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.

Sample Sales---Full Time Job

I was told by a good friend, who shares in the joys of shopping, that New York is the mecca of the Sample Sale. Most of us forget the entire American fashion industry is, for the most part, centered in this city, namely between 36th and 30th. It makes sense all these designers would sell their wares at prices just above wholesale before shipping off the leftovers to the discount designer stores where patience is a must when shopping.

Since coming to the city, I've combed the New York Magazine for upcoming sales, imaging all the beautiful items to hang in my teeny closet. Shopping, for most women, is an activity that seems to release a special endorphin of pleasure. I know so few women who claim, notice the use of the word claim, to not enjoy shopping. When they make such a claim, they might mean they don't draw pleasure in shopping for clothes, shoes, bags, but instead spend their time shopping for the many other items that are purchasable. So, to claim they didn't get the same high from an outing to Target as some of us experience at Bergdorf's is a false claim, indeed. The same act of selecting, your imagination heightened as you picture, said, item in your cabinet or on your body, and then handing over credit card, ATM card, or cash for the item is all the same. The same hormones get released whether you've just purchased the perfect Chanel bag or a bunch of household items at Target.

For me, and some of my friends, shopping is more sport than anything else. There is an element of the endurance training involved in becoming an expert shopper. I was, even in LA, a fast, expert shopper. I would trod off to sales, collecting bargains as expertly as finding the shoe of the season, which I would buy at full price. To be an expert shopper is to know when some things will go on sale and when certain items will not, thereby enabling you to make decisions prudently. Lord knows what a crisis it is when you've been eying a pair of perfect sumptuous pumps, only to find your size is gone because you'd deliberated just a tad too long. That, of course, would mean hours spent scouring websites, of which there are so many now, rooting out these perfect shoes.

I thought sales, like Neiman's First Call and Ron Herman's, were top notch. But since being in New York, I've now realized what I'd been missing out on. Sample Sales are a whole subcategory of sales and shopping. I've now attended four such sales, each one more surprising in what was available at discount prices. The perception that such sales are attended only by those who can't afford these designer goods at full prices is what is most delightful about all of this. Each time I arrive at a sale, finding the line of women snaking its way around a city block, I notice how each woman is someone who can afford to go to Barney's or Bergdorf's and hand over their Platinum card for whatever their heart desires. Each woman is perfectly coiffed--a whole blog could be devoted to the art of dressing in this city--from head to toe, a beautiful hand bag slung over their shoulder, their cell phone pressed to their ear as they give their girlfriend a run down of what the scene looks like, all ravenous in their pursuit of a bargain.

Once you enter the sale, you see racks and racks of clothing, no different than what's available at any of the top notch department stores. It is as if you've entered Bergdorf's 5th Floor without the music, the solicitous sales help, the mannequins styled just so. It is just clothes on metal racks. After a few of these sales, I've become expert in figuring out how to maneuver it all to maximize my time.

It is as you lug your findings in the nondescript black plastic bag that the endorphin settles in your brain, shutting out all the realities of sires wailing and the crush of people on the city streets. I've now come to accept it is as much about the hopefulness of each purchase that brings me such pleasure. Each new item is a signal to events attended, dinner dates out with your husband, lunches with girlfriends, an outing the excuse to play dress up, hoping to transform your every day blahness to something memorable. Sometimes for me, making that extra effort makes me reconnect to the woman I was before I became a mother when my life was full of so much expectation. Whatever the reasons, like most of my female peers, the art of getting dressed is something that becomes another aspect of the expression of self. A scarf tied just so can make another woman eye your efforts appreciatively. That is the way of the world of women, something my husband finds baffling. So, onward and upward as more designers put out notices for their sample sales, and I fit in an hour or two out of my work day to stand in line along with all the others, each of us searching for that intangible thing that will transform us into swans. Or simply a great deal on a cashmere sweater or designer handbag.

What is originality?

I've been listening to Alicia Keyes new album. I've always heard the influence of Prince in her music, someone she does credit as inspiration. On that one song, "If I Ain't Got You," it sounded like she was channeling Prince in every cadence of that song. It sounds more like a Prince than Prince's new music. This is not to acknowledge what a formidable talent she is, when compared to her contemporaries, namely, Brittany Spears.

This new album has one song "No One", which sounds like an amalgamation of Annie Lennox and Prince. It was while listening to this song that the question of originality came to my mind. Any artist will read, listen to, paint like, an artist that came before them. This former artist provides inspiration and also guidance in shaping the new artist. Lord knows, in the world of literature and writing, most of the writers today will talk about Raymond Carver's influence on their work. Which really means we're crediting Ernest Hemingway since Hemingway came before Carver, and undoubtedly, influenced Carver's work. We've now learned Gordon Lish, the famed editor, is really the one who shaped Carver's spare style. Again, we can argue Lish was influenced by Hemingway.

This passing on of traditions creates a strange simulacrum of each art form, thereby forcing artists to find their originality in form, not necessarily content. This certainly happened in literature with the advent of Meta Fiction, the form most associated with the Post-Modern era, although some of us will argue we're still in the Modern era. In music, the idea of changing form happens rarely. Rap is, perhaps, the newest form that has now become entrenched in our culture, spawning its own simulacrum in gansta rap and an artist like Kid Rock.

For a writer, we understand no new stories are truly available, in the true Aristotelian model. The only thing we offer is voice and perspective. The same could be argued about songs. How many different ways could we write a song about the loss of love? Or sadness? Or death? How many metaphors are available for us to convey these very human experiences of any life? How many melodies are there that hasn't been heard? Some musicologists would argue that all of music dates to a few great composers, each of these melodies we hear as original just a new version of something that had been created before. But yet, each song, those that merit more than one listen, has something that offers a different shading to these common experiences. Each writer's voice is unique to that writer, their own experiences, insights, creating a new rainbow on to these shared human experiences we are all subject to experience at some point or another. And perhaps that is what drives each of us, those narcissistic enough to think ourselves worthy of telling stories or writing songs that others might find as comforting.

So, I listened to Alicia Keyes new album over and over, as I'm prone to do when something strikes me. Lord knows, my poor neighbors probably hate Alison Krauss by this point. And I took comfort in the familiarity of the melody of her songs, knowing she was drawing from artists worth drawing from.

Keebler Cookie Elf

It was usually at this time of the year when I would start buying quantities of butter only fit for the "Two Fat Ladies." See, the Keebler Cookie Factory of Ambrose Avenue would be churning to get ready for the bonanza, otherwise known as the holiday cookie frenzy. I don't know when I started this tradition that had devolved into sheer spectacle. As I bought pounds of butter and quantities of sugar reserved for most restaurateurs, the swell of the holiday spirit would propel me from one humongous warehouse store to another. This spirit of giving would last as I set up my kitchen for endless hours of butter being whipped in my stand mixer. I would, of course, have purchased an endless array of tins, scoured in, yet another, discount store that requires much patience. All this preparation usually took over a week, the break or the 'quiet before the storm,' as the cliche goes.

Once the imminent day arrived, I would wait until my kitchen cleared of kid and husband, getting dressed in sweats and t-shirt. The Ipod, the ever trusty companion, would be cranked on 10, the oven on to 350 degrees, butter on the counter for it to be room temperature, and all other accouterments on the ready. I usually started the day by baking an easier cookie like chocolate chip. But since this is me, I would bake five dozen chocolate chip cookies, so that by the time I was finished with this particular kind of cookie, I had enough storage boxes stacked full of cookies to start resembling a Mrs. Field's outpost. I would then move through my repertoire, honed over many years of this madness, baking for a full 8 hours.

The first day was always cheery--this living of some domestic fantasy I must have harbored underneath all that feminist outrage. My son would arrive home happy the house was full of aromas that would always be the stamp of the holiday season. He would be only too happy to sample a cookie or two before eating the takeout Chinese dinner I ordered since cooking a meal in my factory was out of the question. My churlishness and outright antagonism didn't start until about day three of this lunacy. It was usually the last day of baking, or let me say, the last night as I scrambled to finish the last batch of nut balls that my rage about having started this ridiculous tradition started to spill out into my French country kitchen. My husband, thankfully with a sense of humor, would note that the angry elf was now in residence, having replaced the earlier happy elf.

Once the factory was officially closed, every stick of butter used in one recipe or another, I would count the large plastic containers laden with cookies--a number that is too embarrassing to write down for public consumption. All of this hard work, truly inexplicable, would result in the fun part of packaging cookies into the tins for distribution to neighbors and friends, some of whom counted on the arrival of these tins as surely as watching the rerun of "Frosty the Snowman" on ABC.

As I organized our move, I packed enough baking utensils to do a mini-version of the cookie baking bonanza. It is inconceivable for my son that I wouldn't bake for the holidays. I don't know if subconsciously I've done some number insuring he, my son, would forever be looking for some nouveau, postmodern, Martha Stewart in a future spouse. If so, I offer my mea culpa ahead to all the possible candidates--this from the French, Deconstructionist, Marxist, Feminist, and cookie elf.

Recession? Schmession!

Every financial forecast seems to be more dire than the last. The housing sector is in a free fall, the credit debacle is starting to take on the disastrous proportions of the Titanic sinking, the dollar is now worth less than the Canadian dollar, the market, as in stock, saw a descent in the last few days that echoed the historic crash where men jumped from buildings in this very city, oil--the all so precious commodity--is now at an all time high, consumer spending is down, unemployment on the rise, and it seems the entire entertainment industry is at a standstill with the Writers' strike taking place on both coasts. With such cheery news on every evening broadcast, well, it sure makes me want to go out and spend some money to boost the sagging economy.

The gloom and doom of each financial report is cause for concern. Yet, the effects of this downturn (the euphemism used by the Fed) will surely be noticed slowly. It will not be as dramatic as the stock market crash of the 20's where entire families were forced out on to the streets. But there is no denying that there will be some casualties.

The Economist reports Los Angeles County will, if not already, be in a recession faster than the rest of the country. Since this is the Economist reporting, it was loaded with facts, statistics, and lots of gloom. I don't know why I've gotten hooked on this magazine, but I do find it endlessly fascinating to be reading about the world as told through the purview of the Brits. And not to mention the incredibly articulate, well written editorial responses that start with the salutation of: Sir.

Most of the this news about company profits and the economy on the macro level (all those economic classes have taught me, if not much else, the language of economics) will fail to report on the human casualty. It will not focus on families having to decide between petrol for home and automobiles versus the endless Christmas lists amassed by their children. Or the senior citizens on fixed incomes having to decide between heating or medications. Speculators, who are driving up oil prices, have no ability to see how their profiteering is affecting whole swaths of the population. So, with the holiday season in full stampede, every forecast paints a picture bleaker than the last. Surely, there will be a Dickensian resolution for us all. And a Tiny Tim, who will declare, "and a Merry Christmas for all."

Fasting---Holiday overdone

This year's holiday was especially fraught with anticipation since it was our first Thanksgiving with my entire extended family in a long, long time. In actuality, it was my husband's first sojourn to my family home. What can one say about the terrible deeds family exact on each other? It is as if blood, or rather, the sharing of blood gives you license to behave in ways that would be unheard of with strangers. This family gathering was, to say the least, highly charged. And since this is my family, that meant lots of wine, probably enough wine to have cleaned out an entire winery.

The emotional toil on my husband and me was overwhelming, which meant we dealt with it by laughing at ourselves, the situation, and my family. The best part of the weekend was my son's first meeting of his half-cousins. So, after so many years, we are now part of my entire family--the dysfunctions, the rivalries, the grudges, and the guilt. It was easier to manage this part of our history when we were so far away. I could ignore I was part of this family that is a bit like the Sopranos in drama and emotionality, if the Korean version. But now that we are here, so close to it all, we are now fully enmeshed. Whether I will regret this move is still to be determined after a few more holiday gatherings where we go out of our way to be as crazy, eccentric, and emotional as a family of mental institution patients.

My son said he had a great time, and wanted to come often to his grandparent's. This declaration more than made up for the emotional baggage adults carry from their past, present, and future. If I can't provide him nothing beyond these family experiences, most of which will surely end up with him spending ample time on a couch, then I've done my job as a mother. Isn't that what life is about? The passing of the torch, so to speak, except the torch is laden, not only with flames of hope, but the pain of each family's secrets and their past?

Travel Day

After another tour of, yet, another school for next year, I'm headed to Penn Station to hop on an Amtrack train bound for Philadelphia. This year, our first, will be spent at my family's home where the rituals of families torturing one another, all in the name of love, will be begin in earnest tomorrow. I know every family in this country can outdo one another on the chart of dysfunction and family love. My family, I'm afraid, is no better or worse than the rest.

I am relieved to be heading home, or rather, heading away from our apartment for the next three days. It seems our neighbors, who share a wall the entire length of the apartment with us, has somehow managed to stuff four more people into their apartment. Aside from the sheer feat of such a thing, there is the mind numbing noises of kids (theirs) screaming and banging about that is making me long for the suffocating attention and adoration of my parents.

I know each part of the travel will be full of stress as everyone else along the eastern corridor heads to a train station or airport. I'm so grateful to not have to get on an airplane to get somewhere. This was the time of year when we would head to LAX for the five hour flight to DC. This year's shindig at my parents is sure to be filled with Feliniesque moments for my husband. But that is the joy of living so close to your family.

Radio City Music Hall

We took our son to participate in the New York tradition of seeing the Rockettes' holiday extravaganza. My husband, who had never seen the show, bought tickets as much for our son as for me. My own parents used to take me to see the shows at Radio City Music Hall when I was a child as part of our monthly sojourn to the city from suburban Philadelphia. I have no real memories of the shows themselves, but just the sense of wonder, magic, and awe these trips inspired in me as a young child. So, we shuttled into a cab to take us the short distance to Radio City. The streets are already brimming with tourists and people, flocking to the city for shopping and all these traditions that make New York the real capital of our country.

Our son's cries of awe upon seeing the Christmas tree dangling from the ceiling, bedecked in crystals, was validation enough for us to endure crowds of people from New Jersey, Connecticut, and other far flung places. People posed their kids, dressed in holiday attire, in front of the wooden nutcrackers, hoping for that holiday photo to send as their holiday cards to family and friends. Since this is America, there were kiosks on every level selling Rockette dolls and t-shirts. And a bar for the adults where an eggnog martini arrived with a stirrer that lit up in the dark. On one hand the whole experience was kitsch in its truest form. And were it not for our son, I would have found it all a bit too much.

But they say one must have a child to re-experience life again. And how true that is. Christmas after the age of 16 feels less magical and more a time for families to torture one another, so that each holiday season's arrival is met with a certain dread by all. That is until you have a child. The cynicism and dread are replaced by the more pure emotions of hope, expectation, and magic--all that the holidays are supposed to be if we weren't so tired, cranky, and full of disappointment. Our son found the show magical, even with the incessant questions he asked during the entire hour long production. For me, when Santa made us put on the 3-d glasses to go on his sleigh through New York, my ears welled up. Again, it's hard to believe we are here, not as visitors but as residents.

Both my husband and I have such moments of incredulity as we go about our life here now. We went to see a movie at the Angelika theater in Soho, stopping for a cup of tea before our dinner date with friends. As we sat by the window, nursing the hot drink, each of us admitted how surreal this is, still.

So, we sat and watched this show that is as much propaganda about this holiday as it is about New York city. I held my disbelief and critical theorist hat in check, soaking up our son's bewilderment and awe of this spectacle. After the final 'Joy to the World' we rushed from the theater, trying to dodge the crush of people. We stopped to get a hot pretzel on the street before hailing a cab ride home.

Holidays are upon us

The holiday season has begun, or so the Today Show reports, since this day is apparently the start of the travel weekend. The city hasn't dressed itself up for its role as the most romantic place to be during the holidays. Rockefeller's humongous tree will be lit next weekend with festivities taking place before the big moment when someone, some celebrity, will switch on the thousands of lights. Lord and Taylor's windows are already a glow, readying itself for a bleak shopping season by all the analyst reports. The retailers are hoping all the Europeans will come to New York for a shopping extravaganza, if only JFK weren't the world's worst airport and delays surely to be one of the worst of the year.

For our family we started a tradition, of sorts, a few years ago with our son. Instead of making our young child put pen to paper, creating a shopping list for Santa, we encouraged him, or he took it upon himself, to take the endless flurry of catalogs from toy companies and circle items that took his fancy. When he was three, the circles were challenging enough since his fine motor skills were in the nascent stage. But today, well, this has become a whole new endeavor for him.

They say kids adopt the behavior of their parents, whether consciously or unconsciously. For those families where parents read very little, if at all, it is pretty much guaranteed your children will not become big readers, no matter how much you encourage and threaten. Or worse, send them to the Sylvan Learning Center. And in truth, there is a bit of hypocrisy in parents imploring their little ones to read--because we know all the benefits of reading for educational, as well as soul enriching purposes--when they don't read a lick, other than the directions on some box.

If this is true, our children picking up our habits, then our little one is doing a bang up job of mimicking life in our household. He, like his parents, has a stack of books on his bedside table, along with his cup of water. The catalogs, collected during the pre-shopping season, is stacked along with a pen. It struck me, as I straightened his room, how similar his bedside table looked like ours.

Since he still believes in Santa Claus, and despite our cynicism, we haven't done anything to dispel his belief (I guess if we did, that would border on child abuse), it has been my job to snoop in his catalogs to see what it is he's circled as items his little heart covets. This anthropological study, of sorts, has been illuminating and hysterical. Since we hadn't set any parameters about what is acceptable, he has felt free to circle to his little heart's content. In each of the eight or so catalogs, he had circled some type of pirate ship. I suppose a pirate ship of one brand or another is bound to end up under the tree. There are the walkie talkie sets, which I know will be fun for one round of play, will end up broken and collectiong dust in the bottom of his endless toy bins. He circled the Harry Potter Legos thing, which is gargantuan and sure to bring about copious drinking for us after helping him put it together. Needless to say, that will not end up under the tree.

Despite my initial thought that the entire magazine would be circled, our son has been discriminating in his wants and desires. This is encouraging, if not a bit unsettling since he is a mere five years old. Somehow, despite his youth, he understood Santa, that most benevolent of characters, would know when a child was being gluttonous. Each day, taking a break from my work, I enter his room to gather the stack to see what more he circled before sleep overtook him. Each new item will mean another day for me, browsing the shelves at the Container Store, trying to figure out how to organize his stuff. His belief in the myth of Santa may only last this year--the day when he'll demand to know the veracity of what his friend had told him about Santa being made up. And with that demand will be the start of the slow unraveling of his childhood innocence.

In no time, I will be snooping in his room for other purposes, more serious, I'm sure. So, I enjoy this new break in my day when I can get inside my child's head, getting a peak into this little person. Some of what he circles sometimes gives me a glimpse, a very quick one, of the man he may become. Aside from chuckling at his grandiose plans to turn his room into a battleship, I also struggle with a sadness of how fleeting this time is for us all. It is usually to keep this sadness from settling into my chest that I sit down at my computer, not to work, but to shop online, ordering items that will, hopefully, bring about shouts of "that's so cool," from one little person--much beloved by his tired parents.

Green in the City

I never saw "Inconvenient Truth," because I knew it would be too distressing for me. This avoidance of the movie doesn't mean I'm not a believer in the dangers of what global warming will mean to our world and for our children. When I lived in LA, the idea of recycling was one I didn't take too seriously. This seems odd since Angelenos are so 'hip' about anything green. Or so they say.

The city's recycling program was a joke, really. Most of my friends, even those who are more left than not, were not committed to recycling. How could they recycle bottles and plastic when their cars guzzled enough gas on an annual basis to fuel a small jet? This strange hyper talk about the importance of the environment was just that: talk. There was little evidence among Angelenos they were really going 'green.' I will say I don't blame the people as much as the lack of incentives offered by the state government. Solar panels, in a city sun-drenched 11 months out of the year, would seem like a no-brainer. But ask me how many people I knew who put solar panels up? Right, somehow those panels didn't take precedence over the satellite dishes on the roof of every house in my neighborhood. Then there is the dependence of everyone on the bottled water. No one ever used filtered water, instead opting for water out of bottles, plastic bottles at that.

I don't know why, but since I've come to New York I've been obsessed with recycling. Our apartment complex has recycling bins in the basement that allows for the sorting of paper, bottle, plastic, and refuse quite as easy as dumping everything into one bag and throwing it down the trash chute. Initially it started with the recycling of the newspaper and empty bottles after a night of drinking. Then I realized how much stuff comes in plastic containers, all of it recyclable. I'm now at the stage where I'm collecting items as I cook to take down to sort into their proper bins. Somehow my obsession has not stopped at the sorting of trash. No, it's now on to light bulbs, replacing all our bulbs with the long lasting kind. I've now forbidden my husband to stop running the dish washer unless absolutely full. If only I could get my hands on a compost bin for the city...

Perhaps it's living in a city where trash, or the sight of trash on sidewalks, makes this awareness an inevitability. Or perhaps it's the extreme weather occurring with greater frequency all over the world that's given me pause. But it seems this new focus on being green is, knowing my obsessive tendency, bound to get worse rather than better as time goes on. I know I'm going to get a compost bin in Martha's Vineyard. It seems the state of Massachusetts offers incentives by selling these bins cheaply to residents willing to compost their garbage. Of course this means I will have to have a vegetable garden since I will be making compost. No worries about me moving up to Vermont to really live among my people. I like urban life much too much to go to such an extreme.

But I do think about how a little effort could make a difference in whether or not we will have such things like wines out of California instead of Vancouver--notice my concerns about the wine making business. I know oil, our dependence on it, is something far worse than whether or not I recycle the plastic container the Chinese delivery came in. But then, isn't it all the same concern? If I disregarded how every little act or negligence adds to an increasing problem, aren't I no better than that Suburban-driving-mom with one child in some suburban town? And despite the conservatives claim that global warming is some hyped up call from the left, isn't it our moral duty to do what we can to preserve our planet? Don't I sound like all those annoying people who drive hybrid cars and are so sanctimonious about being green?

Only in LA

For those long time residents, most are familiar with the sight of a man dressed in black tights, usually shirtless, dancing to a boom box in front of an antique shop on Robertson Boulevard just south of Third, across the street from Michel Richard. Sometimes he uses skates, although the outfit never varies. His body, from the excessive dancing, is sinewy and tanned. His strange dancing didn't seem to cause much concern for the shop owner or anyone else on the street. Most of us assumed he was homeless, for whatever reason. The urban myth, something all of us promoted, was that he was a wealthy man, who happened to be crazy and loved to dance. I, as most can imagine, have been fascinated with him all the years I lived there. When driving down Robertson, I would always look for him, a human signpost to a life that doesn't change much despite its big city pretensions.

When I was in LA for the wedding, this man came up in topic about those strange sightings in LA so synonymous with the city's eccentricities. He was like Angeline, the aged starlet whose billboards belied her actual physical age, and Dennis Woodruff, the wannabe actor whose cars were as much billboards about the hopelessness of Hollywood dreams as anything Nathanel West could have written. All of us speculated that he was a trust fund heir, whose eccentricities were the topic of much family distress. There was nothing sympathetic in our tone about this man's obvious mental condition.

The Wall Street Journal reported on the exploitation of this man, whose name is John Wesley Jermyn. It seems a couple of Beverly Hills kids--we can assume they grew up there--decided to capitalize on this man's obvious mental illness by befriending him, getting him to agree to use his likeness on clothes sold, aptly, at Kitson, a boutique up the street from where Mr. Jermyn dances. The t-shirts with his likeness say, "The Crazy Robertson" with the back touting "No Money, No Problems." This store, a staple for the young starlets copiously followed in the tabloids sells anything that is 'of the moment' and uber-trendy with a particular focus on HOLLYWOOD and LA. Mr. Jermyn, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a surviving sister, who, obviously, is distressed about the exploitation of his brother's mental illness. It seems all of our assumptions were wrong, or rather not as romantic. He grew up in Hancock Park, attended good schools, was a good athlete, and even a year of college before mental illness took hold. He refuses medication to help his schizophrenia, choosing to dance his days away, protected by his sister and others who have kept him shielded from the dangers of living on the streets.

What was so distressing about this story was the lack of remorse of those who are benefiting from this man's condition. The young people defended their decision by insisting Mr. Jermyn is cognizant enough to have a say in what is used or how it is sold. Hmmmm....A man who chooses to sleep on the streets and whose only focus all day is to dance is well enough to sell his likeness. The article pointed out how Mr. Jermyn was happy to get some 'fame'...

For me, this story encapsulates all that is wrong with that city--small town. There is a grotesque quality to these characters that are a part of this city's landscape as much as that Hollywood sign. If Flannery O'Connor lived in LA, she wouldn't have to make up a great deal to write many stories of woe that litter the boulevards where tourists flock to take pictures of their favorite entertainer's hand prints. This constant pressure for notoriety, even if negative, is the moral code above all else. This excessive narcissism of everyone makes for a strange land. And each year, as the sun gets hotter, the air drier, the air more polluted, the roads more congested, the more extreme the behavior of all those strange people. It is as if the social, moral compass were on the brink, turning and turning without ever stopping for itself and for the citizenry to take a moment to reflect.

The upside of this story was that the t-shirts sold out in no time with more orders placed. The creators, a term I use loosely, have stressed how little profit they have seen, thus neither has Mr. Jermyn. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Jermyn has seen so little of the 5% net. For those who bought the t-shirts, pleased they were part of the zeitgeist, even if completely regional to the westside of LA, will wear them until another new 'it shirt' replaces this one. This shirt like the ones voted for Jennifer Aniston over Angelina Jolie will end up in the bottom of some drawer, forgotten until a garage sale at some later date. This shirt will eventually end up the back of some recent immigrant, whose dreams of a better life, fuels them to take jobs that most of Americans would never want. He, or she, will never know the cultural significance of the image of this man dancing on roller skates. They will think it a peculiarity of the American life they are so desperately trying to adopt.

Friends from LA

Someone said if you live in New York people will always come see you. How true that is. It seems, not an exaggeration, we've had friends arriving for visits (not staying with us) to the city every week since moving here. I've found my calendar full of lunches, dinners with friends that I knew from LA. December, a magical time here, seems to be a busy month for us as more people arrive to the city.

This continued connection with our former life is nice in a sentimental way. It's allowed us to feel less cut off from a life that had been our entire existence until just a short time ago. It is as if both doors, the one of our current life, and the one of our past, are both open, revealing to us our future and past simultaneously. What's been amazing is how these old relationships are being re-imagined with this physical distance. Longtime friendships, those that extend beyond ten years, feel more anew, a different intimacy getting established. It's as if this physical distance has each of us reevaluating the importance of the bond, thereby making the relationship a priority. The usual empty promises of, 'let's get together,' are now becoming a thing of the past as each realizes such casual assurances about a future bond is not so assured anymore. Why hadn't we made such concerted efforts when we the distance separating us was a mere few miles and not the thousands?

I see how this new focus to old relationships will chart a course much different than if we had stayed nearby. These relationships that may not have survived the affection and annoyances of daily contact will now remain intact, insuring a longevity that neither of us may have imagined. My old friendships are just another layer to the many layers that make a life feel whole. New friends, those becoming more familiar every day, are now the calls that come more often. Those calls from out west are the happy surprises on those days when you need such a call to lift you up.

As another friend arrives this week, and we head to a dinner to see them this weekend, I marvel at our luck in having friends that would make a trip to this magnificent city, and call us out for dinner.

Weekend in Brandywine Country

A group of writers I met at Juniper have been getting together annually for the last three years. The last two years we have been meeting at a charming Bed and Breakfast in the Brandywine country outside Philadelphia, a pastoral property owned by Grace Kelly's nephew. This annual get together with writers, but more importantly women writers, has become an event I look forward to with greater anticipation. This year's meeting was no less enjoyable, all of us settling into the ebb and flow of conversation, meals and drinking wine in front of a fire place.

This year, unlike last year's red eye flight, I traveled on Amtrack from Penn Station, the entire trip taking just over an hour. It was remarkable to see how dramatically my life had changed within this one year since last year was spent, aside from discussing the writing, with my ceaseless complaints about living in LA, yet again. And how I felt exiled, marooned in this place that was so foreign to me.

On the train ride down, I noticed the splendor of leaves that had turned color without the notice of any of us. The vista of reds, orange, and yellow was a startling splash of color amid the gray of the day as the train chugged its way down the short corridor from New York City to Philadelphia.

This year I was able to catch the train at 30th Street station, a place I know as well as any after so many years traversing the Northeast corridor by train, for Penn Station. Before I could get truly comfortable, the train was pulling into the city. A quick cab ride later, I was putting my key into our front door where my son and husband were waiting. Again, I couldn't help but be taken back by the dramatic difference of our lives within a few short months.

Heartbreak

As a parent, you think your job is to love (not really a job but a condition), nurture, encourage, protect, and to take care of your child(ren). Most of us take on the multitude of duties this role requires, the new fragility of your life and your child's making your earlier invincibility a distant echo. The world becomes fraught with potential danger for your young one, your spouse, and for you. No one told me becoming a parent would make me so afraid of so much in the world. But the other secret, the one no one ever divulged, is the heartbreak of a parent when your child faces the childish rejection that comes so frequently in the world of elementary school.

All of us have many heartbreaks, wounds healed or simply scabbed over with time. Most of us can recall the first time a peer, or friend, made you cry, your heart breaking as this person you thought liked you now decided you were no longer likable. It starts as early as memory itself, the heartbreaks of childhood.

Your personal aches are unbearable, becoming bearable only with time and distance. Each of those tear-filled afternoons, holed up in your room, wishing you lived somewhere far from whatever town, city, or neighborhood are easily recalled. They become the thread of your personal quilt of memories.

But to see your child's heartache, a certainty for any child, is something no one can prepare you for. It is doubly more painful than your own woeful rejections. Today was a day I realized how emotionally fragile I was to the many heartbreaks my child will surely face. It was no longer an abstraction, something I had steeled myself for, but was happening in front of my eyes. The look of pain and sadness I saw flit across my little boy's face was enough to make me want to snatch him from his classroom, keeping him home, protected from such things in the future. Each of these moments will aid in his ebullience and sense of wonder become just a bit more fragile, so that one day that sheer delight in being five will be replaced by all the reserve of having to protect yourself from others.

Walking home after witnessing, unbeknown to my son, his rejection from his 'best friend,' I thought how unprepared I was for all of the messiness of life. I projected to a future where his aches and disappointments will be wounds that linger, leaving traces of its existence beneath the skin and bones the world only sees. And how I have to love him enough to let him experience each of these moments, never standing in the way of them, no matter how difficult that is for me. These thoughts stayed with me all day, bringing on moments of panic. I waited to see him at the end of the school day, trying to see what damage that rejection would have. When he rushed into my arms, still exuberant, I knew that moment was simply that--a moment. And tomorrow would surely bring others.

Radiohead

Radiohead experimented by offering their music online, allowing the public to set the price for how much the music should be worth. It was an intriguing offer, upsetting a long established method where the music labels sold the goods--this case being the music created by artists as varied as Annie Lennox and Bjork. When the news first broke about Radiohead's offer, there was a sense of gloom and doom in the world of music labels, a business model that has to clearly be reinvented in this era of downloads.

For me, I was certain the public would rise to the test set forth by Radiohead, where the music label, the middle man in any transaction, would become obsolete as more and more musicians offered their goods directly to the public. It was a tremendous moment for change in a long held practice where the middle person made a ton of money off of something they had no hand in producing, and the producer got pennies on the dollar for every record or CD sold. And as an artist, the whole intellectual property question in an era where anything is accessible from a computer was compelling since our laws don't seem to keep up with the rapid changes technology creates.

And on a personal human level, I thought the generosity of the human spirit would show the music labels that people are capable of doing the right thing by paying fair prices, perhaps not the $15.00 currently the price for a new CD, but something that would not cheat the musicians. Well, how wrong I was, or rather, how naive I was to assume that people would do the right thing. It seems most of those downloading the albums did it without offering any money, whatsoever. And the average price offered by those, who did pay, was in the $6.00 range. The price may still be fair if the artists are getting the money directly. Considering how little it must cost to mass produce the actual CD's, I would say this price is fair.

The real shame in this experiment's failure is that other artists may never join in by doing the same. And most are pissed, rightfully so, because so much of their music has been downloaded for free. Being the Miss Goody Two Shoes that I am, or the guilt-ridden Catholic, I could never get into the whole free download phenomenon. As the old saying goes, "There's no free lunch," and so I always assumed someone would pay, either the consumer or the creator. Since I'm a creator it shouldn't be surprising I'm more sympathetic to the artists.

So, this moment has passed, and in a way, we, collectively have failed miserably. It would have been interesting to see if they could have done some sort of demographic poll of who paid versus who didn't. If there is a distinction in generation. It's safe to assume no other artists will do the same, even if Prince recently offered up free copies of his CD in London. But until the laws get wiser, or the industry creates a new model, this tension between artist and consumer will exist. And as artists see few real dollars in CD sales, but only in the touring end, well, there may be a time when they will only release albums at concert venues. That would be, for this musicphile, a real shame since concert tickets cost as much as a mortgage, in some cases. If that becomes the new method to procure new music, I may have to join all the other on line thieves and start downloading for free.

Vacation Days

I've been joking of late about our dire need to get our son into a very conservative religious school, the kind that is not inclusive. Why you may wonder for such a reactionary statement? In our time of uber political correctness, public schools, and even religious schools that are inclusive, celebrate every holiday--with the exception of Kwanzaa and Hindu celebrations--which offers schools an excuse to close its doors. Closed schools only mean one thing for parents--hellish days of trying to keep the little ones occupied. And since we know the two most dreaded words in my lexicon is play date, that means a day off will surely bring a play date or two to keep our little one engaged. And since I don't have the luxury of working outside the home in the traditional sense, I am the one left to fend for our child's limited attention span.

Yesterday was election day, which meant the schools closed their doors. Our son had to take the ERB test for admittance into a New York City private school, so the morning was filled with that appointment. As a way to entice him to take this test, which he didn't know was a test, I promised him a visit to Toys R Us on Broadway. Right, you can imagine.

One thing about our son is his ability to accept the cruelty of his parents. Since he was very young, I've enforced the promise rule, which means he is allowed one thing, and one thing only, on visits to Target, bookstores, and toy stores. The one remarkable thing about our son is his ability to understand that the one item rule is really a rule. Therefore the process of picking the item is one long torturous event since it has to be the absolutely perfect thing he has wanted forever and ever.

Patience, a virtue, and a requirement for parenthood, is something that is needed in spades on such outings. My son, determined to get the exact, perfect toy, perused every aisle of this mammoth store with the ferris wheel in its lobby. After our third go round in the Star Wars section, my patience had worn thin and I was threatening the two minute rule, which translates into 'you have two minutes or else you don't get anything.' In all fairness, he did have items he wanted, but they were either too large for the apartment or they bordered on the violent play things that boys gravitate toward like moths to a flame, but is not allowed in this house. Yes, you can see how we torture him with such rules. So, this careful selection process was guided firmly by me telling him what was not acceptable or too big, hence, one can argue the prolonged, agonizing process.

After some final threats from me, he finally picked a Pokemon thing. It is usually when he's clutching his one item with not a peep about something else that my heart breaks for our rule-following kid. And that is when I break my own rule and throw in something else, something small to make this day even more special for him. Yes, he's spoiled. But when you see a five year old in a place that is nirvana for any child, satisfied with his one choice, well, such restraint makes a parent proud. He's not whining about something else, showing signs of a gluttony that could foretell a future filled with the need to satisfy an ever growing need for things.

Having paid for his items, we stepped out on to Broadway to make our way to 32nd for a Korean lunch. He prattled on about his new items, begging, of course, I open them on the bus or the subway. I know this innocence, the ability to make him so happy with a $12.00 plastic toy, will too quickly come to an end. And that whatever our hopes and wishes for him will mean nothing as he grows into the man he will become. The sense of how fleeting this time is for him and for me hits me in those moments when his hand is clutched in mine, his ever flowing chatter rising above the honks of car horns and ambulances shrieking. Too soon, he will be too old and independent to want to hold my hand, his chatter now staccato one word responses to my desperate attempts to connect with him. So, no matter what a nuisance it is that schools seem to close their doors every other week. In truth, I will, no doubt, look back to this time with more than wistfulness as our house stills and he goes out to seek a life wholly his own.