiting from Los Angeles. We took in the tree and the throngs of people, all there for the quintessential New York experience. Families posed in front the mammoth tree and gawked at the skaters on the rink below. Fifth Avenue is congested, making the stroll down the glittery street an impossibility. It is enough to make you turn into Grinch. I now understand why most New Yorkers avoid mid town this time of the year.

Every restaurant was full with tourists catching their breath from the strolling down 5th Avenue. This weekend, another whirlwind of seeing friends from Los Angeles, passed in a blur. Again, it seems every other week brings another friend from the West Coast out for a visit. This thread of our past getting woven into our present is making for an interesting tapestry to our days here.

Perhaps the visits will curtail once the harshness of January settles all around us.

Lincoln Center Jazz at Lincoln Center

Last night we went to hear Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz at Lincoln Center. After all these years to finally hear this jazz ensemble in their natural habitat was beyond cool. No other word can describe the experience. The irony of all this is we were invited by friends from LA, who are in town visiting this weekend. We'd been here all these weeks, but so busy getting our lives set up that such an outing seemed like an extravagance.

The evening ended with drinks at the nearby bar, something we would never have done in LA. Late nights here are as normal as our early morning routines had been in LA. As we were driven home, the city seemed dressed up for a formal occasion. Each lamppost bedecked in garland and lights, store windows gleaming in its holiday get up. Even the cold didn't dampen the entire experience of this evening. What I remember from the night was the encore the group played. The audience, a well-heeled group, clapped and swayed as the band loosened up and really began to swing. It's moments like this when a little pinch is required for me to appreciate how different our life has become in this beautiful, crazy city--now our home.

Foodtv

I admit it. I'm a Food Network watcher. And have been for a long, long time. As one who watches, not avidly as in every day, but enough to distinguish shows, I've amassed some observations about the 'chefs', or rather, personalities on the shows.

First let me start by stating I'm not a Rachel Ray devotee. I find her cutesy, 'Rachelisms": EVOO, YumO, Sammy, Delish--annoying rather than endearing. I understand why the network found her appealing, and why more than half the nation finds her appealing. She is the average, girl next door, simpleton, who can whip up half hour meals, apparently all the time we have in our days to put a meal on the table from start to finish. My dislike of her stems not only from these annoying personality ticks now part of her schtick, but rather from the fact that none of her dishes look all that delicious. It's like she's incorporated all the ideas of good food for the fast food life. You can see the complete juxtaposition of such a good idea. There are some things that shouldn't be rushed because in the rushing you miss the true elements and beauty of the process of what you create.

Another chef, who is no longer on the network as they move away from chefs to personalities, is Mario Batali, the antithesis of Rachel Ray. For this man, no time is too long to create a delicacy that will be as memorable as that first kiss. His recipes were as complex as the most complex algorithm. And the beauty of it was his absolute ardor for all things culinary. His rotund figure speaks to a life spent satiating those very basic needs to the maximum. One can imagine how much fun he'd be late night with plates of delicacies and bottles of wine.

One of those sad replacements for Batali is a woman named, Sandra Lee. Where does one start with this Barbie doll looking woman? She is part trailer trash, part Stepford wife, and obviously some powerful executive's wife since it's hard to fathom how she got this show. Her only redeeming quality and the only thing I find endlessly amusing about her show is how every show ends with her "Tablescape," and potent cocktails. I wouldn't eat anything coming out of her kitchen even if it was the only food left, but I would certainly drink her hefty cocktails.

Then there's folksy Paula Deen, whose personal story is compelling. Her folksyness is, much like Ray's, bordering on the kitsch since it is such a schtick of what the network has told her they want from her. She seems to become more Southern, more bellicose, bigger in personality with more air time. Even her sons now have a show of their own where they drive around the country looking for food, of course.

The one chef, whose personality is nearly nonexistent, is the Jewish Housewife with Good Taste, The Barefoot Contessa. This one woman has done more to demolish the stereotype that Jewish women can't cook but make excellent reservations. This woman cooks. And with lots of butter. It is as if she never really got over Julia Child's eponymous: The Art of French Cooking. But everything she makes looks delicious, and a recipe I would be happy to attempt in my own kitchen. Unlike the other chefs, whose outsize personalities, seem to distract from the fact that they are cooking crap, she is as scintillating as a librarian discussing the Dewey Decimal System.

It is her personal life, those bits of her life revealed once camera lights are turned off, I find fascinating. First, there is the nebbish husband, whose job is far enough away to warrant he stays away Monday through Friday, so that she has endless shows devoted to meals for his return. Hmmm. Then there is the fact she is childless. Again, very interesting. Yes, the reasons why she may not have had children may be something that saddens them both. But it does give me endless speculation about, not only the why, but how come. However, the thing about her life that trumps all these others is the fact she seems to only have gay male friends. Every party for which she is preparing, including a Bridge party, ends with her surrounded by three or four gay men, all of them raising their glasses in a toast. Most straight women have a handful of gay male friends, particularly those women with personalities that border on the drag queen mode--I am one of them. Does this mean, off camera, she's a hard-swigging, foul mouthed, hilarious woman, who keep all of those gay men in stitches? It is a fascinating thought.

It is now the time of year when each chef devotes a show to the holiday meal. Again, all great stuff. I don't know why I find watching these shows endlessly entertaining. I just do. If I need a quiet moment in the day, a time to retreat, I turn on the Food Network to, hoping to catch any one of these new celebrities turning the preparation of food into entertainment. No one, other than the Two Fat Ladies, was, or is as entertaining as the originator--Julia Child. But that's a rather high bar for one to surpass.

We are Japanese

I don't know how or why this has happened. It seems our country is now Japan. Let me explain for those who are confused by such a ridiculous question. We, my husband, son and I are on the private school interview circuit. Despite the number of private schools when compared to the 8 million population in this city, well, the hustle to get into one of the top schools is as competive as anything I've seen. And this is what I mean about our country is now Japan, a country known for excessive parental pushing of their little tots to get them into the 'right' school. The school can, even at the tender age of five, determine whether the young one will determine his or her socio-economic standing for their entire life in the country of Japan.

For our meritocratic nation, the notion of a school determining one's entire destiny is laughable, but is it so laughable after all? A bachelor's degree, now much more ubiquitous than 20 years ago, takes on significance if attained from a small number of prestigious universities. Therefore, the need to insure your child will get their BA from, not a state university, but one of the elite schools that is known in far flung places as Sudan.

Each time we enter one of these private schools, I am struck by the parents attending to their little one. It is as if we had all be cut from the same cookie cutter--father in suit, mother dressed appropriately, and both attentive over their little one, nudging enough to make sure their child is not relegated to a second tier elementary school, a fate that could determine the outcome of their child's entire academic future. It is all too pressure filled to be believed. And yet, here we are, schlepping our little guy, coaxing him to go off with another Admissions person as we sit and are grilled by another school admissions director.

This vying for the so few spots at the top tier schools is intense, much more than anything we experienced in LA, where the vying felt less about the importance of the education your child would receive than about the social milieu your child would be exposed. Let's face it, most parents in LA, particularly those in the Entertainment business, were more concerned their kids attended the same school as Celebrity X's kid than about the actual curriculum of the school. Here there is a bit of the social jostling, but the emphasis is really about the education your child will receive--the ultimate goal being your child's entrance into Harvard, Yale, or Brown.

Our son, despite his kvetching about these interviews in the beginning, is now an old pro. He goes off happily with the new person, coming back with pictures drawn. I wish I could say we only have a few more left. Sadly, this driven couple, otherwise known as us, had applied to a dozen schools in the city. We are now halfway through with the list. And each time we head off to another school with our son in tow, we mutter to each other about how we had taken on the absurd social practices of a country half way around the world.

Obama--The President?

Polls, those measuring sticks for people's popularity, say Obama may win Iowa. OK. I'm politically in tune, watch the news--mostly Jim Leher--read The New York Times, sometimes the Wall Street Journal, The New Yorker, The New York Magazine, and now the Economist. Despite my excessive reading, I'm still at a loss how Iowa, that little state, can determine who will win, not only the party's candidacy, but the Presidential election. It's all a mystery to me. But this recent poll of Obama having gained on Clinton, but now possibly surpassing her, raises some interesting questions about whether this country is more ready for a Black president or a woman.

If someone would have posed that question to me a few years ago, I would have said a woman without question. But that was before a Presidency that has done more damage than thought possible after the devastation of September 11th. People, those that have been polled, although who these people are remains unclear, have said they would pick Obama before Clinton in the Presidential election. And these are the undecideds. It does give us pause to reflect on the President being a black man, even if he is only half.

I'm not sure whether this is signals a country really having made strides where race is concerned or we're just a country beaten down by this administration. I tend to think the latter, but that's my cynicism.

So, we will watch as Iowa gets its moment in the spotlight. And see how this outcome may determine more about the future of this country than any other election. There is no doubt whoever takes the helm has his or her hands full of dismantling the decisions that have done more to damage this country than any another known Presidency. The plethora of problems that plague this country from the economy, foreign policy, the mounting deficit, the devaluation of our currency, domestic woes brought on by the ever widening breach between the classes, and the laughable job we've all done to dismantle our public education, is enough for any smart person to decide to sit out on this election. But since we seem to breed more candidates, even if most are not qualified to run this country, we will surely be in for some nail biting moments during this primary.

Snow Days

Snow days, when you were a child, meant days spent at home, venturing out to play looking like an overstuffed turkey. Yesterday was our first snow day as a family. My son, who had never seen snow, was happy to stay indoors, not wanting to go out and play in the white dusting. I am afraid he is very much a California child, whose neophyte endurance for the cold makes him lament this move since the weather seems to dictate your life in ways that is blithely inconsequential in Los Angeles.

The snow fell on the ground below. As it fluttered down, past our large living room window, the cotton-like flake, quiet in its descent, settled around us like insulation. The noticeable thing about snow is the quiet. It seems to mute sounds of every day life, sounds that are normally piercing. It is the quiet I missed, and the first thing I noticed. Life slows when your every day surroundings looks dressed as if for a special occasion. Cocooned indoors, you retreat to a coziness that is impossible in our normal-paced world. This white makes the world take stock, giving each of us a reflective moment. It is also the kind of day where a large pot of something simmering on the stove makes the isolation feel less so.

We spent the day decorating our little tree of home made ornaments, each of us missing aspects of our previous life. My heart ached just a bit for my son's Tia, who had been my cohort during the days when our house was adorned for this festive season. Soon enough, our tree was decorated, ready to receive the many wrapped packages that will surely arrive in the days to come. My son, who has miraculously adjusted to life here, played various games, drawing pictures, and finally happy to see a friend, who stopped by for a play date. I know he is at an age where these memories will be the touchstones of his childhood. At day's end, we were satisfied that our first snow storm had come, preparing us for the many months of quiet ahead.