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!
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