A blizzard in New York is polarizing. Living in Manhattan is a breeze, even with the high wind. You don't have to shovel anything. You can walk anywhere and get what you need, unless it's a salad from Whole Foods (more on that later.) But if you live way out in Brooklyn or Queens, it can ruin your day, or even a couple of days. People whose only access is an elevated subway train can't make it work, and most of those people aren't paid when they can't show up. Many people who work in offices that aren't newsrooms can work from home, changing the dynamic of everyday life in your neighborhood. Different people are at the gym or out to lunch. It can be a luxury, almost like a snow day when you were a kid, for those who get to work from home. Generally, it's a lighter workload and those working from home can sneak out to the gym or linger over sashimi instead of slurping down some bodega soup at their desk wishing they were in Spin class. While newspepople need to get to work regardless of where they live, there's little argument that financial services execs should have to trek to the office. Are investors really eager to rebalance their portfolios in the wake of thundersnow? I think not. Yet some bosses, or at least Mike's, decided it was essential for them to staff the office. Funny how Mike was one of three people in the otherwise empty building yesterday. One left at 1 p.m. after muddling his way into Midtown from that faraway planet we call Jersey where he could have been cuddling with his wife and kids.
Back to Whole Foods. My father-in-law, who is visiting for Michael Alexander's first Christmas, went out to get salads from my mother-in-law and me. He returned empty handed as none of the regular salad selections were stocked. I made a second run with him to see what we might forage. In place of usual mezzes and cobbs was a stockpile of greens topped, or toppled, with quinoa and rice. Clearly the salad maven couldn't make it in from the outer Bronx so the guy who restocks housewares and cleaning supplies was summoned into the land of Caesars and Nicoises. The butcher and the fishmonger couldn't make it in either, so the protein of choice (or no choice) was quinoa. I managed to muster my taste for something called a harvest salad comprised mostly of red grapes. I do like grapes, but rarely as the star ingredient in a savory salad. Still, they were more appetizing than a giant lump of unseasoned quinoa. Quinoa is a good source of magnesium and phosphorus, and an excellent source of manganese. It's a complete protein, meaning it is one of the few grains that contain all the essential amino acids. But, still, they could throw in some veggies to brighten up the greens. Veggies, not grains, need to be the bigger player in the plastic tub. I digress. The real problem here is that the salad maven, the fish monger, the butcher, the baker and the candlestick stocker who couldn't make it to Union Square yesterday lost a day of pay. Meantime, Whole Foods saved on wages and reaped sales from these substitute salads as snowmageddon shoppers crammed their carts for fear the staaaahrm will never cease and even the Chinese takeout places that fueled the shattered city on 9/11 would shudder.
I can kind of, sort of, understand the fear of a Depression era born rural Vermonter who must travel 10 miles to Johnsons' General Store and about 150 miles to the nearest supermarket. I get why he might fire up his pickup truck and scour the megamart shelves after the forecast hits. But really Manhattanites? Really Union Squarers and East and West Villagers? You really, truly fear you will starve if you don't pile your puny apartment with perishables you'll purge after the slush subsides? It never ceases to amaze me how people will act, or react, to a storm that means nothing more than donning an extra layer and risking destruction of your favorite shoes. That's the woe of Manhattanites in winter. You don't even need to leave your walkup. A myriad deliverymen will climb seven flights to bring you steaming sacks of specialties from the Seven (or close to all of the more than 100 identified by the International Hydrographic Organization) Seas. What should concern you is how polarizing such an event is for NYC. While many, if not most, Manhattanites steal a day or two to complain about the whiteout and embrace any excuse to be lazy and order in, outer borough dwellers are largely losing a big chunk of their piddly weekly hand-to-mouth wages. It's so easy to lose perspective and forget about other peoples', most peoples', struggles when we're luxuriating in the city that will serve us whatever we can pay for, whenever we want it. Snow or no snow, the deliveryman will show.
I'm guilty of this, too. I just let my conscience come out occasionally so I can rant.
Being a Manhattanite is completely different from life in New England where I was born and grew up. In my early years as a newspaper reporter and AP newswoman, I was buried in storm coverage. I'd work around the clock to cover every fatal crash, rushing to the scene on the same dangerous streets that claimed those lives minutes ago, and keep constant tabs on every outage. I could drive through what TV "reporters" called "impossible" conditions. I do not miss having to play rugged, wake at 2 a.m. to dig out my car and clear the first few feet from my driveway and the street below. I don't miss being one of the few motorists on the snowy, icy streets, and usually the only one with any confidence in her skills to get where she's going. Living in the city makes life so easy. Yet for most it just makes it easier to complain about something different. The snow that "cripples" your commute. Ha! Yeah, none of us buys it. You just might be lucky enough to have a boss who is as wussy and proud as you. Try being a newsperson. I mean a real newsperson who covers every detail of every second and gets fired for getting to work a minute late even when the apocalypse hits. Seconds count, even more so when the thundersnow strikes. You were supposed to be at the office ahead of that. So stop asking your Facebook friends if it's safe or feasible to travel those two miles to work from Brooklyn. Even trudging through snow won’t take more than an hour and you’ll see the city in all its glory, enveloped in white. My AP colleagues will attest to this. That little bit of incidental cardio (walking two miles is NOT exercise; you must go to the gym for that) will help clear your mind. It can even merit a story in its own right. My musings on my walk to work during the New York City Blackout of 2003 was fun to write, especially in the trenches during a 15-hour shift with no flush toilets or food. Be lazy if you want to be lazy, but don't forget that those who really can't make it to work aren't getting paid enough to order curry.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
My Death Waits: Low Notes on the High Feast (of Consumerism)
My death waits like
a witch at night
as surely as our love is bright
let's not think about the passing time
_
I awoke, or more accurately got out of bed, with the Bowie translation of Jacques Brel's "My Death" in my head. Festive, eh? Here's to the holidays! To call this the holiday season is a politically correct way to bundle Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and the other feast days most people in this country can't name. Hey, why consider a culture outside of your own, you know, that culture called consumerism. There are few American homes where any semblance of true tradition lingers. It's become about shopping, mostly for crap that people don't want. Gift giving for children is acceptable, as we have fewer ways to show them we love them or reward them. In my home, we got some presents on Christmas, which was differentiated from the real holy day (holiday) we observed, the Feast of the Nativity on January 7, just to fit in with the "American" kids. Russians, and other Orthodox children do not get gifts on the Nativity. Grandfather Frost comes the following Sunday, and gifts are traditionally nuts and fruits and maybe some trinkets, in return for children performing Chekhov plays and other cultural feats.
When I was a young girl going to school in an affluent suburb, I envied the richer (though most of those tokens of wealth, the fancy cars and appliances and mini mansions, were plucked from creditors when the stock market crashed) kids, who'd get whatever they asked Santa for. Santa, in their case, was often the dad cheating on mom with his 22-year-old secretary, or Valium-calm mom, stuck at home with all the fancy gear that would soon be repossessed, forcing her to move to the ghetto with the kids. I saw this first hand. It helped that I was the child of two people born into harsh poverty: my mother starving as her brothers and other family were killed in war in Russia and later in a displaced persons' camp in Germany, and my father living in a single room above a Newark saloon with his first-generation immigrant parents who couldn't afford his dying brother's medical bills on their factory wages. My backstory was a little different from the other kids. At the time, that was my harsh reality. Now I realize it's what keeps me from sinking into the cesspool that is American consumerism. I can't imagine anything more loathsome than navigating an evil big box behemoth for gifts that people neither want nor need. Yet every day, people cram those soul-sucking stores in search of bargains. Bargains at what expense? At least in New York, we have enough fashion houses and boutiques that offer unique, albeit bank-busting, gifts that people can at least treasure.
Back to waking to death. The stress of this season fails to escape me. Certainly I rejoice, this season and any season, for I am blessed -- this year with the biggest gift of my life, my son. Having him makes all this the more painful, as I so want to shield him from the ills that our society brings. The real ills, like blind consumerism that is quickly breaking down any goodness in our nation. Ills like alcoholism and drug addiction are often overcome and can be won in a personal journey. But this careless crap hoarding spreads like a cancer, infecting new generations and making America the bloated butt of all jokes. I want to uphold the right traditions without compromising Mike or my individual beliefs. Like sending holiday cards. I made every effort to get my photo cards early enough so even my friends overseas would get theirs ahead of the holiday they celebrate. Every effort in vain. My order should have arrived no later than Dec. 6 via 2-day shipping. A customer service rep for the merchant apologized last week, saying there was no record for what went wrong on its end, and promised to expedite the order and reship overnight. Still, no cards. Just stress. I ordered another, more expensive set, again with expedited shipping from another merchant late last night. I've given up on the first one, and know the second isn't likely to come soon as the last-minute orders are too much for a small shop to bear.
Sending physical cards is very important to me. Ecards are not cards and I deplore them with every fiber of my being. If you can't take the time to physically address an envelope and attach a stamp, don't bother. An online image does nothing for the cockles of my heart. It reeks of corporate cheapness, laziness and a generic message to the lesser folks. Not getting my cards on time really upsets me. I couldn't sleep last night. When Michael Alexander finally fell asleep around 11:30 last night, all I could think about was those cards. I had just managed to fall asleep when he woke up at 1:50 a.m., hungry. He doesn't wake up at 1:50 a.m. anymore. He's a big boy. That's what he did at three months! I think he was trying to distract me from the stress or maybe save me from the nightmares. When I finally managed to fall back asleep around 3:30 a.m., I managed to muster maybe an hour of rest before a nightmare rattled me awake. I've had nightmares all my life, many about death or the fear of losing someone I love. As a young girl, I spent several years battling recurring dreams of my own mortality. Those became increasingly rare over the years, and it's the odd occasion now that I dream of my own death. Last night, a variation on the childhood theme returned, with a vengeance. Maybe I fear my own mortality for fear of not being able to care for my son? I've always dreaded losing people I love more than I worried about my own safety. Now I have the fear of my son losing me. I was obsessed with dream analysis as a child. Such books were among the many tomes I'd sneak and read under the covers with a flashlight. Dreams of experiencing your own death usually signals major change. It doesn't necessarily imply a negative turn of events. It usually means an end to something. I hope last night's terrors signal the end of waiting for my photo cards.
I jest, but I do take dreams seriously. It's part of my tradition, both ethnic and literary. Not that I dare compare myself with the legend, but Dostoyevsky was an even bigger believer than me that dreams can have as much substance and impact on our lives as what we call reality. "In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular activity, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are too truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer . . . could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system."
I know this sounds dramatic. We Russians (even half-breeds like me) are known for that. But my back hurts for the first time in weeks. Must go work on my overwrought and deranged nervous system.
a witch at night
as surely as our love is bright
let's not think about the passing time
_
I awoke, or more accurately got out of bed, with the Bowie translation of Jacques Brel's "My Death" in my head. Festive, eh? Here's to the holidays! To call this the holiday season is a politically correct way to bundle Chanukah, Christmas, Kwanzaa and the other feast days most people in this country can't name. Hey, why consider a culture outside of your own, you know, that culture called consumerism. There are few American homes where any semblance of true tradition lingers. It's become about shopping, mostly for crap that people don't want. Gift giving for children is acceptable, as we have fewer ways to show them we love them or reward them. In my home, we got some presents on Christmas, which was differentiated from the real holy day (holiday) we observed, the Feast of the Nativity on January 7, just to fit in with the "American" kids. Russians, and other Orthodox children do not get gifts on the Nativity. Grandfather Frost comes the following Sunday, and gifts are traditionally nuts and fruits and maybe some trinkets, in return for children performing Chekhov plays and other cultural feats.
When I was a young girl going to school in an affluent suburb, I envied the richer (though most of those tokens of wealth, the fancy cars and appliances and mini mansions, were plucked from creditors when the stock market crashed) kids, who'd get whatever they asked Santa for. Santa, in their case, was often the dad cheating on mom with his 22-year-old secretary, or Valium-calm mom, stuck at home with all the fancy gear that would soon be repossessed, forcing her to move to the ghetto with the kids. I saw this first hand. It helped that I was the child of two people born into harsh poverty: my mother starving as her brothers and other family were killed in war in Russia and later in a displaced persons' camp in Germany, and my father living in a single room above a Newark saloon with his first-generation immigrant parents who couldn't afford his dying brother's medical bills on their factory wages. My backstory was a little different from the other kids. At the time, that was my harsh reality. Now I realize it's what keeps me from sinking into the cesspool that is American consumerism. I can't imagine anything more loathsome than navigating an evil big box behemoth for gifts that people neither want nor need. Yet every day, people cram those soul-sucking stores in search of bargains. Bargains at what expense? At least in New York, we have enough fashion houses and boutiques that offer unique, albeit bank-busting, gifts that people can at least treasure.
Back to waking to death. The stress of this season fails to escape me. Certainly I rejoice, this season and any season, for I am blessed -- this year with the biggest gift of my life, my son. Having him makes all this the more painful, as I so want to shield him from the ills that our society brings. The real ills, like blind consumerism that is quickly breaking down any goodness in our nation. Ills like alcoholism and drug addiction are often overcome and can be won in a personal journey. But this careless crap hoarding spreads like a cancer, infecting new generations and making America the bloated butt of all jokes. I want to uphold the right traditions without compromising Mike or my individual beliefs. Like sending holiday cards. I made every effort to get my photo cards early enough so even my friends overseas would get theirs ahead of the holiday they celebrate. Every effort in vain. My order should have arrived no later than Dec. 6 via 2-day shipping. A customer service rep for the merchant apologized last week, saying there was no record for what went wrong on its end, and promised to expedite the order and reship overnight. Still, no cards. Just stress. I ordered another, more expensive set, again with expedited shipping from another merchant late last night. I've given up on the first one, and know the second isn't likely to come soon as the last-minute orders are too much for a small shop to bear.
Sending physical cards is very important to me. Ecards are not cards and I deplore them with every fiber of my being. If you can't take the time to physically address an envelope and attach a stamp, don't bother. An online image does nothing for the cockles of my heart. It reeks of corporate cheapness, laziness and a generic message to the lesser folks. Not getting my cards on time really upsets me. I couldn't sleep last night. When Michael Alexander finally fell asleep around 11:30 last night, all I could think about was those cards. I had just managed to fall asleep when he woke up at 1:50 a.m., hungry. He doesn't wake up at 1:50 a.m. anymore. He's a big boy. That's what he did at three months! I think he was trying to distract me from the stress or maybe save me from the nightmares. When I finally managed to fall back asleep around 3:30 a.m., I managed to muster maybe an hour of rest before a nightmare rattled me awake. I've had nightmares all my life, many about death or the fear of losing someone I love. As a young girl, I spent several years battling recurring dreams of my own mortality. Those became increasingly rare over the years, and it's the odd occasion now that I dream of my own death. Last night, a variation on the childhood theme returned, with a vengeance. Maybe I fear my own mortality for fear of not being able to care for my son? I've always dreaded losing people I love more than I worried about my own safety. Now I have the fear of my son losing me. I was obsessed with dream analysis as a child. Such books were among the many tomes I'd sneak and read under the covers with a flashlight. Dreams of experiencing your own death usually signals major change. It doesn't necessarily imply a negative turn of events. It usually means an end to something. I hope last night's terrors signal the end of waiting for my photo cards.
I jest, but I do take dreams seriously. It's part of my tradition, both ethnic and literary. Not that I dare compare myself with the legend, but Dostoyevsky was an even bigger believer than me that dreams can have as much substance and impact on our lives as what we call reality. "In a morbid condition of the brain, dreams often have a singular activity, vividness, and extraordinary semblance of reality. At times monstrous images are created, but the setting and the whole picture are too truth-like and filled with details so delicate, so unexpected, but so artistically consistent, that the dreamer . . . could never have invented them in the waking state. Such sick dreams always remain long in the memory and make a powerful impression on the overwrought and deranged nervous system."
I know this sounds dramatic. We Russians (even half-breeds like me) are known for that. But my back hurts for the first time in weeks. Must go work on my overwrought and deranged nervous system.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
In Your Face(book)
Like most things mainstream, I resisted Facebook for a very long time, at least in cybertrend time. When I finally caved, it was mainly to keep up with friends who have children, and others too far away or too busy to chat with regularly. You know, most people. Eventually I came to embrace Facebook for its convenience. And now that I'm a parent, posting baby pictures on Facebook is so much easier than emailing them to everyone who asks. So many times it's a hassle, as most emails bounce back because of the size of the photo files or some other issue I can't resolve. I wish my sister and sister-in-law were on Facebook, even with aliases, just for the photo sharing feature. I never have a problem uploading photos to Facebook. I'm also indebted to Facebook for allowing my young cousin in Belarus to find me and for putting me back in touch with close friends I hadn't heard from in decades. Otherwise, Facebook is really starting to annoy, even anger, me. I've been cutting back on my Facebook visits this week, and I haven't even logged on this morning. Until a particular post thread ticked me off, I was signed on to Facebook (as well as gmail) throughout the day, though I was rarely really "on" Facebook. That posed more problems, as some people didn't understand why I'd "ignore" their messages, even though I was "always" on Facebook. I have a baby. That should be obvious by my posts, which are mostly photos of my son. I am lucky to steal a few minutes to scroll through posts. If I really had the luxury of being online, not just signed on, at all times, I'd be writing or reading something other than Facebook updates.
I know I can unfriend people or just block their posts from appearing on my page, but there's part of me that's perversely drawn to the very posts that annoy and anger me. Sick, I know. That's why I'm curbing my consumption of crappy comments. We're all guilty of oversharing in some way. That's the whole premise of Facebook. Certainly most of my "friends" could care less about my most of posts and I am assume most of them just ignore them. But I know there are some people in my Facebook universe who are interested in some of my updates and it's just more convenient to post than to email everyone who might care. I'm sure I've offended or outraged plenty of my "friends" with a post or two, but my goal really isn't to share too much information. The problem with TMI on Facebook is that so much of what's out there doesn't even qualify as information. I can't imagine that anyone's friend is at all interested in what baked good you purchased for breakfast or how your morning commute was more manic than mundane because of some young woman's banal banter. You know what's worse than some blabbing bimbo? Your inane posts. We all make daily food choices and encounter irritating people, but unless your experience is somehow extraordinary or at least atypical, please consider keeping it yourself. Sure I'm guilty of occasional improper, even inappropriate, posting, but I'm not an hourly or daily offender. Nobody needs or wants to hear enough random rantings to compose your daily psychological profile.
Worse than TMI (too much idiocy) are passive-aggressive posts that beg for a reply and hope for a useless thread of emotional reactions that say nothing. Social media is not the platform for cryptic cries for help. That's when you need to pick up the phone and call a real friend, or at least send them a private message. And then there's the litany of lame reactions to news events hours, even days, after they break. Posting a quote from a famous person seconds, minutes, even a couple hours after their obit hits the wire can be pithy or at least apropos, but dragging the process way past its prime is pathetic. If you missed the news because you were offline, good for you! That means you were probably doing something constructive, even creative. You missed it. It's over. Get over it, and post nothing or something timely. Please.
And worst of all, what's really upsetting me, is the realization that too many educated, professional people are incapable of critical thinking. I rarely reply to posts other than cute photos of children or status updates that really offer an update or some information I can't find with a simple Google search. Sometimes I'm compelled to respond to a post from a "friend" I don't know very well, but refrain for fear my social or political tirade will fall on deaf ears or even be misunderstood. Sadly, when I've made the leap and given a poster I don't know well the benefit of the doubt, I am deeply disappointed by their lack of analytical thinking and the ensuing insipidity of their other "friends." There are those of us on Facebook who post for their real friends, and there are those who cater to the lowest possible denominator. I don't expect Facebook or any other social media to become a forum for great debate and discussion, but I do wish people wouldn't dumb down every idea.
I'm posting this now, so I can sign on to Facebook to promote it. Ha!
I know I can unfriend people or just block their posts from appearing on my page, but there's part of me that's perversely drawn to the very posts that annoy and anger me. Sick, I know. That's why I'm curbing my consumption of crappy comments. We're all guilty of oversharing in some way. That's the whole premise of Facebook. Certainly most of my "friends" could care less about my most of posts and I am assume most of them just ignore them. But I know there are some people in my Facebook universe who are interested in some of my updates and it's just more convenient to post than to email everyone who might care. I'm sure I've offended or outraged plenty of my "friends" with a post or two, but my goal really isn't to share too much information. The problem with TMI on Facebook is that so much of what's out there doesn't even qualify as information. I can't imagine that anyone's friend is at all interested in what baked good you purchased for breakfast or how your morning commute was more manic than mundane because of some young woman's banal banter. You know what's worse than some blabbing bimbo? Your inane posts. We all make daily food choices and encounter irritating people, but unless your experience is somehow extraordinary or at least atypical, please consider keeping it yourself. Sure I'm guilty of occasional improper, even inappropriate, posting, but I'm not an hourly or daily offender. Nobody needs or wants to hear enough random rantings to compose your daily psychological profile.
Worse than TMI (too much idiocy) are passive-aggressive posts that beg for a reply and hope for a useless thread of emotional reactions that say nothing. Social media is not the platform for cryptic cries for help. That's when you need to pick up the phone and call a real friend, or at least send them a private message. And then there's the litany of lame reactions to news events hours, even days, after they break. Posting a quote from a famous person seconds, minutes, even a couple hours after their obit hits the wire can be pithy or at least apropos, but dragging the process way past its prime is pathetic. If you missed the news because you were offline, good for you! That means you were probably doing something constructive, even creative. You missed it. It's over. Get over it, and post nothing or something timely. Please.
And worst of all, what's really upsetting me, is the realization that too many educated, professional people are incapable of critical thinking. I rarely reply to posts other than cute photos of children or status updates that really offer an update or some information I can't find with a simple Google search. Sometimes I'm compelled to respond to a post from a "friend" I don't know very well, but refrain for fear my social or political tirade will fall on deaf ears or even be misunderstood. Sadly, when I've made the leap and given a poster I don't know well the benefit of the doubt, I am deeply disappointed by their lack of analytical thinking and the ensuing insipidity of their other "friends." There are those of us on Facebook who post for their real friends, and there are those who cater to the lowest possible denominator. I don't expect Facebook or any other social media to become a forum for great debate and discussion, but I do wish people wouldn't dumb down every idea.
I'm posting this now, so I can sign on to Facebook to promote it. Ha!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Ethical Eating and Blacklisting Black Friday
I missed my father, as I do every holiday since he died. Otherwise, it was the best Thanksgiving ever. Makes sense seeing as I have more than ever to be thankful for this year. My son, Michael Alexander is a joy to care for, always happy, healthy and a trooper even during two five-hour drives that should have taken just three hours each. He slept much of the way. Even though he was annoyed as his parents about gridlock and stop-and-go nonsense caused by bad drivers, he barely peeped other than to giggle or let us know he was hungry.
Thursday was a big day for Michael Alexander. Even though he hasn't cut any teeth, he consumed as much organic turkey, three varieties of locally-grown squash and apples as most two-year-olds. Maybe more than most. He's had tastes from Daddy and Mommy's plates. Many tastes, ranging from fennel-infused clam broth (with local littleneck clams on Cape Cod, of course), to soups Mommy crafts from Farmer's Market veggies, organic protein and whole grains. He loves to eat everything, even his organic baby food despite its lack of grown-up seasonings. He mostly likes to eat what everyone else is eating: slow cooked, organic, locally sourced foods. I was blessed like my son. My parents and grandparents only fed me only homemade foods from the best local ingredients. Boxes and cans were for cleaning supplies and car parts, never food. It is important that my son know and appreciate whole food, healthy food. It is also critical that he understands that eating this way is ethical. We may in live in the heart of Manhattan, but he meets the farmers and farm workers at Union Square Greenmarket when we go shopping for fresh veggies, herbs and other natural, whole ingredients. I do shop at Whole Foods and other small markets, but select only the natural or organic ingredients I can't get at Greenmarket. I hope he will learn from my actions and maintain this lifestyle when he's on his own. I am so thankful that Mike enjoys and appreciates cooking as much as I do, and that we share the same philosophy about sourcing our ingredients. I cannot imagine being married to someone who didn't share my commitment to buying and preparing natural, fresh, whole ingredients, with lots of herbs, spices and hot peppers. It shocks and saddens me when I meet adults who don't prepare their own food or who eat packaged and process foods. It amazes me that any educated person would ingest poisons like trans fats and high fructose corn syrup that pollute processed foods. I don't buy the excuse that it's too expensive or too time consuming to buy and prepare whole foods. I challenge them to examine the price per ounce or pound of any of these toxic foods, to consider the cost of the non-chemical ingredients that could easily be purchased whole and prepared simply and quickly. In the time it takes to open a box or can of processed food, they could prepare a healthy, tasty simple meal with locally sourced ingredients.
We have plenty of dear friends who enjoy cooking as much Mike and I do, but there is still a global threat when it comes to making the ethical, healthy choices by shirking processed, poison-packed foods. "Packaged Food 2010 - Part 1: Global Market Performance," a market research report recently published by Euromonitor International, found “While the recent global economic downturn had a comparatively minimal impact on packaged food sales, continued economic anxiety and the (specter) of public spending cuts across much of Europe means future growth prospects are far from guaranteed. Despite ongoing economic uncertainty, general consumer preferences have not necessarily changed that much when it comes to packaged food, but consumers will shop smarter and seek out value for money in whichever retail formats they can.” Rather than teach our children how to read nutritional labels, let's teach them that nutrition comes from foods without labels. Funny how children with the least resources are instinctively making the right choices. A new study found that children in Karnataka, a state in South West India, are refusing to eat the packaged food given to them, saying it isn’t edible. Karnataka is reportedly the only state in the southern region which serves packaged food, despite the Integrated Child Development Scheme project clearly stating that only cooked food must be served, to meet the nutrition-deficiency among women and infants. The Indian government's National Family Health Survey (NFHS) says that Karnataka ranks third after Bihar and Madhya Pradesh with the highest number of malnutrition cases in the country. As many as 8% of children are anemic, 38% under the age of three are stunted and 41% are underweight. Clearly these aren't the same problems facing American children. But we're all facing the same choices. And the ethical choice is the same for all of us: buy and prepare whole foods, not boxed and canned foods. Your children will thank you!
Shopping for food is just one ethical decision we make during the holidays and every day. Michael Alexander's first Thanksgiving was lovely for many reasons, including the bounty of delicious whole food prepared by my mother, sister and me. There was no strife or stress. Just the joy of family. The day after Thanksgiving was equally tranquil. Mike and I went to the gym and shopped only for protein shakes to feed our muscles and champagne to fete my sister and John's anniversary. No shopping centers. No sales. That Friday has become a very dark one for America. People flock to shopping malls and big box behemoths for sales on a day that exemplifies the greatest evils of capitalism. The thought of waking at dawn, or camping out, to be first in line for a major marketing scam is disgusting and disturbing. Equally appalling is the television and print news coverage of "door busters" that claim to stimulate the economy. These "sales events" and the hordes who fall for the major retailers' brainwashing are destroying our economy, one independent business at a time. Stop shopping at these ethically, socially and morally bankrupt retailers and support small businesses where owners and workers are often treated like human beings. Ban the Wal-Marts on Black Friday and every day.
I am proud of the example we set on my son's first Thanksgiving. I cherish the memories of Thanksgivings spent with my father at the head of the table where I now get to sit. The banter retains my father's spirit and irreverent sense of humor, though some of the foods have changed. For one of my father's last Thanksgivings, my mother make a pecan pie, his favorite. Pecan pie would kill Mike, who is allergic to tree nuts, so I made an apple pie with whole wheat crust and agave nectar. It was tasty, but not nearly as topical as that pecan pie. John, my brother-in-law who was raised in Greece said it reminded him of the pie his grandmother used to make. John explained how she'd use ash from the fireplace to create this treat. "What was this pie called?" one of us asked. My father's eyes bulged as he responded to what he heard: "Ass pie! Ass pie?" My mother laughed hardest of all. "No, no," John quickly clarified. "I'm not sure how you say it in English. Ash pie. Ash, not ass." Ash pie, ass pie, whatever. At least it doesn't come from a box!
Thursday was a big day for Michael Alexander. Even though he hasn't cut any teeth, he consumed as much organic turkey, three varieties of locally-grown squash and apples as most two-year-olds. Maybe more than most. He's had tastes from Daddy and Mommy's plates. Many tastes, ranging from fennel-infused clam broth (with local littleneck clams on Cape Cod, of course), to soups Mommy crafts from Farmer's Market veggies, organic protein and whole grains. He loves to eat everything, even his organic baby food despite its lack of grown-up seasonings. He mostly likes to eat what everyone else is eating: slow cooked, organic, locally sourced foods. I was blessed like my son. My parents and grandparents only fed me only homemade foods from the best local ingredients. Boxes and cans were for cleaning supplies and car parts, never food. It is important that my son know and appreciate whole food, healthy food. It is also critical that he understands that eating this way is ethical. We may in live in the heart of Manhattan, but he meets the farmers and farm workers at Union Square Greenmarket when we go shopping for fresh veggies, herbs and other natural, whole ingredients. I do shop at Whole Foods and other small markets, but select only the natural or organic ingredients I can't get at Greenmarket. I hope he will learn from my actions and maintain this lifestyle when he's on his own. I am so thankful that Mike enjoys and appreciates cooking as much as I do, and that we share the same philosophy about sourcing our ingredients. I cannot imagine being married to someone who didn't share my commitment to buying and preparing natural, fresh, whole ingredients, with lots of herbs, spices and hot peppers. It shocks and saddens me when I meet adults who don't prepare their own food or who eat packaged and process foods. It amazes me that any educated person would ingest poisons like trans fats and high fructose corn syrup that pollute processed foods. I don't buy the excuse that it's too expensive or too time consuming to buy and prepare whole foods. I challenge them to examine the price per ounce or pound of any of these toxic foods, to consider the cost of the non-chemical ingredients that could easily be purchased whole and prepared simply and quickly. In the time it takes to open a box or can of processed food, they could prepare a healthy, tasty simple meal with locally sourced ingredients.
We have plenty of dear friends who enjoy cooking as much Mike and I do, but there is still a global threat when it comes to making the ethical, healthy choices by shirking processed, poison-packed foods. "Packaged Food 2010 - Part 1: Global Market Performance," a market research report recently published by Euromonitor International, found “While the recent global economic downturn had a comparatively minimal impact on packaged food sales, continued economic anxiety and the (specter) of public spending cuts across much of Europe means future growth prospects are far from guaranteed. Despite ongoing economic uncertainty, general consumer preferences have not necessarily changed that much when it comes to packaged food, but consumers will shop smarter and seek out value for money in whichever retail formats they can.” Rather than teach our children how to read nutritional labels, let's teach them that nutrition comes from foods without labels. Funny how children with the least resources are instinctively making the right choices. A new study found that children in Karnataka, a state in South West India, are refusing to eat the packaged food given to them, saying it isn’t edible. Karnataka is reportedly the only state in the southern region which serves packaged food, despite the Integrated Child Development Scheme project clearly stating that only cooked food must be served, to meet the nutrition-deficiency among women and infants. The Indian government's National Family Health Survey (NFHS) says that Karnataka ranks third after Bihar and Madhya Pradesh with the highest number of malnutrition cases in the country. As many as 8% of children are anemic, 38% under the age of three are stunted and 41% are underweight. Clearly these aren't the same problems facing American children. But we're all facing the same choices. And the ethical choice is the same for all of us: buy and prepare whole foods, not boxed and canned foods. Your children will thank you!
Shopping for food is just one ethical decision we make during the holidays and every day. Michael Alexander's first Thanksgiving was lovely for many reasons, including the bounty of delicious whole food prepared by my mother, sister and me. There was no strife or stress. Just the joy of family. The day after Thanksgiving was equally tranquil. Mike and I went to the gym and shopped only for protein shakes to feed our muscles and champagne to fete my sister and John's anniversary. No shopping centers. No sales. That Friday has become a very dark one for America. People flock to shopping malls and big box behemoths for sales on a day that exemplifies the greatest evils of capitalism. The thought of waking at dawn, or camping out, to be first in line for a major marketing scam is disgusting and disturbing. Equally appalling is the television and print news coverage of "door busters" that claim to stimulate the economy. These "sales events" and the hordes who fall for the major retailers' brainwashing are destroying our economy, one independent business at a time. Stop shopping at these ethically, socially and morally bankrupt retailers and support small businesses where owners and workers are often treated like human beings. Ban the Wal-Marts on Black Friday and every day.
I am proud of the example we set on my son's first Thanksgiving. I cherish the memories of Thanksgivings spent with my father at the head of the table where I now get to sit. The banter retains my father's spirit and irreverent sense of humor, though some of the foods have changed. For one of my father's last Thanksgivings, my mother make a pecan pie, his favorite. Pecan pie would kill Mike, who is allergic to tree nuts, so I made an apple pie with whole wheat crust and agave nectar. It was tasty, but not nearly as topical as that pecan pie. John, my brother-in-law who was raised in Greece said it reminded him of the pie his grandmother used to make. John explained how she'd use ash from the fireplace to create this treat. "What was this pie called?" one of us asked. My father's eyes bulged as he responded to what he heard: "Ass pie! Ass pie?" My mother laughed hardest of all. "No, no," John quickly clarified. "I'm not sure how you say it in English. Ash pie. Ash, not ass." Ash pie, ass pie, whatever. At least it doesn't come from a box!
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Fall Fodder and Foibles
Fall is an emotional time of year. When I was younger it signaled the excitement of going back to school. As a child and teenager, I had always imagined the only career that involved going to an office (if only for office hours I set myself) that I would ever pursue was academia. My father was a professor and my mother a high school teacher, amid myriad other occupations and odd jobs. I grew up going to my father's classes, passing out Blue Books and quietly copying the text books word for word in perfect block letters. (After my father died, my mother found some. She was initially very concerned when she thought at age 4 I really understood macroeconomic theory.) I loved my father's office, where I'd sit on his lap in a distressed leather chair punctuated with rivets and surrounded by books piled from floor to ceiling. As I grew older, I never imagined there could be another office that didn't completely stifle your creativity and passion. I was right, I later learned through experience. But I also learned that academia was rife with bureaucracy that could be nearly as soul-sucking as the corporate world. When I accidentally stumbled upon journalism, I was tempted but still not ready to give up my dreams of ivory towers, or public school brick.
As students head back to school, each year becomes more complicated. I am so far removed from the life I once thought I'd embrace as mine. I was very young during my first round in grad school, a PhD candidate before I was 20. I jumped from fifth grade to seventh grade and then earned my B.A. in three years, so I was by far the youngest student. Upon graduating, I studied at Oxford, at Trinity College right across from the Bodleian Library. It was a scholar's dream to read in the same library as the dons, and it was tough returning to the U.S. system. Once back in the U.S., I was working several jobs, including one at the local newspaper. The other students were all TAs who scoffed at my toiling at menial jobs rather than devoting every second to my studies. I begrudgingly gave up to devote myself to my more-than full-time newspaper career. I returned to grad school twice again, the last time as the oldest student in the group and the only one studying part-time as I was working full-time as a journalist. After all these years and restarts, I am still ABD. I still consider going back, but for now it seems like a lost dream.
One of the reasons I chose to live in the Village is the proximity to NYU. For more than a decade I essentially lived on the campus, in rent-stabilized walkups haunted by students. Now we live in Union Square, where plenty of parents shell out a small fortune for their adult children to live in a luxury doorman building. I guess after footing the $40K-plus tuition bill, a few more grand a month isn't so much. I love being around students and professors, but sadly the banter that I miss from my days as a student is as elusive as my doctorate. Sadly, it seems most NYU students spend more time sifting through the racks at Banana Republic than the pages of Plato's Republic. I'm sure they think really deep thoughts while shopping. You know, like "No discounted thing is of serious importance." Translation: Always pay retail. Daddy's platinum card will cover it. Or, "If one has made an accessorizing mistake, and fails to correct it, one has made a greater mistake." Of course I know there are plenty of very bright NYU kids who work their way to a sub-minimum wage assistant's job in their chosen field. I'm merely complaining because I miss the debate that I had always expected to be a part, if not the bulk, of my daily life. Alas ... I shall take comfort knowing college students still maintain at least one Platonic ideal: "He was a wise man who invented beer."
Even in a cultural mecca, the conversations center on the mundane and the maddening. Nonetheless, I do enjoy eavesdropping as sport, and it's so much easier to do it with a baby in tote. You can get away with a lot as a "new" mommy, lingering to listen to less-than-enlightening exchanges among the unthinkers or our time. Much of what I hear makes TV seem like an academic platform. What's more troubling is what people say to strangers. Fall days like today are made for long walks soaked in the 62-degree sunshine. More people are out, making for more unsolicited comments. Note: Unsolicited comment is a synonym for harassment. If I want your opinion, I will ask for it. Yesterday, a woman who appeared a little disheveled yet suitable for the general population asked me: "Can I look at your baby?" Firstly, madam, you are looking at my baby. Secondly, what is it that you've been banned from and by what authority that prompts you to make such a request? Crazy, maybe. But hardly among the worst offenders. I am befuddled by those, predominantly older women, who feel entitled to offer their insights into infancy. Odder yet is that many of these self-anointed sages have never raised children of their own. Their own experience, or lack thereof, aside, their meddling can be maddening and I have yet to meet a parent who isn't equally annoyed. Does my child look healthy? Yes? Happy? Yes. Then perhaps I am doing a decent job of caring for him. As for the students I slammed (again, this was a generalization and NYU is singled out only for its proximity and prolific real estate ownership), at least most teens and 20-somethings, even those who don't know their epistemology from their ethics, are respectful of mommy and me time. They hold doors when their parents' and grandparents' peers push past strollers only to amble at snail's pace hauling their grocery carts and dragging their lapdogs.
Come fall, if I can't be in a classroom, at least I can (try to) learn from my everyday experiences. When the rude intrude, I strive to shake the snark and "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." My battle just happens to be fending off ignorance and intrusion.
As students head back to school, each year becomes more complicated. I am so far removed from the life I once thought I'd embrace as mine. I was very young during my first round in grad school, a PhD candidate before I was 20. I jumped from fifth grade to seventh grade and then earned my B.A. in three years, so I was by far the youngest student. Upon graduating, I studied at Oxford, at Trinity College right across from the Bodleian Library. It was a scholar's dream to read in the same library as the dons, and it was tough returning to the U.S. system. Once back in the U.S., I was working several jobs, including one at the local newspaper. The other students were all TAs who scoffed at my toiling at menial jobs rather than devoting every second to my studies. I begrudgingly gave up to devote myself to my more-than full-time newspaper career. I returned to grad school twice again, the last time as the oldest student in the group and the only one studying part-time as I was working full-time as a journalist. After all these years and restarts, I am still ABD. I still consider going back, but for now it seems like a lost dream.
One of the reasons I chose to live in the Village is the proximity to NYU. For more than a decade I essentially lived on the campus, in rent-stabilized walkups haunted by students. Now we live in Union Square, where plenty of parents shell out a small fortune for their adult children to live in a luxury doorman building. I guess after footing the $40K-plus tuition bill, a few more grand a month isn't so much. I love being around students and professors, but sadly the banter that I miss from my days as a student is as elusive as my doctorate. Sadly, it seems most NYU students spend more time sifting through the racks at Banana Republic than the pages of Plato's Republic. I'm sure they think really deep thoughts while shopping. You know, like "No discounted thing is of serious importance." Translation: Always pay retail. Daddy's platinum card will cover it. Or, "If one has made an accessorizing mistake, and fails to correct it, one has made a greater mistake." Of course I know there are plenty of very bright NYU kids who work their way to a sub-minimum wage assistant's job in their chosen field. I'm merely complaining because I miss the debate that I had always expected to be a part, if not the bulk, of my daily life. Alas ... I shall take comfort knowing college students still maintain at least one Platonic ideal: "He was a wise man who invented beer."
Even in a cultural mecca, the conversations center on the mundane and the maddening. Nonetheless, I do enjoy eavesdropping as sport, and it's so much easier to do it with a baby in tote. You can get away with a lot as a "new" mommy, lingering to listen to less-than-enlightening exchanges among the unthinkers or our time. Much of what I hear makes TV seem like an academic platform. What's more troubling is what people say to strangers. Fall days like today are made for long walks soaked in the 62-degree sunshine. More people are out, making for more unsolicited comments. Note: Unsolicited comment is a synonym for harassment. If I want your opinion, I will ask for it. Yesterday, a woman who appeared a little disheveled yet suitable for the general population asked me: "Can I look at your baby?" Firstly, madam, you are looking at my baby. Secondly, what is it that you've been banned from and by what authority that prompts you to make such a request? Crazy, maybe. But hardly among the worst offenders. I am befuddled by those, predominantly older women, who feel entitled to offer their insights into infancy. Odder yet is that many of these self-anointed sages have never raised children of their own. Their own experience, or lack thereof, aside, their meddling can be maddening and I have yet to meet a parent who isn't equally annoyed. Does my child look healthy? Yes? Happy? Yes. Then perhaps I am doing a decent job of caring for him. As for the students I slammed (again, this was a generalization and NYU is singled out only for its proximity and prolific real estate ownership), at least most teens and 20-somethings, even those who don't know their epistemology from their ethics, are respectful of mommy and me time. They hold doors when their parents' and grandparents' peers push past strollers only to amble at snail's pace hauling their grocery carts and dragging their lapdogs.
Come fall, if I can't be in a classroom, at least I can (try to) learn from my everyday experiences. When the rude intrude, I strive to shake the snark and "Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." My battle just happens to be fending off ignorance and intrusion.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Frankenbelly and Nothing Matters
I first set out to write about Frankenbelly a week ago. It was going to be a self-deprecating yet honest post about coping after a C-section. I had started writing last Saturday before heading to the gym. I was feeling great. Happy, relaxed and virtually pain free thanks to a course of corticosteroid Methylprednisolone used to reduce inflammation and rigorous physical therapy. I was so excited to go to chisel (Crunch's term for weight training) class. Saturdays are especially luxurious, as Mike and I switch off going to the gym during the morning and afternoon so I don't have to rush through my PT back strengthening exercises before and after my workout. But lately Saturdays at the Crunch on Lafayette have become a little stressful. It's a popular class that requires you to get there early, sign up an hour before class, get a wristband and set up your space as soon as the room's free. I choose the same spot, and for the last two months or so have been doing extra lower back strengthening in the room before class. Every Saturday, people (usually newbies on a Groupon promotion or guest pass) come in with no sense of personal space and set up there equipment without staggering so as to prevent a collision of arms during the chest set. This seems obvious to me, yet every week at least a dozen new people walk in minutes before the start of class without any regard for those of us who have arrive early to secure our spots, taking just enough room to extend our arms and legs. Last Saturday there was an especially toxic tone in the basement room. An older woman regular who never speaks to anyone else attacked a young woman who was very polite and set up her equipment with regard for her neighbors. The old woman muttered about how the young woman was too close to her space. She was not. When the young woman didn't respond to the old woman's passive aggressive ramblings, the regular turned her head Exorcist style and shouted, "You're a God-damned bitch!" Well, then. What a way to set the mood!
I smiled at the young woman and she smiled back. The old woman continued to balk and bitch throughout the class. I did my best to block her out, focusing on proper form for my PT routine. Just as I was coming up from a back extension, another regular, a retired schoolteacher who is usually sweet, approached me. "Welcome back!" she said. Back from what? I am at the gym at least six days a week, worked out until two days before labor and went back five weeks after my C-section. I've been back for nearly six months! Welcome back? She continued, "So, did you have the baby?" I just stared, still mid-exercise. "Did you have the baby?" she repeated. When I still didn't reply, she said, "I assume you had the baby." I won't tell you what I wanted to say ... In my mind, the censored version was laced with sarcasm and went something like this: "No. I'm nearly 16 months pregnant now! Can you believe it?" Even as she realized I was offended, she didn't offer an apology. She just went on about "welcoming" me back. Back to the class I've been attending every week (save for a weekend in LA) for the last six months! I tried to brush it off. I couldn't. She made it nearly impossible, as she spent the full hour yapping with another regular, a psychotherapist, about how she didn't know why I "seemed offended." The previous week, the psychotherapist walked into the room minutes before class screeching about how all the weights had been taken. I don't know who deserves more sympathy, the psychotherapist's patients or the retired schoolteacher's former students.
I know it sounds like petty narcissism, even pathetic, but it ruined the rest of my workout. Daily workouts are my only time away from the baby. It is my time. The time when I feel strong and healthy, even if I am still fat. Fat, yes, but do I really look 16 months pregnant? Really? I spin faster and with more resistance than anyone else in any class. I lift more weight than anyone else in the classes, even the 6'4" broad-shouldered men. (Remember, Mike and I can't take the same classes now, but if he were still there, he'd be the only one to match or outlift me.) Despite my daily sweatfests, I haven't shed the post-baby weight and the scale hasn't budged in months. It is frustrating and the source of my insecurity. My doctor says I can't blame myself, as I am afflicted with Hashimoto's Disease, a form of autoimmune hypothyroidism which essentially stalls the metabolism. Still, I work out very hard and work harder to maintain a positive self-image. Last Saturday, I was feeling confident until the retired schoolteacher shattered my self-esteem. I know it's not her fault, but I was so angry after last Saturday's class that I started writing this post again, referring to her as Baba Yaga. With her frizzy hair and short stature, she evokes the fearsome witch of Russian folklore.
I'm over the Baba Yaga incident, though I'm planning to switch my Saturday workout routine even though I like the class itself. It's just not worth the catty crapfest. I've still got to explain Frankenbelly. The number on the scale and the fact that my pre-preggo jeans (or anything else with a zipper below the waist) doesn't fit are painful enough. But having a tiny scar topped with a flap of flesh that won't whittle away is the worst. Nobody warned me about this post C-section trauma. As I mentioned before, I was adamant about avoiding a C-section and nearly devastated when after full labor, I was told it was the only way my son would survive. The surgery itself is simple. The separation from the baby for the few minutes of post-op seems like an eternity. The pain is easily managed. But the birth and girth of Frankenbelly is frightening. I'd never even heard the terms "mother's apron" and "C-flap" until I Googled them post-op. A Google search for mother's apron gets about 137,000 results, so I know I'm not alone. But that doesn't make coping with this any easier. My upper abs are nearly as strong as before the baby was born, but my lower abs, sliced and diced during Michael Alexander's delivery, are monstrous. I had planned to make light of Frankenbelly before last Saturday's ego blow. But my self-pity was bloated by Baba Yaga's callous comments.
I'm trying really hard to look past Frankenbelly. I have the most beautiful, strong, healthy son, who is certainly worth any expense. But the physical challenges just make it harder to accept the other everyday struggles that come with motherhood. The constant feeling that you're not doing enough by "just" taking care of your baby. I remind myself that I do other things. I make dinner from Farmer's Market vegetables and organic proteins and grains nearly every day. I am good at laundry. I know because the Maytag repairman in the laundry room yesterday told me so. Ha! I write a column and am actively pursuing more freelance work. Then there's what I do best: take care of my son! Clearly, I am doing a good job, as anyone who's met him would attest. Still, there's that absurd notion that even I can't overcome. It's not a constant, but it creeps in every so often. The fear that I do nothing, or nothing that matters. Truth be told, if raising a baby is nothing, then I am proud to say that nothing matters. Nothing matters more. Frankenbelly be damned.
I smiled at the young woman and she smiled back. The old woman continued to balk and bitch throughout the class. I did my best to block her out, focusing on proper form for my PT routine. Just as I was coming up from a back extension, another regular, a retired schoolteacher who is usually sweet, approached me. "Welcome back!" she said. Back from what? I am at the gym at least six days a week, worked out until two days before labor and went back five weeks after my C-section. I've been back for nearly six months! Welcome back? She continued, "So, did you have the baby?" I just stared, still mid-exercise. "Did you have the baby?" she repeated. When I still didn't reply, she said, "I assume you had the baby." I won't tell you what I wanted to say ... In my mind, the censored version was laced with sarcasm and went something like this: "No. I'm nearly 16 months pregnant now! Can you believe it?" Even as she realized I was offended, she didn't offer an apology. She just went on about "welcoming" me back. Back to the class I've been attending every week (save for a weekend in LA) for the last six months! I tried to brush it off. I couldn't. She made it nearly impossible, as she spent the full hour yapping with another regular, a psychotherapist, about how she didn't know why I "seemed offended." The previous week, the psychotherapist walked into the room minutes before class screeching about how all the weights had been taken. I don't know who deserves more sympathy, the psychotherapist's patients or the retired schoolteacher's former students.
I know it sounds like petty narcissism, even pathetic, but it ruined the rest of my workout. Daily workouts are my only time away from the baby. It is my time. The time when I feel strong and healthy, even if I am still fat. Fat, yes, but do I really look 16 months pregnant? Really? I spin faster and with more resistance than anyone else in any class. I lift more weight than anyone else in the classes, even the 6'4" broad-shouldered men. (Remember, Mike and I can't take the same classes now, but if he were still there, he'd be the only one to match or outlift me.) Despite my daily sweatfests, I haven't shed the post-baby weight and the scale hasn't budged in months. It is frustrating and the source of my insecurity. My doctor says I can't blame myself, as I am afflicted with Hashimoto's Disease, a form of autoimmune hypothyroidism which essentially stalls the metabolism. Still, I work out very hard and work harder to maintain a positive self-image. Last Saturday, I was feeling confident until the retired schoolteacher shattered my self-esteem. I know it's not her fault, but I was so angry after last Saturday's class that I started writing this post again, referring to her as Baba Yaga. With her frizzy hair and short stature, she evokes the fearsome witch of Russian folklore.
I'm over the Baba Yaga incident, though I'm planning to switch my Saturday workout routine even though I like the class itself. It's just not worth the catty crapfest. I've still got to explain Frankenbelly. The number on the scale and the fact that my pre-preggo jeans (or anything else with a zipper below the waist) doesn't fit are painful enough. But having a tiny scar topped with a flap of flesh that won't whittle away is the worst. Nobody warned me about this post C-section trauma. As I mentioned before, I was adamant about avoiding a C-section and nearly devastated when after full labor, I was told it was the only way my son would survive. The surgery itself is simple. The separation from the baby for the few minutes of post-op seems like an eternity. The pain is easily managed. But the birth and girth of Frankenbelly is frightening. I'd never even heard the terms "mother's apron" and "C-flap" until I Googled them post-op. A Google search for mother's apron gets about 137,000 results, so I know I'm not alone. But that doesn't make coping with this any easier. My upper abs are nearly as strong as before the baby was born, but my lower abs, sliced and diced during Michael Alexander's delivery, are monstrous. I had planned to make light of Frankenbelly before last Saturday's ego blow. But my self-pity was bloated by Baba Yaga's callous comments.
I'm trying really hard to look past Frankenbelly. I have the most beautiful, strong, healthy son, who is certainly worth any expense. But the physical challenges just make it harder to accept the other everyday struggles that come with motherhood. The constant feeling that you're not doing enough by "just" taking care of your baby. I remind myself that I do other things. I make dinner from Farmer's Market vegetables and organic proteins and grains nearly every day. I am good at laundry. I know because the Maytag repairman in the laundry room yesterday told me so. Ha! I write a column and am actively pursuing more freelance work. Then there's what I do best: take care of my son! Clearly, I am doing a good job, as anyone who's met him would attest. Still, there's that absurd notion that even I can't overcome. It's not a constant, but it creeps in every so often. The fear that I do nothing, or nothing that matters. Truth be told, if raising a baby is nothing, then I am proud to say that nothing matters. Nothing matters more. Frankenbelly be damned.
Friday, November 5, 2010
Etiquette, and Common Decency, Plunge Down the Shaft
After living in rent-stabilized walkups, including an eighth-floor studio (pre-war buildings on the Village with lettered apartments on the entry floor got away with adding an extra floor, each with four tiny flights of narrow stairs) for more than a decade, I appreciate every ride to and from my 17th-floor one-bedroom. For Mike and me, living in an elevator doorman building is a luxury we do not take for granted. Even when one elevator's being repaired or used for a move in or out, we've got another one. Sure they're often slow, but that's mostly the fault of our fellow tenants. Yesterday I went after the sociopolitical sins of suburbia. Today I'm making it abundantly clear that Manhattan's got its share of social criminals.
There are still some rent stabilized tenants in our building, including a lovely older couple who live across the hall and are polite under all circumstances, including when the elevator's being held on a lower floor. But most of our neighbors pay the same premium we do for amenities such as an elevator. It's little surprise that the biggest complainers include those pay the least to live here. Then there are those who seem not to care how much they spend, though they think their share entitles them to VIP treatment. Most days I can shrug this off, appreciating the luxury even as others are ungrateful. But today, every ride up and down was rife with rudeness. I could chronicle each offender, like the mumbling man who forced his way into the car, ramming Michael Alexander's stroller, which already was flush with the wall, and dragging his tobacco-infused winter coat in my baby's face. Or the woman who balked that she had to hold her bouquet of flowers closer to her heavily made up face to make room for others. But I'll focus on one chronic culprit. Mike and I call her Cougar. Her real name's Beth and she's a freelance writer, though I suspect she works about four hours a week, max, as she's mostly out shopping or bitching on her cellphone through a mouthpiece. She has a housekeeper, sends her laundry out and orders in frequently. And apparently, she thinks the elevators are her private cars.
Oh, yeah. We call her Cougar because she's a well-heeled 40-something woman with a late-night appetite for younger men. She's attractive, in that manufactured, moneyed Manhattan way. She's very trim. I'd say fit, but I think she's just blessed with a monster metabolism, as I see her at the gym exerting about as much effort as it takes me to watch Bravo. She doesn't break a sweat on her infrequent stops in Spin class. Of course, she doesn't add any tension to the bike. After all, that could crimp her salon blowout. The horror! Cougar's antics are absurd, and usually a source of comic relief. There's the time Mike caught her making out with a tall, younger Brit in an empty apartment being prepped for the next tenant. (Mike was taking out the trash and saw her and her conquest of the night in the apartment next to the compacter room.) Disposing of rubbish, albeit inappropriately, seems to be the only chore she'll tolerate. She can't be bothered to toss trash down the chute so she drops it near the recycling bin. And often, she dumps things in the hallway, right in front of our door. There were the Topshop panties. There was the letter from the insurance company chronicling her withdrawl of her claim that she "lost" an engagement ring, only to later "find" it in her apartment. The list is exhaustive. Nightly refuse includes giant bottles of sake. The better to cougar you with, my dear! On the trash room floor, I've seen more panties, candles, books on the occult and fancy boxes from the many freebies she gets to abet her "job" covering food and luxury goods. But her elevator abuse is no laughing matter.
She's always scurrying, tiny dog in tote, to and from the elevators, cursing as she's realized she forgotten whatever it is she needs for a day of dallying or an eve of cougaring. On multiple occasions, I've seen her place her designer handbags, unzipped with wallet exposed, in the elevator doorway to hold it while she fetches her cougar gear. Our apartment's right in front of the elevators, so I hear her every profanity-laden trip, punctuated by her pooch's high-pitched yapping. I've been tempted to kick her tote into the car and send it down for a ride. But I'm a nice person, really I am. I just have these thoughts. That, and the shrill shoutout when she discovered it gone would scare the baby.
Today, I had the displeasure of taking two rides with her, and witnessing her make four other attempts to get downstairs. On one occasion, Michael Alexander and I were headed up from the basement laundry room. (I wonder if Cougar even knows there's a laundry room. Another luxury for Mike and me, as we used to tote our laundry several blocks from the walkups.) She got in the car on the first floor, only to realize she needed to complain to the doorman about something. "Hold it!" she hollered as she left behind the dog and went to ask for some favor without tipping. We waited as four other people came in and got in the car. "Hold it!" she repeated. Once she finally decided to join us, she sighed and said "There's no room here." About an hour later, as Michael Alexander and I returned from an errand, we got behind five other people waiting for the elevator, including an elderly man with a walker. As soon as he saw the stroller, he backed out and said "Women and children first." I told the four others waiting to go first, but they all insisted I take the lead. Just then, Cougar and her canine arrived, and she hurried past the others, following me into the car. Though she weighs no more than 105 pounds, soaking wet, and her dog's the size of a small cat, she sprawled across the car and hit the door close button, even as those before her waited. "There's room for at least three more people," I said, gesturing to my neighbors. "No! There is no room!" she quipped, giving me a look of deep-rooted contempt and pounding again on the door close button. Joining us for the ride was a young woman I didn't recognize. But she was friendly with Cougar, lamenting that she'd trekked all the way across Union Square Park to go to Sephora only to find her favorite eyeliner sold out. Oh, no! Cougar sympathized, equating the young woman's suffering with her own struggle in the "crammed" car. Cougar was back for another ride as Michael Alexander and I returned from another trip to the laundry room. The door was closing behind us, taking a man to the 18th floor. "Hold it!" she called out, making this her mantra, or at least the only words she uttered to me directly today. "It's going up," I said, not looking back. She sighed and launched into another round of swearing and self-loathing.
Yesterday I used this blog to voice a serious concern, hoping to raise some consciousness. Today, I'm guilty of being snarky, even somewhat self-serving. Don't send me down the shaft. It's Friday.
There are still some rent stabilized tenants in our building, including a lovely older couple who live across the hall and are polite under all circumstances, including when the elevator's being held on a lower floor. But most of our neighbors pay the same premium we do for amenities such as an elevator. It's little surprise that the biggest complainers include those pay the least to live here. Then there are those who seem not to care how much they spend, though they think their share entitles them to VIP treatment. Most days I can shrug this off, appreciating the luxury even as others are ungrateful. But today, every ride up and down was rife with rudeness. I could chronicle each offender, like the mumbling man who forced his way into the car, ramming Michael Alexander's stroller, which already was flush with the wall, and dragging his tobacco-infused winter coat in my baby's face. Or the woman who balked that she had to hold her bouquet of flowers closer to her heavily made up face to make room for others. But I'll focus on one chronic culprit. Mike and I call her Cougar. Her real name's Beth and she's a freelance writer, though I suspect she works about four hours a week, max, as she's mostly out shopping or bitching on her cellphone through a mouthpiece. She has a housekeeper, sends her laundry out and orders in frequently. And apparently, she thinks the elevators are her private cars.
Oh, yeah. We call her Cougar because she's a well-heeled 40-something woman with a late-night appetite for younger men. She's attractive, in that manufactured, moneyed Manhattan way. She's very trim. I'd say fit, but I think she's just blessed with a monster metabolism, as I see her at the gym exerting about as much effort as it takes me to watch Bravo. She doesn't break a sweat on her infrequent stops in Spin class. Of course, she doesn't add any tension to the bike. After all, that could crimp her salon blowout. The horror! Cougar's antics are absurd, and usually a source of comic relief. There's the time Mike caught her making out with a tall, younger Brit in an empty apartment being prepped for the next tenant. (Mike was taking out the trash and saw her and her conquest of the night in the apartment next to the compacter room.) Disposing of rubbish, albeit inappropriately, seems to be the only chore she'll tolerate. She can't be bothered to toss trash down the chute so she drops it near the recycling bin. And often, she dumps things in the hallway, right in front of our door. There were the Topshop panties. There was the letter from the insurance company chronicling her withdrawl of her claim that she "lost" an engagement ring, only to later "find" it in her apartment. The list is exhaustive. Nightly refuse includes giant bottles of sake. The better to cougar you with, my dear! On the trash room floor, I've seen more panties, candles, books on the occult and fancy boxes from the many freebies she gets to abet her "job" covering food and luxury goods. But her elevator abuse is no laughing matter.
She's always scurrying, tiny dog in tote, to and from the elevators, cursing as she's realized she forgotten whatever it is she needs for a day of dallying or an eve of cougaring. On multiple occasions, I've seen her place her designer handbags, unzipped with wallet exposed, in the elevator doorway to hold it while she fetches her cougar gear. Our apartment's right in front of the elevators, so I hear her every profanity-laden trip, punctuated by her pooch's high-pitched yapping. I've been tempted to kick her tote into the car and send it down for a ride. But I'm a nice person, really I am. I just have these thoughts. That, and the shrill shoutout when she discovered it gone would scare the baby.
Today, I had the displeasure of taking two rides with her, and witnessing her make four other attempts to get downstairs. On one occasion, Michael Alexander and I were headed up from the basement laundry room. (I wonder if Cougar even knows there's a laundry room. Another luxury for Mike and me, as we used to tote our laundry several blocks from the walkups.) She got in the car on the first floor, only to realize she needed to complain to the doorman about something. "Hold it!" she hollered as she left behind the dog and went to ask for some favor without tipping. We waited as four other people came in and got in the car. "Hold it!" she repeated. Once she finally decided to join us, she sighed and said "There's no room here." About an hour later, as Michael Alexander and I returned from an errand, we got behind five other people waiting for the elevator, including an elderly man with a walker. As soon as he saw the stroller, he backed out and said "Women and children first." I told the four others waiting to go first, but they all insisted I take the lead. Just then, Cougar and her canine arrived, and she hurried past the others, following me into the car. Though she weighs no more than 105 pounds, soaking wet, and her dog's the size of a small cat, she sprawled across the car and hit the door close button, even as those before her waited. "There's room for at least three more people," I said, gesturing to my neighbors. "No! There is no room!" she quipped, giving me a look of deep-rooted contempt and pounding again on the door close button. Joining us for the ride was a young woman I didn't recognize. But she was friendly with Cougar, lamenting that she'd trekked all the way across Union Square Park to go to Sephora only to find her favorite eyeliner sold out. Oh, no! Cougar sympathized, equating the young woman's suffering with her own struggle in the "crammed" car. Cougar was back for another ride as Michael Alexander and I returned from another trip to the laundry room. The door was closing behind us, taking a man to the 18th floor. "Hold it!" she called out, making this her mantra, or at least the only words she uttered to me directly today. "It's going up," I said, not looking back. She sighed and launched into another round of swearing and self-loathing.
Yesterday I used this blog to voice a serious concern, hoping to raise some consciousness. Today, I'm guilty of being snarky, even somewhat self-serving. Don't send me down the shaft. It's Friday.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
The Rise of the Ignorati
I know some people, including my dear sister and sister-in-law and some of my closest friends, can continue to find happiness living in the town where they were raised. I am definitely not one of those people and think the well adjusted like my sister, sister-in-law and dear friends, are the exceptions who tolerate and survive this plight relatively unscathed. I respect their decision to stay close to their hometowns, but I don't understand it. The biggest advantage to their choice is proximity to mothers and others who'd help you take care of your baby. Now that I have a son, I do wish my mother, sister and others were nearby to share in his ongoing development and give me a much-needed break for writing and working.
OK. Disclaimer's over. Do not be offended, Alexandra, Jennifer and darling friends, for I mean no ill will. It's just that I think most people, not you my dear ones, are harmed by hunkering down in their hometown.
When I visit the bucolic western Massachusetts hamlet (H. P. Lovecraft based the fictional town of Dunwich in his story "The Dunwich Horror" on Wilbraham after a visit in 1928) where I was raised, I am deeply saddening by its demise. Wilbraham is still a picturesque place with nice houses, big yards, apple orchards and an eponymous mountain where I spent many a childhood afternoon. When I was kid, it had one of the best school systems in the country, and I learned to be a socially conscious and thoughtful person in a generally nurturing community. The western portion of the People's Republic of Massachusetts was especially liberal, save for the calls we'd get in the middle of the night accusing us of being "commies," "pinkos" and "Nazis." (More on that another time. Those who know my ancestry and my mother's plight will be especially appalled.) It's almost impossible for me to imagine how someone who went to the same elementary schools at the same time could become a traitor to tolerance, humanity and common sense.
Allow me to explain. I've become Facebook friends with several childhood friends. I haven't seen or spoken to most of them since I left the fifth grade in public school to start seventh grade in a private school. Some have moved far from home, though oddly none to New York. But a staggering number have stayed put, raising kids where they were raised. I enjoy the photos and updates on their families. But for the most part, that's all there is. Most keep mum about issues that should bring their blood to a boil, most recently the travesty of Tuesday's elections. About a year ago one of them even posted about her disdain for politics and desire to never speak or think of it. How did this happen? How could a woman who learned about civics in second grade diss her duty? What's more disturbing is how many of these childhood cohorts have become Republicans. I know this by their Info tabs which include Glenn Beck and Ron Paul among their "Likes and Interests." Likely they never comment on politics because they know they'll take a verbal bruising from their liberal neighbors. But they're confident enough to come out as conservatives on Facebook.
I know many smart conservatives, as much as I could argue that's an oxymoron. My mother is one. She's kept her invite to Nixon's inaugural gala as a memento even though she married a card-carrying social democrat who was red-listed throughout my childhood and young adulthood. My mom and others I know are able to engage in thoughtful debate, and that's part of our political process and what makes life interesting. For the record, I am not a Democrat, I am a lower-case 'd' democrat. Above all, I believe in humanism. And I believe that most Republicans (and fewer registered Democrats) are anti-humanist, at least in policies they support.
I mentioned the demise of Wilbraham. It may look much like it did in the 1970s, but the political and social climate has taken a nosedive. By the 1950s, most of the urban-suburban areas of Massachusetts were largely Democratic, leaving just a couple pockets of strongly Republican rural areas in Barnstable, Nantucket, Dukes, Bristol, Berkshire, and Franklin Counties. Wilbraham is in Hampden County, surrounded by other liberal communities. Current population is 3,712 people, with 62% registered as Democrats. The street where my sister lives is representative of the town, with a median home of $259,480, down 2.37 percent from 2009. But many of the newer neighbors took advantage of fire sales by the children of older residents. These people didn't grow up in Wilbraham and weren't afforded the liberal education I benefited from as a child. Along with their pickup trucks, coolers of Coors Light and packaged foods, they brought their senseless sensibilities. They are rude, inarticulate and resentful of people like my sister, who as a former public school teacher tried to save their children from the ignorance taught at home.
Let's call these people the ignorati. I've seen other uses for the term, like a small Facebook group that says its "sole purpose ... is to promote ignoring invitations on Facebook. To join you must ignore the invitation for joining." That's not what I mean. In the case of my hometown, it's a new wave that's replaced the one-time rulers of the social and political scene, the professors and teachers and others like my parents. The literati. It's more than a malady caused by a lack of reading and analysis. They are ill-, if not misinformed on nearly every topic of consequence. I bring up Wilbraham because I've seen the sea change on my sister's street. But it's happening across the country. The trashification of our once-great nation. Complete disregard for the principles that should have been inculcated in every child, as they were in me. When I think of tragedies like the intense bullying of teens and youngsters by their peers, I suspect they're being groomed at home. I fear people who won't do more than list their party affiliation of Facebook are doing harm at home. I suspect that inside these sprawling suburban homes with perfectly manicured lawns, mothers and fathers are using terms like faggot and claiming God doesn't like homos. Where else are these kids learning it? These parents may be too scared, too intimidated by well-read, well-spoken, well-informed liberals to post their political views on Facebook, so they preach to the captive, the naive, the innocent. Please, parents, teach your children tolerance, acceptance and understanding for those with different lifestyles and backgrounds, and foster creative and critical thinking. (Don't worry, this isn’t anti-Christian. In fact, it's what your faith teaches.) Our nation is dying. Democracy is dying. Engage us liberals in debate. We like to argue, as in consider the pros and cons of any idea or ideology. Go to the polls and take your children with you. But don't teach your children to hate. Sadly, they can and will learn that on their own.
OK. Disclaimer's over. Do not be offended, Alexandra, Jennifer and darling friends, for I mean no ill will. It's just that I think most people, not you my dear ones, are harmed by hunkering down in their hometown.
When I visit the bucolic western Massachusetts hamlet (H. P. Lovecraft based the fictional town of Dunwich in his story "The Dunwich Horror" on Wilbraham after a visit in 1928) where I was raised, I am deeply saddening by its demise. Wilbraham is still a picturesque place with nice houses, big yards, apple orchards and an eponymous mountain where I spent many a childhood afternoon. When I was kid, it had one of the best school systems in the country, and I learned to be a socially conscious and thoughtful person in a generally nurturing community. The western portion of the People's Republic of Massachusetts was especially liberal, save for the calls we'd get in the middle of the night accusing us of being "commies," "pinkos" and "Nazis." (More on that another time. Those who know my ancestry and my mother's plight will be especially appalled.) It's almost impossible for me to imagine how someone who went to the same elementary schools at the same time could become a traitor to tolerance, humanity and common sense.
Allow me to explain. I've become Facebook friends with several childhood friends. I haven't seen or spoken to most of them since I left the fifth grade in public school to start seventh grade in a private school. Some have moved far from home, though oddly none to New York. But a staggering number have stayed put, raising kids where they were raised. I enjoy the photos and updates on their families. But for the most part, that's all there is. Most keep mum about issues that should bring their blood to a boil, most recently the travesty of Tuesday's elections. About a year ago one of them even posted about her disdain for politics and desire to never speak or think of it. How did this happen? How could a woman who learned about civics in second grade diss her duty? What's more disturbing is how many of these childhood cohorts have become Republicans. I know this by their Info tabs which include Glenn Beck and Ron Paul among their "Likes and Interests." Likely they never comment on politics because they know they'll take a verbal bruising from their liberal neighbors. But they're confident enough to come out as conservatives on Facebook.
I know many smart conservatives, as much as I could argue that's an oxymoron. My mother is one. She's kept her invite to Nixon's inaugural gala as a memento even though she married a card-carrying social democrat who was red-listed throughout my childhood and young adulthood. My mom and others I know are able to engage in thoughtful debate, and that's part of our political process and what makes life interesting. For the record, I am not a Democrat, I am a lower-case 'd' democrat. Above all, I believe in humanism. And I believe that most Republicans (and fewer registered Democrats) are anti-humanist, at least in policies they support.
I mentioned the demise of Wilbraham. It may look much like it did in the 1970s, but the political and social climate has taken a nosedive. By the 1950s, most of the urban-suburban areas of Massachusetts were largely Democratic, leaving just a couple pockets of strongly Republican rural areas in Barnstable, Nantucket, Dukes, Bristol, Berkshire, and Franklin Counties. Wilbraham is in Hampden County, surrounded by other liberal communities. Current population is 3,712 people, with 62% registered as Democrats. The street where my sister lives is representative of the town, with a median home of $259,480, down 2.37 percent from 2009. But many of the newer neighbors took advantage of fire sales by the children of older residents. These people didn't grow up in Wilbraham and weren't afforded the liberal education I benefited from as a child. Along with their pickup trucks, coolers of Coors Light and packaged foods, they brought their senseless sensibilities. They are rude, inarticulate and resentful of people like my sister, who as a former public school teacher tried to save their children from the ignorance taught at home.
Let's call these people the ignorati. I've seen other uses for the term, like a small Facebook group that says its "sole purpose ... is to promote ignoring invitations on Facebook. To join you must ignore the invitation for joining." That's not what I mean. In the case of my hometown, it's a new wave that's replaced the one-time rulers of the social and political scene, the professors and teachers and others like my parents. The literati. It's more than a malady caused by a lack of reading and analysis. They are ill-, if not misinformed on nearly every topic of consequence. I bring up Wilbraham because I've seen the sea change on my sister's street. But it's happening across the country. The trashification of our once-great nation. Complete disregard for the principles that should have been inculcated in every child, as they were in me. When I think of tragedies like the intense bullying of teens and youngsters by their peers, I suspect they're being groomed at home. I fear people who won't do more than list their party affiliation of Facebook are doing harm at home. I suspect that inside these sprawling suburban homes with perfectly manicured lawns, mothers and fathers are using terms like faggot and claiming God doesn't like homos. Where else are these kids learning it? These parents may be too scared, too intimidated by well-read, well-spoken, well-informed liberals to post their political views on Facebook, so they preach to the captive, the naive, the innocent. Please, parents, teach your children tolerance, acceptance and understanding for those with different lifestyles and backgrounds, and foster creative and critical thinking. (Don't worry, this isn’t anti-Christian. In fact, it's what your faith teaches.) Our nation is dying. Democracy is dying. Engage us liberals in debate. We like to argue, as in consider the pros and cons of any idea or ideology. Go to the polls and take your children with you. But don't teach your children to hate. Sadly, they can and will learn that on their own.
Monday, November 1, 2010
LA/NY Bad Back/Good Back
It's been nearly a week since Mike and I returned from our too-short trip to LA on the redeye. We had an absolutely indulgent and glorious time, save for missing the baby. Witnessing the wedding of two soulmates surrounded by dear friends is one of life's greatest rewards. It was an especially intimate celebration, and every person belonged there in some way. Trust me, brides-to-be, the single most important thing about wedding planning is avoiding unwanted guests. Our friends in LA clearly averted my biggest mistake, allowing a pill-popping sociopath to invite herself and make every effort to mar my big day with egregious actions like grabbing the asses of my husband and close friends and intentionally insulting nearly everyone I care about. Her unwanted presence aside, our day was as lovely as the West Coast fete, a marriage of two minds and hearts and sensibilities.
Besides sharing in this lovely life event, it was a privilege to spend time with many of Mike's dearest friends. The camaraderie and warmth, combined with the sunshine and poolside pleasure at The Standard in West Hollywood, tempts me to relocate and ditch this dreary weather. On vacation, LA is OK, as long as you stay on Sunset and play in West Hollywood. But as soon as you need to trek to another sprawling neighborhood, it's time to shell out some $60 for cab. It makes New York seem cheap. Here I flinch if the fare is over $15, and I rarely cab it anyway, choosing to walk almost everywhere. The biggest burden of life in LA is the lack of adequate public transportation. The majority of motorists in Manhattan are tools or tourists, while those who walk the streets in LA are mostly mental patients or Manhattanites.
My back pain was a mere 5-to-6 on the pain threshold during our three-night stay in sunny LA. But after the redeye and subsequent train trip to pick up Michael Alexander from my mom, the pain hit a fever pitch. I got results of my MRI today. Besides the scoliosis and degenerated spine (I was diagnosed in 2006 while marathon training), I have a rotated spine and herniated disks and nerve damage. A myriad maladies which will never be "fixed," though I work to stave off or slow further injury and strive to keep the pain in that tolerable 5-to-6 range. After sitting on a plane and trains, the pain shot to a 10 and I was chewing the inside of my mouth just to cope. Sitting for an extended period of time is bad for every body and far worse for one like mine. I am thankful that I can bring Michael Alexander to physical therapy twice a week. The wonderful women who work there adore him and play with him while I do my exercises and then allow me to hold him on the table while I am receiving transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation. I do more lower back and core strengthening exercises after my daily workouts. As I've mentioned, my dear husband wakes before dawn to go to the gym before work so I can I go when he gets home from the office. But that's not enough. I need to be doing those exercises every hour while I am doing any sort of bending or lifting, actions required in my full-time role as mother to a very active six-month-old. Oh, and I am to avoid bending at the waist and lifting to reduce the strain and pain and symptoms and keep this from reaching the stage where surgery is the only answer. Ha! I do make every effort to use proper form when lifting Michael Alexander, but as anyone who has ever witnessed an infant in action can attest, there are few chances to prepare for the second when you have to lunge and save the baby from imminent peril. The best non-surgical treatment at this time is regular epidural injections. But that's not a baby-friendly environment, so for now I am trying a two-week course of gut-wrenching steroids, the strongest non-evasive treatment available in the U.S. I'm also working on getting a TENS (transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation) machine for home so I can step up the non-pharmaceutical treatment. The best pain med is Percocet, which makes my brain mush but is the only way to reduce the pain from a 10 to a 6 or 7 or so. I am trying to take it only when I hit 10, which happens far too often.
For now, we're staying in New York, but LA is always a temptation. Mostly, I can't bear the thought of owning a car and daily driving. That, and all the people I would miss madly here on the East Coast. As for being back home, that is good. So very good to hold my son and witness his every amazing action. The bad back, however, not so good.
Besides sharing in this lovely life event, it was a privilege to spend time with many of Mike's dearest friends. The camaraderie and warmth, combined with the sunshine and poolside pleasure at The Standard in West Hollywood, tempts me to relocate and ditch this dreary weather. On vacation, LA is OK, as long as you stay on Sunset and play in West Hollywood. But as soon as you need to trek to another sprawling neighborhood, it's time to shell out some $60 for cab. It makes New York seem cheap. Here I flinch if the fare is over $15, and I rarely cab it anyway, choosing to walk almost everywhere. The biggest burden of life in LA is the lack of adequate public transportation. The majority of motorists in Manhattan are tools or tourists, while those who walk the streets in LA are mostly mental patients or Manhattanites.
My back pain was a mere 5-to-6 on the pain threshold during our three-night stay in sunny LA. But after the redeye and subsequent train trip to pick up Michael Alexander from my mom, the pain hit a fever pitch. I got results of my MRI today. Besides the scoliosis and degenerated spine (I was diagnosed in 2006 while marathon training), I have a rotated spine and herniated disks and nerve damage. A myriad maladies which will never be "fixed," though I work to stave off or slow further injury and strive to keep the pain in that tolerable 5-to-6 range. After sitting on a plane and trains, the pain shot to a 10 and I was chewing the inside of my mouth just to cope. Sitting for an extended period of time is bad for every body and far worse for one like mine. I am thankful that I can bring Michael Alexander to physical therapy twice a week. The wonderful women who work there adore him and play with him while I do my exercises and then allow me to hold him on the table while I am receiving transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation. I do more lower back and core strengthening exercises after my daily workouts. As I've mentioned, my dear husband wakes before dawn to go to the gym before work so I can I go when he gets home from the office. But that's not enough. I need to be doing those exercises every hour while I am doing any sort of bending or lifting, actions required in my full-time role as mother to a very active six-month-old. Oh, and I am to avoid bending at the waist and lifting to reduce the strain and pain and symptoms and keep this from reaching the stage where surgery is the only answer. Ha! I do make every effort to use proper form when lifting Michael Alexander, but as anyone who has ever witnessed an infant in action can attest, there are few chances to prepare for the second when you have to lunge and save the baby from imminent peril. The best non-surgical treatment at this time is regular epidural injections. But that's not a baby-friendly environment, so for now I am trying a two-week course of gut-wrenching steroids, the strongest non-evasive treatment available in the U.S. I'm also working on getting a TENS (transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation) machine for home so I can step up the non-pharmaceutical treatment. The best pain med is Percocet, which makes my brain mush but is the only way to reduce the pain from a 10 to a 6 or 7 or so. I am trying to take it only when I hit 10, which happens far too often.
For now, we're staying in New York, but LA is always a temptation. Mostly, I can't bear the thought of owning a car and daily driving. That, and all the people I would miss madly here on the East Coast. As for being back home, that is good. So very good to hold my son and witness his every amazing action. The bad back, however, not so good.
Monday, October 18, 2010
10-18 and "The steak at Barney's is rather nice"
Oct. 18 is one of the toughest days of the year. June 21st is the worst. That's the day my dad died, in 2002, of cancer. Oct. 18, or 10-18, is his birthday. I try to make it a day of celebration, but the joy is not without a profound sadness, both over his suffering and my loss, but now more so because my son, Michael Alexander, will never know his namesake grandfather, dedushka (DED-oosh-kah)or dziadzia (JAH jah). Michael William Gural was best known as Brother Mike. He wasn't a monk, though he spent much of his life living like one. Brother refers largely to his true humanist belief in democratic socialism. My dad was the consummate scholar-athlete-worker-artist-humanist-teacher-philosopher-storyteller. He would love his grandson unconditionally and make him his most important student, since his daughters.
(Look, Mike, paragraph breaks! Apologies. Inside joke.)
On this day, as I attempt to smile more than I cry, I offer a few quick quotes from the many tomes my father read and re-read until his dying day. Even as his once strong, athletic body crumbled and the cancer spread to his brain, my father was able to do what he loved best, "commune with the Great Minds through reading books." I am blessed with a wonderful, brilliant husband who will be as committed to his son and my father was to me, to ensure that Michael Alexander engages with the Great Minds through the great books. I often go to these Great Minds for inspiration, for solace, for support, for guidance.
Today, I'm turning to some of the simplest ideas my father shared with me when I was a young child. While my son is a genius, he's still just a 6-month-old genius.
Good habits formed at youth make all the difference.
Aristotle
Life must be lived as play.
Plato
I am not a Marxist.
Karl Marx
OK, That one's not so simple without explanation, but I'll save that for when I get a gig teaching Marxian Philosophy 101.
Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.
Fyodor Dostoevsky
I agree with no one's opinion. I have some of my own.
Ivan Turgenev
Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes.
Kahlil Gibran
I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.
Joseph Campbell
To be is to do.
Immanuel Kant
I could go on and on, but I'll stop at one more. This last one is not like the others. It's not likely to come up in any Intro to Great Minds class.
The steak at Barney's is rather nice.
Paul Edwards
Of course the Barney's quote is absurd out of context. Edwards is an Austrian-American moral philosopher, who lived from 1923 to 2004. It's quite likely that Brother Mike and Edwards met at some point in their academic careers. I don't ever recall my father mentioning Paul Edwards, but Brother Mike was such a prolific re-reader, a true scholar, he communed with many, many Great Minds. It seems that Edwards was a similar type of scholar. While writing his doctoral thesis he contacted Bertrand Russell to discuss scepticism about religious belief.
I digress. The Paul Edwards quote comes up today because it is from a hardcover textbook, "The Logic of Moral Discourse," published in 1955 with an introduction by Marxist philosopher Sidney Hook. That book comes from a very small section in our home library. My father left behind a scholarly library carefully compiled over seven decades and meticulously organized. My mother sold the entire collection when he died. I was angry for awhile, but I understand how keeping thousands of books was too much for my mother to bear, especially on an emotional level. She'd already taken care of him, like she did her own father and mother, who also were bedridden and very ill for many years. My father died at home, with his books. When I told Mike about the books, he immediately began investigating, contacting rare and used book dealers throughout Massachusetts where my mother lives. Mike found one dealer who had a couple dozen books he chose from the collection my mother gave away. Mike didn't tell me until the books arrived. It was early in our relationship, and I was living in the Village, on MacDougal between Bleecker and Houston, just blocks from Forbes magazine's offices, where Mike worked at the time. We used a handcart to haul the re-found treasures back to my modest walkup. That night, Mike and I communed with those books. My father and my husband never met. That is unfair. They share so much passion for the Great Minds and would have had epic debates and discussions. Back to the books. My father often made notes in perfect cursive using the very light touch of a No. 2 pencil. He'd never deface a book other than to imprint his name, MICHAEL W. GURAL, in block letters on the inside front cover. My father made very detailed notes in Chapter V, "The Steak at Barney's is Rather Nice," in which Edwards examines the philosophical meanings of the word nice.
The Barney's at 660 Madison serves a Certified Angus Sliced Steak at lunch for $34 (meh, at best), and a Dried Aged Grilled New York Strip Steak at dinner for $42 (I'd still prefer a steak at Strip House, or a natural beef or buffalo steak that Mike dry aged at home. Yeah, you can do that. Alton Brown taught us how.) Again, I digress. Eating at Barney's wasn't the same in my father's (and Paul Edwards') days in New York. And I doubt they would have have met at Barney's, if they met at all. In any case, I'm sure the steak at Barney's in the 1950s was "rather nice." But that whole business has changed a lot over the years. In 1977, Barney's in-store restaurant was renamed The Cafe and started selling salads, soup, and sandwiches to cater to tourists. I'm sure there are at least a few Park Avenue ladies-who-lunch who are even older than my dad, would be 84 today, with perfect coiffes and vintage furs, who could recite the menu from 55 years ago. For the record, my dad would have ordered the Fish of the Day, even though he'd prefer the Grilled Veal Chop.
(Look, Mike, paragraph breaks! Apologies. Inside joke.)
On this day, as I attempt to smile more than I cry, I offer a few quick quotes from the many tomes my father read and re-read until his dying day. Even as his once strong, athletic body crumbled and the cancer spread to his brain, my father was able to do what he loved best, "commune with the Great Minds through reading books." I am blessed with a wonderful, brilliant husband who will be as committed to his son and my father was to me, to ensure that Michael Alexander engages with the Great Minds through the great books. I often go to these Great Minds for inspiration, for solace, for support, for guidance.
Today, I'm turning to some of the simplest ideas my father shared with me when I was a young child. While my son is a genius, he's still just a 6-month-old genius.
Good habits formed at youth make all the difference.
Aristotle
Life must be lived as play.
Plato
I am not a Marxist.
Karl Marx
OK, That one's not so simple without explanation, but I'll save that for when I get a gig teaching Marxian Philosophy 101.
Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid.
Fyodor Dostoevsky
I agree with no one's opinion. I have some of my own.
Ivan Turgenev
Coming generations will learn equality from poverty, and love from woes.
Kahlil Gibran
I don't believe people are looking for the meaning of life as much as they are looking for the experience of being alive.
Joseph Campbell
To be is to do.
Immanuel Kant
I could go on and on, but I'll stop at one more. This last one is not like the others. It's not likely to come up in any Intro to Great Minds class.
The steak at Barney's is rather nice.
Paul Edwards
Of course the Barney's quote is absurd out of context. Edwards is an Austrian-American moral philosopher, who lived from 1923 to 2004. It's quite likely that Brother Mike and Edwards met at some point in their academic careers. I don't ever recall my father mentioning Paul Edwards, but Brother Mike was such a prolific re-reader, a true scholar, he communed with many, many Great Minds. It seems that Edwards was a similar type of scholar. While writing his doctoral thesis he contacted Bertrand Russell to discuss scepticism about religious belief.
I digress. The Paul Edwards quote comes up today because it is from a hardcover textbook, "The Logic of Moral Discourse," published in 1955 with an introduction by Marxist philosopher Sidney Hook. That book comes from a very small section in our home library. My father left behind a scholarly library carefully compiled over seven decades and meticulously organized. My mother sold the entire collection when he died. I was angry for awhile, but I understand how keeping thousands of books was too much for my mother to bear, especially on an emotional level. She'd already taken care of him, like she did her own father and mother, who also were bedridden and very ill for many years. My father died at home, with his books. When I told Mike about the books, he immediately began investigating, contacting rare and used book dealers throughout Massachusetts where my mother lives. Mike found one dealer who had a couple dozen books he chose from the collection my mother gave away. Mike didn't tell me until the books arrived. It was early in our relationship, and I was living in the Village, on MacDougal between Bleecker and Houston, just blocks from Forbes magazine's offices, where Mike worked at the time. We used a handcart to haul the re-found treasures back to my modest walkup. That night, Mike and I communed with those books. My father and my husband never met. That is unfair. They share so much passion for the Great Minds and would have had epic debates and discussions. Back to the books. My father often made notes in perfect cursive using the very light touch of a No. 2 pencil. He'd never deface a book other than to imprint his name, MICHAEL W. GURAL, in block letters on the inside front cover. My father made very detailed notes in Chapter V, "The Steak at Barney's is Rather Nice," in which Edwards examines the philosophical meanings of the word nice.
The Barney's at 660 Madison serves a Certified Angus Sliced Steak at lunch for $34 (meh, at best), and a Dried Aged Grilled New York Strip Steak at dinner for $42 (I'd still prefer a steak at Strip House, or a natural beef or buffalo steak that Mike dry aged at home. Yeah, you can do that. Alton Brown taught us how.) Again, I digress. Eating at Barney's wasn't the same in my father's (and Paul Edwards') days in New York. And I doubt they would have have met at Barney's, if they met at all. In any case, I'm sure the steak at Barney's in the 1950s was "rather nice." But that whole business has changed a lot over the years. In 1977, Barney's in-store restaurant was renamed The Cafe and started selling salads, soup, and sandwiches to cater to tourists. I'm sure there are at least a few Park Avenue ladies-who-lunch who are even older than my dad, would be 84 today, with perfect coiffes and vintage furs, who could recite the menu from 55 years ago. For the record, my dad would have ordered the Fish of the Day, even though he'd prefer the Grilled Veal Chop.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
AT+Teed Off and Dreading the Wal-Apocalypse
Tuesday's woe was waiting for the cops to respond in the wake of my iPhone theft and the anger, frustration, dismay and disgust that followed. I didn't sleep Tuesday night, and my beautiful son was the only thing that kept a smile on my face until Mike came home from work. But Tuesday's petty crime was eclipsed by the corporate crime committed by AT+T (and by association, Apple.) I wasted a solid 7.5 hours (no exaggeration) yesterday trying to replace my stolen phone without being ripped off again. Turns out that AT+T is a far greater thief than the thug who made off with my phone. Michael Alexander and I spent well over two hours in the Apple retail store only to be dropped four times while on the line with an AT&T representative, entering and speaking the same information each time. The Apple representative went twice to look for a "floating" mobile phone, as the iPhones attached to the displays at the store kept dropping calls. Welcome to AT+T! The self-professed "leader in telecommunication services" can't provide basic service! Welcome to the third (world) generation of telecoms! I had better success making calls in remote eastern Africa. And, of course, there were no "floater" phones in the store, the rep said, as they had all been stolen. I finally managed to get through a full call with an AT+T rep, all the while hunched over as the phones are attached by short cords to curb theft. I was left with information contradicting what Mike was told when he called to suspend my account. As I spent up to 45 minutes a try squatting and squirming to use the display phone, I was holding and engaging Michael Alexander and clutching my purse, as I've become paranoid since Tuesday's theft. No wonder my back was especially sore, preventing me from sleeping. (I go for a nerve test tomorrow. The pain is worse than ever.) I left the Apple store without a new phone and headed to an AT+T store, as that's what the Apple reps suggested. All I wanted was to buy a new phone and not renew my contract, which has a full year of commitment left. AT+T informed me that I cannot buy a new phone without a new, two-year contract. That is criminal! If I cancel my contract halfway through, I pay a penalty, but the corporate "leader" can bully me into signing on for another two years of dis-service? And the retail cost to replace my stolen phone is $599! To make a very long and trying tale shorter, I was again (mis)informed by the Apple rep and an AT+T rep who said I could buy a refurbed iPhone online or at an authorized AT+T dealer and reactive my current contract. I then visited an AT+T dealer who reiterated that I could get a refurb and continue my contract. Skipping errands, Michael Alexander and I headed home some four hours after we set out on what I had hoped would be a simple task. He's no worse for the wear, mind you, smiling and giggling and babbling and rejoicing as I carried him for dozens of blocks so he could see the sights and faces. I then spent nearly four more hours online chatting with or calling AT+T reps only to be dropped from four chat sessions and three more calls. That's AT+T's "commitment to service excellence!" Meanwhile, my darling husband was also making calls, well past 7:30 p.m. while I was at the gym, my only break from this customer dis-service nightmare. His calls kept dropping, too. For AT+T to claim it has any customer "service" at all is a brazen lie. It has any army of ill- or mis-informed salesdrones competing with each other and ratting out their colleagues (note: sarcastic use of colleague), and blaming them for the last lie. The passive-aggressive blame game started at the Apple store, where the blue T-shirts dismissed AT+T's reps as "knowing nothing" about the "service" they claim to provide. Then each subsequent AT+T rep (from the retail store to the phone bank to the chatroom) said her/his counterpart was "wrong" to tell me something different and that s/he was telling me the "reality." OK, only one said "reality", another said "honest truth." Ha! Just as I thought it would be impossible to loathe any corporate criminal incompetent more than AT+T, I read about Wal-Mart's plan to spread its evil empire into my beloved city. Part of what distinguishes us from the red state ingrates is that we are Wal-free. There already are so many wretched chains in Manhattan, but I like to believe that most patrons of these retail wretches are the tourists who come here to be exploited by the same big boxes that infest their hometowns, only with a higher price tag. (And of course, they complain about the prices! I have a great way to avoid the added costs: Stay home!) I like to believe that the majority of my fellow city dwellers choose News Cafe over Starsucks. I like to believe. (Clicking the heels of my ruby slippers, I repeat three times: "There's no place like home.") Fellow New Yorkers, please help keep our home one with independent businesses that survive by offering a superior product and real customer service! Please stay out of these menacing big boxes when possible. (I acknowledge I do shop at Babies 'R' Us, but that's a different story and a debate I'm happy to take on, just not right now.) Please do all you can to keep the Walmartians out of New York! Please help preserve humanity, community and democracy! Shopping at a Wal-Mart is a great crime against democracy. As destor23 commented on Gawker's "What Would Wal-Mart Mean for New York?" post: "Only one thing can stop this: New Yorkers have to not shop at these mini-monstrosities. Frankly, the city has become so chainified already that I think it will be tough to actually get people to not go there but just remember... first the Walmartians land and then New York's streets wind up clogged with fatties on Medicare-subsidized scooters. From there it's all Tea Party all the time. You have been warned." Don't worry, destor23, I promise our son will never, ever enter a Wal-Mart as long as he's living under our roof! And trust that we will do everything in our power to instill in him the ethics to make the right decision and fight the Wal.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Steve Maddening Day
Today started out great. I woke feeling well rested. My left lumbar pain wasn't debilitating. My son was giggling and smiling and eating organic apples and bananas. A day free of conference calls, doctors appointments and deadlines, I was looking forward to a morning and afternoon and evening of great accomplishments, including cleaning out my closet. I made great strides with the closet this morning and then decided to take a break to go shopping for Mike's costume for his Friday performance and for a new pair of boots. I stopped by the Steve Madden store in Union Square yesterday while running errands and saw a pair of high boots that were actually high enough. Most boots and pants are designed for short women, or those who are 5'5" and shorter, but this pair would reach the knees, even on an amazon. Perfect, except they didn't have them in my size. Size 10 shoes sell out quickly, especially boots designed with tall girls in mind. The sales associate called the SoHo store and said they would hold them for me. While searching for Daddy's costume, I figured Michael Alexander and I could make a quick stop at the SoHo store. I lived in the central Village, on the cusp of SoHo, for more than a decade before moving to Union Square and always loved wandering Broadway, whether I was shopping or just window shopping. Things have changed. SoHo, or at least Broadway, has always attracted tourists along with the beautiful people, or natives, but it's never been this ugly, I'm sure. It used to be mostly fashionable European tourists, who were obvious only because of their maps and guide books. But these days the corn-fed middle Americans who rarely stray from Times Square are clogging the sidewalks. I should have run away immediately when I saw every Abercrombie teen, tween and her sister with their uptight mothers trying on pair after pair of boots and hooker heels. But I thought I could quickly get the pair saved for me, try them on and buy them if they fit. Ha! After 20 minutes, a sales associate informed me the boots weren't on hold, so I showed her the pair. 15 minutes later, I got the pair. As I turned away (for a few seconds at best) from the stroller, which was secured with the break and my foot under the front tire so I'd know if anyone tried to touch it, someone snagged my iPhone and ran off. I didn't see him, but a lovely young Russian woman did and agreed to stay and give the cops a description. She and her friend were an exception to the typical crowd at a Steve Madden store on weekdays, these days. Needless to say, I didn't get the boots, which had a broken zipper. When I asked to use the phone to call the cops, the store manager said to me, "I don't know why you're mad at me. It's not my fault," and handed me a photocopy of an NYPD-issued statement about how the store isn't responsible for stolen stuff. I was so shaken, I didn't even respond. He's bitter from dealing with droves of obnoxious tourists who will never return, and treats everyone as if they shop at Wal-Mart, the ultimate sin against democracy. (More on that another time.) It took another 40 minutes for the cop to come. The Russian woman and her friend waited the whole time. For every thief, there are two human beings. That was about the only thing that kept me from weeping and losing all faith in humanity. I know it's just an iPhone. I know I am lucky he didn't take my Michael Kors wallet with my credit cards, or my Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses, or my most-precious Marc Jacobs bag. And I am very thankful he didn't harm my son, who was oblivious to the incident, smiling as I held him tight, rattled by the manager's callous indifference and offended that he treated me like one of those people. But still, I am shaken and stirred and sad. What made me sad was my reaction, what I felt, but didn't articulate. This petty crime brought out my worse-than-petty elitist attitude. "Well, what can you can you expect from a low-end store like Steve Madden where all these tourists and tweens shop?" I blamed myself a little for even being there, for making myself a potential target just by shopping with so many victims-to-be. I am savvy. I am a city person. I am strong. This guy stole more than my phone. He robbed me of a day's ambitions (I should have had the closet immaculate, the laundry in the dryers and dinner prepped by now); he disrupted my whole week's schedule (a work-from-home mom only has so many hours a day to get things done); and he made me feel ... ugh ... so.hard.to.say.it ... helpless. I couldn't run out after him. I have a son to watch and care for. That is my priority. Period. He knew that. The short (shorter than me), awkward and dumpy thief (based on the 5'9" witness' description), was no adversary for me. I could take him. He couldn't outrun me. He couldn't escape from my headlock, withstand my pounding. He couldn't look me in the eye and not shudder with fear. But he got away. And it's because I am a mom, and he knows I would never look away from my son long enough to let anything happen to him. Just long enough for some wimpy thief to snatch my phone. Replacing the phone is a costly hassle that's going to set me back even further this week. That sucks. But what really sucks is how I feel about society right now. How I feel about stores that cater to tourists and allow such thieves to lurk and blend in with the low-rent crowd. "If were shopping at Prada across the street," I thought to myself, "this wouldn't happen because the store associates and managers would notice this guy and I wouldn't be lost in a sea of Walmartians." I'll never go back to a Steve Madden store. The shoes are crappy anyway. And I'll be watching my belongings like a hawk, suspecting every suspicious-looking (whatever that means, another judgment) person when I do return to Broadway. The back pain's back and I am headed back to conquer the closet, with a lot less enthusiasm. Guess I won't be tossing my old boots. They have a broken zipper, just like the new ones at Steve Madden.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Getting on my nerves
I was diagnosed with scoliosis and a degenerated spine six years ago when I went in for a patella tendon overuse injury while marathon training. I've long had pain in my left lumbar spine, but like with my other chronic pain (mostly in my neck and shoulders), I ignored it for years assuming everyone deals with some constant discomfort. The 2006 knee injury was caused by the scoliosis. The scoliosis diagnosis itself isn't a big deal, it's the degenerated spine part that's cause for concern and ceasing certain activities, like running for fear of far greater injury. Under a doctor's care, I trained for and ran the 2006 marathon, but then quit running for the most part. It's been a major frustration, especially battling post-preggo weight, to not run daily. I spin nearly every day and stair climb and use the boring elliptical on occasion, but no amount of cardio, no matter how intense, can burn enough calories to do more than maintain my metabolically-challenged body's weight. Surprisingly, my back pain didn't get worse while I was pregnant. I did a lot of core strengthening, holding planks and bridges for what seemed like hours a day, and did extra exercises targeting the lower back. While I worked out, even spun, until two days before I went into labor, I did pare down the intensity of cardio and cut back on heavy lifting. That may be why I made it through 9 months without more severe pain. My left lumbar pain has become unbearable lately. There's a constant dull pain which I long ago accepted as the norm for my body, but the periodic sharp pains that intensify the chronic, dull pain recently became too much too ignore. I saw a new doctor today. Based on a physical exam, she believes I either have nerve damage or a slipped disk. I go for a nerve exam a week from tomorrow and start my latest round of physical therapy on Monday. If there's no sign of nerve damage, I go for an MRI. I hope this can be treated without surgery. The best part about this office is the doctor, who is mom to a 6 1/2-month-old son, welcomes my bringing Michael Alexander to PT as well as office visits. A native of Ukraine, she spoke to my little зайчик zaitchick (bunny) in Russian. I'm optimistic about the PT, as the doctor promised the clinic treats athletes. I had one positive PT experience at a clinic run by a former (American) football player who didn't waste my time with exercises for sissies. Every other physical therapist I tried taught simple exercises assuming the patient is a weak, lazy sloth. Needless to say, those experiences got on my nerves. Backing away from the computer for now. Michael Alexander wants more organic apples.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Morning Shorts
Mike is meeting a former colleague after work, so he got up extra early, before 5 a.m., allowing us both to work out before he left for the office. I had expected a painful, bitter chill when I headed to the gym for 6:30 spin, but experienced a refreshing, crisp, clear morning air that perked me right up. I've always felt there was something especially gratifying about working out before the sun comes up, which has been Mike's ritual since Michael Alexander was born. I go the gym when he gets home from work. On weekdays, it's my only time away from my beautiful son, so I'm dressed and ready to go when Mike comes home. I have to rush to sign up for a 6:45 spin class, bang out my ab work and then come home to finish making dinner. (Mike loves to make dinner, too, but it's easier for me to do it most weekdays. He was a saint when I was sick last week, making me homemade organic chicken soup loaded with veggies.) Going to the gym in the morning allows you to luxuriate. This morning was pure bliss. Larry led us through a solid 55 minutes of heavy climbs and sprints through resistance. Often morning classes aren't as challenging as evening ones, but this is a definite exception. When Mike and I first started taking Larry's classes; we aimed for two workouts a day before and during my pregnancy, but the early morning routine gave us a pass if something came up after work. I didn't like Larry at first. He's very intense, frenetic and strange. Now that I understand, and relate to, his passionate approach, I consider him one of the best. He's hilarious and totally dedicated. He talks through class, which he starts a good 7 minutes ahead of schedule, even as he pushes as hard as the participants. He works downtown, at the court, district, I think, and gets up in the middle of the night to make it to Union Square from faraway New Jersey. "15 more seconds of intensity. 15 more seconds of insanity," are among his mantras as he leads us through the "last 80 seconds" of a sprint through heavy resistance. What really made my day was when Larry recalled a class he took at another gym, somewhere in Jersey. "There was this bench outside the room, and people would get there 20 minutes early and drink coffee!" he wailed. "They sat there drinking coffee when they could be working out! It made me crazy." Aaah! That's my Larry! That is exactly the kind of slothful behavior that pisses me off, and Larry's (over)sharing was what me realize why today was a super great morning. Nobody comes to spin class, or the gym for that matter, when it opens at 5 a.m., or even for a 6:30 spin class, unless they are hardcore. In the evenings, there are kickass classes, but a majority of the attendees (as many aren't there in spirit) give about 20% at best. When the instructor says "Give me about a 5-6 (in resistance). A flat row." On most bikes at the downtown Crunches, a 5 or 6 is generally 17 turns. After that, you're starting to climb. While I respect the naturally lean people who come to the gym at all, I loathe all the lazies and wish they'd stay away from my coveted classes and avoid insulting with beloved instructors with their lack of effort or enthusiasm. Aaah, thank you Larry, and, of course, thank you, Mike, for a lovely morning! I am tired, but as zen as I get. Babies crying. Must run. I love writing without paragraph breaks or self-editing. Thanks, Michael Alexander, for demanding my attention.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Gold's Standards and Train Wrecks
Michael Alexander and I were in Massachusetts for a few days last week, visiting with his Babushka, Auntie Shurinka and Uncle Johnny, and attending a memorial service for a dear friend's mother who died of cancer. My Mom suggested we take Amtrak to Springfield instead of Metro-North for a more luxurious ride. True the soft bucket seats are nicer than the commuter rail's communal rows, but that's if you can get one. The Vermonter was about half full when it arrived in Penn Station from Washington, and there was one empty seat in each row. The Vermonter is clearly the Loner Express. Lugging Little Mikey is his car seat along with a heavy suitcase, diaper bag and purse, I made my way to end of the last car, finding a single empty seat in each row. Not a single person offered to share a seat with another passenger so we could have a row. Placing Little Mikey on the ground, I asked the woman sitting alone in the last row if she'd mind sharing a seat with another passenger so I could secure his car seat, as safely as possible, in a seat next to mine. Clad in high-waisted, stone-washed, baggy jeans and a white acrylic turtleneck, the Walmartian looked up and said, "No, my book is here," pointing to a tattered 'Intro to French' paperback. Dismayed, I said, "You won't give up a seat for my infant son so you can place your book there?" "I have a friend coming," she quipped. Little surprise this woman traveled the whole way sans friend, sprawling out across both seats, napping and kicking the seats we finally acquired in front of her when she wasn't gabbing on her relic of a cell phone with her brother in Bellows Falls (population 3,000), clearly her only companion on her sad life voyage. At about 45, this bumpkin who, according to a chat with bro, was born, bred and will croak in this vile village, was among the youngest travelers on this train to nowhere _ slow. One of the only other passengers who was clearly not headed to Vermont, agreed to share a seat with someone else so I could care for my baby. At least the train was on time, a major feat for Amtrak, which over the last eight years has abandoned any commitment to customer service. Michael Alexander and I were both battling colds when we arrived in Springfield, and have since passed the illness on to my immune-challenged Mom. The best remedy for near-pneumonia, along with a powerful Z-pack and codeine for sleeping, is working out to exhaustion. On Friday I headed to the Gold's Gym in West Springfield, a sort of anti-Crunch where sexuality is repressed at all costs. Great facility for lifting heavy (my favorite) and cardio (since so few use the machines). There are four standard patrons at this Gold's. The high school and higher-ed jocks, who shun steroids in favor of a lean physique, command the weight machines, speaking quietly and keeping to themselves. As I warmed up with 45 minutes on the stair climber and elliptical, two guys plunked on ab machines like they were Barcaloungers kept looking over without burning a calorie. "I don't do cardio," the older one said. "It's not good for you." "I'm with you," the younger one agreed. "Yeah," the older one added, "My cousin and another guy I know died from doing cardio." This pair represents the Guns and Guts contingent at Gold's, the men of all demographics who build up bi's and tri's and chest and shoulders, but couldn't hold plank for 10 seconds or run a mile. The third, and most interesting or quintessentially Gold's group, are the roid-raging power lifters. Awesomeness to the nth degree. The fourth standard, of course, are the women; all four of us including me. I believe the one 89-pound bluehair walking a 22-minute mile on a treadmill was straight. And for the record, even with a cold, I lifted about three times as heavy as the woman with the closest crop. Aaah, Gold's, I will be back when I return to Massachusetts, a far, far way from Lafayette Crunch.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Baby's first cold
Full-on sore throat, stuffy head and runny nose. And Michael Alexander's got a runny, stuffy nose and cough. Spin class this morning was the best medicine. I was feeling completely wiped out, but sprinting through heavy tension restored my energy. Now if only my throat wasn't raw. Michael Alexander's trying to shed his sickness in jumperoo.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Time to write
The biggest challenge of working from home is finding time to write. Michael Alexander, now five months old (born April 19), is sleeping like a big boy, but some days he doesn't nap at all. I write, research and report when he plays, but he's not one for solitary pursuits. He's happiest when I pay full attention to him. I'd like to take on more freelance, but I can barely manage the few assignments I have, and already do most of my typing with one hand, like right now. I've mastered the one-handed conference call with taking notes and typing trick, a skill that comes with motherhood. I've had so many more creative ideas since he was born. I thought it would be fun to write a blog using his voice. My husband, Mike, and I speak for Michael Alexander in a kiddie voice our friend Justin calls the Mickey Mouse voice. Blogging daily would force me to take more pictures of my son to accompany his insights and observations. Ultimately I decided it was creepy to write for a baby. Talking for him is weird enough, but at least I'm not doing it alone and we control our son's audience. My other ideas are too brilliant to share. Ha!
Welcome to Nommersland!
I've resisted this until now, fearing I'd become just another blahger. When I got pregnant, I considered blogging on a number of topics from fertility treatments (I conceived the old-fashioned way) to breech positions (Michael Alexander, like both his dad and mom, was upside down and reversed position after a few moxibustion treatments and hundreds of modified shoulderstands) to C-sections (I had an emergency one, which I'm not convinced was medically necessary) to Manhattan vs. Brooklyn (we're still in Manhattan) to being approached by women who'd carry on a conversation with my bump without first asking my name. I pitched the moxibustion idea to several magazine editors, and was ignored by most of my colleagues. I acknowledge every pitch from writers, and was shocked to learn that others can't be bothered to extend the same professional courtesy. After 17 years in newsrooms, climbing the ranks from reporter to editor-in-chief, I am deeply disappointed by consumer magazine editors unwillingness or inability to recognize a good story idea for their audience. That's partly what brings me here. That, and I decided just yesterday that I am happiest at home with my son, and would rather raise him and witness his every incredible development rather than surrender a huge chunk of my salary to pay another woman to do it. There, I said it: I want to stay home!
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