Snow What Matters

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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.