Every Other Minute

Rap on the Radio (Hip Hop on the Ipod)

Erin McCormack — Mon, 15 Mar 2010 13:43:00 GMT

Rap’s been around a while, but not in my world. The first versions from the 70’s and 80’s were rarely heard on suburban radio, as far as I know. And the first “gangsta” rap was not designed to appeal to nice white girls like me. My students at the community college were the ones who convinced me there was something to rap, more than the rhythms – the words. We did an exercise one class, where I asked them to bring in lyrics that could stand by themselves as poems. Like U2, I thought --but in vain. As much as their music evokes an emotional response, the lyrics by themselves were vague and abstract. Rap, on the other hand, delivered. Besides rhythm and rhyme, there was strong, striking imagery, and plenty of emotion – undiluted anger. Ice T – the very same of Law and Order: SVU fame, wrote “my brain’s a handgrenade – catch.” Wow, I thought. And ever since, on the radio, and on my Ipod, I listen to rap and hip-hop. I like the rhythms and I like what they do with words.

Not all of it – some of it’s god-awful, and the most graphic and misogynistic I have to switch off. But the boasting and posturing I don’t really mind – it’s part of the game. Even the put-downs, the insults back-and-forth - “playing the dozens” -- are part of the collaborative nature, the dialogue of rap and hip-hop. As long as it doesn’t get lethal. Street cred is one thing; but taking or shooting bullets is another. Angry rap, at its best, is a substitute for violence, the way that all creative outlets can bring about change without total destruction or self-destruction. When the guns come out, something’s not working. If you listen, under the bragging runs another, plaintiff chord: tough childhoods, betrayal of lovers and friends, and the bittersweet experience of fame and money:

“You would think these niggas know me when they really doesn’t

Like they was down with the old me, no you f***in’ wasn’t.” (Kanye)

Rock may defy authority, but rap is about breaking the rules, the conventions and expectations – artistically speaking. Who can be more creative and inventive than Outkast? “Hey Ya”, is infectious fun, but it’s also multidimensional music. Or “Rosa Parks”, although it ruffled some feathers, has every kind of music in it except the kitchen sink. In the best of rap and hip-hop, everything is up for grabs - the sampling, the electronics, orchestral music, violins, bells and whistles --and don’t forget the sirens. Makes me check the rearview mirror every time.

One thing I really like is the way rap artists work with and off each other – like one continuous party, with people coming and going. Jay Z, is there anyone he hasn’t worked with? Two or three guest rappers at the least. In country music, they may do duets, but this is different, the voices not so much blending as playing off each other, often the spoken rap vs. the chorus. It’s a black thing, certainly, but there’s room for Hispanics like Baby Bash; women have made a place for themselves: Beyonce, Missy Elliot. And white boys, too – Eminem is for real – “Lose Yourself” has everything rap requires – the rapid word delivery, the imagery, and the desperation to be heard and seen. On the smoother end of the scale, Justin Timberlake, God bless him, looks just as comfortable as a boy can be on either side of the color line.

Yeah, I know, a little strange --50 year old mom bouncing along with Fifty-Cent, “Hate it or Love it”. Kanye West, Jay-Z, Eminem, Alicia Keyes, Timbaland, Nellie, Ludicris – I’ve got them, too. I can tell Little Wayne by voice now, and I’m a bit fond of his weirdness. Maybe it’s going back to a time in my twenties when I lived and partied with a lot of black people, getting used to the music and the dancing – that’s what moves me now. Or, maybe it’s just my innate appreciation of clever lyrics:

Superbad chicks giving me McLovin

You would think I ran the world like Michelle’s husband. (Kanye)

What can I say? I’m a sucker for wordsmiths, and I can’t resist a good beat.

A Good Cry

Erin McCormack — Mon, 08 Mar 2010 13:38:00 GMT

“There, there, don’t cry,” the words we use to offer comfort. After many years and very few tears, I’ve come to know the real comfort of a good cry. For men, after around ten or so, there are few excuses for tears, and I had never seen a grown man cry until one day in a group therapy session; it was painful, let me tell you. I can only hope he felt better afterwards, because I was pretty shaken up.

Raising two sons, the issue has arisen, especially when they were younger. The older one was a happy baby who cried only until he got his food for the most part. He didn’t care much about a dirty diaper, and he enjoyed going to sleep, and waking up. His one aberration was what we called, “sympathy crying”, when another kid was hurt or upset. My son’s face would cloud over, and soon enough he joined the chorus. Our younger son was born with a more contrary view of the world, and was more likely to cry when cranky, and for longer periods of time. He may have been colicky, with a bad period between five and ten at night for a while. It passed, but the sensitivity remained, and tears would spring at the “unfairness of the world”. In public, I was prone to hush my boys after a minor injury or a quarrel; in private, I tended to hug them and murmur consolations. My husband had little patience for tears, and told them in clear language, “Suck it up.” But there were times I was tempted to say, “Go ahead. Get it out.”

Because for so long, years and years, I didn’t cry. Not a crier. Mainly to do with a kind of stoicism, I think, and probably trying not to upset my mother when we were kids. I don’t remember crying when my aunt told me that my father had died; somehow I knew that news was coming. The grief went somewhere down deep that I lost access to. For all those years, I missed the benefit of crying my heart out when I was sad or disappointed. However, I am not superhuman, and there were times the tears did fall -- just not at the right times. Once, as a young adult in the dentist’s chair, a little poke in the gum caused a trickle of tears that opened a floodgate that I could not close. The dentist’s efforts to console me – a glass of water, a towel -- only added to the trouble. I sobbed so hard, he couldn’t continue working. I wasn’t mature enough to say, “Just give me a moment to collect myself.” He tried everything, and finally brought in the hygienist. Poor man.

Then there was the time with Donald, before kids, we were sitting on the sofa after dinner watching Jerry Seinfeld’s comedy routine – even before Friends, I think. It was about how socks cling to the side of the washer, hiding out, so to speak – silly. I started laughing hard, so hard that tears came to my eyes and then I was sobbing and sobbing and couldn’t stop. Donald was stumped. I couldn’t speak, and even if I could, I didn’t know how to explain it myself. Something to do with the safety of being in that room on that sofa with him. He sat next to me until I stopped, saying pretty much nothing. Afterwards, I could only say “sorry about that.” He could have been, should have been, spooked by his new bride, but that was the end of it.

Until kids, and more tears and more emotions. And some therapy. Once the well was primed, the tears started coming, mostly when they were supposed to. Trouble is, I got leaky, tearring over strange and sentimental stories in the paper, ads on TV, even a corny line from a song or poem. My younger son and I watched old reruns of “Full House” religiously for a period of time; he was around 8 or 9. On cue, at a certain point in the show, when the music is swelling, and someone is apologizing, he would come up next to me to examine my face for those tell-tale tracks. “Are you crying?” he would ask. And I would nod to confirm.

Still today, for the big and bad things of life, “automatic control” part of me takes over that helped to negotiate a childhood where much of the time sadness was a still and silent experience. I’m happy that my boys are freer to express their anger, hurt, frustration, as well as their happiness and joy. I’m not thrilled by their swearing, but I understand it helps them cope. I just wish they could enjoy a good cry now and then.

Redefining Convenience

Denise Waldron — Thu, 04 Mar 2010 19:31:00 GMT

Champions Cup tennis was coming to Boston and I wanted to see it. So did most of my tennis team, my parents, and my son. My tennis team wanted to see the first match, which guaranteed us Bjorn Borg on the court. My parents and son wanted to see the Championship Final, no matter who was playing. I volunteered to get tickets for both events. To get tickets for the Final, I had to use Ticketmaster. I went online, selected the event and the price range per ticket, and Ticketmaster chose the seating location. If you don’t like the location, you can try again, but you’ll get the same tickets. Oh, and they’re going to tack on a $9.35 convenience fee and a $2 processing fee. To each ticket. I didn’t like the location so I decided to take an extra step and call instead. This way I could talk to a human. Wrong! I got an automated voice menu with the same procedure: when do you want to go, how much do you want to spend, here are your tickets. If you don’t like them you can reject them, go through the entire selection process again, and get offered the same tickets. If you reject them twice, you are notified that if you reject the third offer you will be disconnected. I hoped the third time I would be offered different tickets. I wasn’t. I was disconnected. Back online to take what I could get, unhappy with the seat location and the price. Thanks, Ticketmaster!

A week later I had a final headcount for my teammates and went online again to order more tickets. I was prepared for the lousy experience and obnoxious fees, but this time I needed 11 tickets, and Ticketmaster has a limit of 8 per transaction. And if you go in again to order more they’ll cancel everything, even the order you already placed. I understand this is to thwart scalpers, but an alternative suggestion would have been helpful. Luckily I had received a brochure in the mail and I noticed a number to call for Group Discounts of 10 or more. Good thing I wasn’t ordering 9 tickets! I spoke to Sarah, a real human. She was friendly, helpful, and thorough. She called me back when I had questions. She told me how to view the seating chart online so I could pick the seat location before buying the tickets. I didn’t have to pay the $9.35 processing fee because I offered to pick them up at the box office and she said that was fine but she would be happy to mail them.

To sum up: Box Office: real human, participated in selection process, positive experience. Ticketmaster: no human interaction, no options, no fun. And I got to pay Ticketmaster a total of $36 in “convenience” fees. I guess it’s convenient for them to charge customers for nothing.

Dream Messages

Beverly Breton Carroll — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 12:22:00 GMT

Why do we have dreams? To help us work out parts of our waking life while in a different consciousness where we might be more open to understanding?

I am unable to run in my dreams. Sometimes I can't get purchase on anything solid under my feet. The ground is not substantial so my legs may move as if in a slow bicycle exercise, but I can't get anywhere. Other times my legs seem to have grown more joints, like crab legs. They bend and bow to the point where they are useless, never becoming firm enough or straight enough to push off the ground into a run. But mostly, I just can't move. I try, and I'm either frozen, or my legs move so slowly, as if I'm in curing cement, that I am starring in the slowest of slow-motion movies going nowhere.

During my waking hours, I spend a lot of hours feeling like I'm pressed for time. My mother always used to say she needed more hours in a day. Consciously or not, I seem to have adopted this tape. So much to do, and not enough time to do it. So I press forward full steam, hour after hour, even though this forced shoulder-to-the-plow mentality gives me a real pain in my shoulders and neck or tenses my stomach muscles into mild indigestion, and no doubt taxes my adrenal system, making me feel "run down." And yet, on the rare days when the day stretches open and unfettered--I don't have to hurry to do anything--I may feel bored, lost, empty. Where's the adrenalin push? Where's the feeling of satisfaction and happy exhaustion when I've accomplished much in a small amount of time? Am I addicted to meeting or besting my own production quotas? Am I trying to beat life? Do I honestly think I can get EVERYTHING organized, done, and up-to-date in some given future moment? Yikes. Scary thoughts, all.

Do dreams have messages for us? I don't even have to consult a Magic Eight Ball to surmise: Signs point to yes.

Digging...

Erin McCormack — Mon, 22 Feb 2010 13:53:00 GMT

“Tut: Boy King or Warrior?”, “How Women Saved thePrehistoric Southwest”, “Neanderthal Homicide”, “Korean Mummies”. These are some of the articles in “Archaeology”, the magazine that arrives at our house every two months. I read each issue cover to cover, including the ads and notices for digs and expeditions, dreaming of the past. The famous sites: Egypt of the Pharaohs, Incan Peru, Mayan Mexico, Chinese and Indian empires, bustling Rome; and places I’d never heard of before, like Kush in Africa with its lost gold, or the former estate in New Jersey owned by Napoleon Bonaparte’s brother, Joseph. It’s a matter of constantly shifting perspectives about humans and their history. Each discovery and its interpretation reveals ways that humans have lived on this planet. Art, forensics, stories of individuals and groups, unraveling of mysteries, who can resist?

I am not alone in this zeal for the past. There are plenty of amateur archaeologists, and programs of study, both for enrolled students or paying participants. Digs in places all over the world: hot, arid deserts or humid, bug-infested jungles or high, remote mountains. I noticed pretty early on that many of them were in distant, sometimes abandoned places without too many of the creature comforts nearby. Maybe those places declined for a reason, and maybe climate change was part of it.

On the other hand, there are places closer to home, excavations in places not normally thought of as rich in archeological history. These include prehistoric sites in the mid-west, home of the Mound Builders, whose architectural and sacred landscapes were razed or built around with little notice during American expansion. Or, on the coastline, searches for pirates’ lairs and treasures. In the middle of Missouri, a researcher is digging the scorched earth site of an entire town destroyed during the Civil War.

Right here in New England, an organization called NEARA investigates rock formations and stone chambers that were previously thought to be byproducts of colonial farmers clearing their land or marking property. While this may be true in part, some NEARA members think these formations mark sacred and astronomical sites of the prehistoric Native Americans. Having grown up wandering the woods in rural Connecticut, I know those rocks well, and have wondered about them. According to some NEARA research, and a book called Manitou written by Mavor and Dix, these places were overlooked by archaeologists because of their lack of bones or tools or other evidence of human habitation. Instead, they say, these are solar observatories, marking solstices and other seasonal events, or even places set apart for vision quests, deliberately away from human habitation. So, in a flash, old stones may be interpreted quite differently, and the whole world I inhabit daily is another place.Others, however, would beg to differ, such as traditional archeologists who consider these observations to be mere pseudo archeology.

There’s the rub, why I won’t be sending in my application for a Ph.D. in Archeology anytime soon. Because archeologists are so territorial; they fight, too much, and in ugly ways. The underbelly of this enterprise, looking for the truth, is that people who spend so much time proving theories that cannot ever be absolutely proved have a lot at stake –their life’s work. Faithful reader that I am, I’ve become aware of some of the heated controversies in the world of archeology, and the ways that some researchers will put down or undermine others, if their theories conflict. The origins of the Anasazi, whether the script of the Indus Valley is a written language, whether or not the Norsemen or other Europeans discovered America before Columbus. Funny thing, long ago when I was reading Joe Hillerman’s Navaho mysteries, I thought some of his "pot hunters" were a little overblown, merely for the sake of fiction. Come to find, some of that is true.

The world I live in now is already so much different than the world I grew up in. Part of that is technology and development. Part of it is all the new tools and science to examine the past, and in many cases, turn it on its head, so many things we always took to be true are not at all what they seemed.

My Life in Hockey

Erin McCormack — Mon, 15 Feb 2010 22:14:00 GMT

Last night, I waited nervously at the side of the rink. The lights were on, the ice gleaming; the crowd had taken their seats waiting for the game to begin. At just after 8 pm,the gate opened and the announcer called me onto the ice, along with my husband. Our 17 year old son in his blue and white Bucs uniform skated over to present me flowers, and the photographer took our picture, the three of us: Senior Night. I am the proud mother of a high school hockey player. Not, however, a Hockey Mom, and therein lies a world of difference.

We go way back, hockey and I, and it has not always been an easy relationship. It all began at my cousin Brian’s hockey games in those roofed, outdoor rinks that are wicked cold on New England winter nights. Brian’s sister Mimi and I were there for one thing only – the boys. Who cared about the game? This early interest did not lead to good things. One evening when I was fourteen, there was a party at my cousins’ house, involving an entire team of high school hockey players, lots of drinking, and no adult supervision. I ended up in my aunt and uncle’s bed with a hockey player, who was, fortunately, too intoxicated to perform. We spent the night head to foot and never spoke again.

Then there is a long gap before I encountered hockey again –this time in the early 1990’s at a high school in suburban Boston where I was student teaching. The hockey team essentially controlled the school. They were the cool guys, the stars. They were not into academics, and effectively discouraged students who were – a hand that went up came back down after a certain look or comment. Handsome, popular, athletic and confident, they subverted education, and gave a hard time to some of the teachers, including the man I was working with – ignoring his instruction, destroying his grade book and hiding his toupee. Yet, they were not hostile toward me as a student teacher, nor openly disrespectful, although one of them was a “winker”, disconcerting in its own way. Imagine teaching Hamlet -- a challenge in any classroom. We watched the video, and then went through the body count, which worked surprisingly well. Fact is, they were not stupid; just inflated with their ownpower.

Now we are concluding a decade of youth hockey with my own sons, and it has been a trip. The long,long season, September through April, with optional spring and summer leagues. The camps, the tournaments. The early morning games, giving way to the late games and practices; long rides to cold, dismal rinks. All this fueled by my husband’s passion for the game, for team sports as a bonding experience for young people, boys especially. Smelly, expensive equipment,fights on the ice, although, happily few injuries – less than one would think,mainly due to all the padding. At times,hockey was a trial and a tension, such as when our son had to be up at 3:45 am on school days for early morning practice. There were fighting words, I assure you, but in the end, I agreed to the arrangement as long as my son kept upgrades and didn’t get sick, which is what happened, and which perhaps explains a lot about hockey players.

Perhaps it would be different if I played the game. But I remain to this day, a hockey virgin. Never scored a point, never wore hockey skates or pads, never learned a hockey stop. The fact is, I am somewhat of a fraud as a hockey fan, having had mixed feelings about watching my two sons and husband play, most especially after the checking (hitting) began. Given a choice between warm at home with a good video or in a cold rink, getting colder, I’d much rather be home. I’m still caught chatting with girlfriends when an important play takes place, not knowing who did what. The penalties remain elusive to me, except for the major ones. I don’t identify with the game or the culture, remaining to this day, an outsider, an observer rather than a participant.

I’ve attended hundreds of hockey games, but I swear, I never saw it coming, how much hockey and youth sports would be part of my family’s experience. Yet, there is the other part of me that has come to appreciate a good play, and who is filled with awe at the speed and grace of those young people on skates, and I have some inkling now of the thrill that makes them want to play, in spite of cold or pain or disappointment.

Where in the world is Jerry Bloch??

Peggy Yalman — Sun, 14 Feb 2010 16:30:00 GMT

I recently went to see "Up In The Air" with George Clooney. The movie is about an extremely handsome and charismatic man who travels around the country 300 days a year for his work. He rarely sees his apartment, has no wife nor kids, and is obsessed with travel - airline mileage, credit card award programs, airport security systems. His good looks and carefree manner attract women, but he never gets beyond one night stands until he meets his female counterpart. I really enjoyed the movie and love love George Clooney.

Anyway, as soon as the credits rolled I thought to myself, "Oh my God. Nobody would believe that there really are guys like this in the world, but I actually knew one - Jerry Bloch!!"

In 1982 on my first day at work at Holt, Rinehart and Winston, textbook publisher, I was told by my boss to clear out a desk that belonged to a man who "never uses it" and make it my own. I very carefully emptied the desk of tons of receipts, scribbled notes, pens, old boarding passes, and more than one photograph of an attractive lady. I put everything into a cardboard box, set it aside in the cubicle area and arranged my own office paraphalia atop the desk.

Weeks later Jerry Bloch strode into the office and came over to "his" desk and was surprised to find me sitting there. I felt that I had gone through his intimate possessions and was a bit uptight about meeting him. But, Jerry could put a statue at ease! He was tall and fairly thin with a most engaging babyface, blue eyes and brown hair. He had an easy smile and totally relaxed manner. I adored him on first sight!

It turned out that Jerry and I were both product managers for the math textbooks and computer software k-8. Jerry totally focused on the software while I focused on the textbooks and keeping Jerry on point. Jerry had carte blanche to do anything he wanted to introduce the math testing software to the educators of America and thereby sell our corresponding textbooks. Remember this was the early 80's and personal computers were just beginning to rear their reflective heads.

Jerry and I spent the next two years flying all over the country to education conventions, national teacher association meetings and regional sales meetings. Often Jerry went off on trips that I didn't have to go to, but at least once a month I flew with him to Chicago, New Orleans, Atlanta, wherever. Jerry knew all the ropes of flying and I followed his direction. He had been everywhere and he knew people in every city. We were the ambassadors from headquarters in New York and it was the high flying '80's. Jerry and I organized dinner parties, hospitality suites, cocktails, whatever we wanted - all paid for by the company. We had a good time wherever we went - and Jerry was always the life of the party. He was charming, handsome, friendly and funny! Everyone liked Jerry! Especially the ladies - pretty teachers and lovely principals alike.

I knew that Jerry had been married to a woman who lived in California and had a teenage son who he adored. In fact, the whole time that I traveled with Jerry he had one goal - obtain enough airline miles to take his son to Europe for summer vacation. And, Jerry never spent a dime of his own money - everything was on the company. He didn't even have an apartment in New York. He always stayed at the Roosevelt Hotel which was across the street from our offices. When Jerry was in Manhattan he often asked me to accompany him to the finest restaurants in the city. We had a wonderful time - all charged to Holt, Rinehart and Winston!

From day one we were buddies; not lovers. We never had the chemistry to be more than friends, but could discuss our love lives with each other. He once introduced me to a gym teacher from Brooklyn, where he grew up, who I had a wild fling with and Jerry was pleased for us, but not jealous. And, when he said good night to me in a hotel bar and walked off with one of his ladyfriends I didn't feel the slightest bit of jealousy. We were friends and we liked it that way!

After a couple of years of darting around the country, I met a man who I eventually married and was moving on to a more settled existence - steady boyfriend, new job without travel, different career path. Jerry too was moving on - he started dating a woman at work from Altoona, PA - and was going to settle down and get married. It was hard to believe that Jerry could really settle down. He had been a nomad for at least 3-4 years by that time and I couldn't imagine him giving up his wanderlust.

I lost track with Jerry before either of us got married. If you know Jerry - even if you just talked with him while waiting for a plane - tell him I miss him and love him and he's my very own George Clooney!!!!

Real Estate Hint - There are times when Realtors have had enough of a client and want to drop them like a hot potato! This doesn't happen very often as we put up with almost anyone and anything to make a sale. But, once in a blue moon - every few years - there is a buyer or seller that a Realtor has given up on and wants to stop working with. A few years ago I dropped a seller who wouldn't lower her price on her house. That in itself wouldn't have made me stop working with her, but the fact that she wasn't nice to me and tried to second guess everything I told her to do to get the house sold made her impossible for me to work with. Recently I stopped working with a buyer who I had been working with for 18 months. 18 months!!! I had given up on ever finding a home that he would purchase. He had not learned anything from his search. He had recently made it harder to find a home as he pared down his search to a few salient points - one town, one style, 4 bedrooms, garage, big flat yard, quiet street. When I told him that his search was impossible at his price level in the town that he chose, he didn't listen. Time to cut the ties. Time to let him work with someone else. Time to move on to clients that I can help!!

It's All Greek To Us

Beverly Breton Carroll — Wed, 10 Feb 2010 22:36:00 GMT

My shiatsu masseuse is Japanese. Her husband is German. He does not speak Japanese. She does not speak German. The language they share is English, but hers is halting, accented, and has many gaps. I've not met him. He may speak excellent English and easily fill in her deficiencies. But clearly the language she can truly communicate in is Japanese. So now, as I lie on the mat, being pushed, prodded and stretched by her while we chat in an incomplete way, I find myself wondering, what would it be like to not speak a truly common language with your partner?

Not until I finish a new hair-pulling conversation with my husband, discovering he thought he'd said one thing and I thought he'd said something quite different, do I realize I know the answer to that question. My husband and I don't always speak a truly common language either! English may be the native tongue we share, but he and I can finish a conversation with less meaning exchanged than in one of my brief halting exchanges with my Japanese friend. Why on occasion are my husband and I so adept at using the same language and talking about ostensibly the same thing, yet passing each other right by with our words, on parallel tracks, like two passing ships in the night? I wish I knew.

No Fun Being Sick

Erin McCormack — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 03:04:00 GMT

Stuffy head, runny nose, head hurts and the sneezing fits – five, six, seven in a row – it’s exhausting. I’m pretty sure I dodged the flu, but the common cold has caught up with me, and it’s no fun. Being sick as an adult has no positive aspects to it that I can think of. Sick enough, I’ll go to bed for part of the day, but that’s hard to enjoy because either I’m sleeping or I feel lousy. Meanwhile, dinner, driving, laundry, correcting as needed for the rest of the day. Where’s the sympathy? Not much around here.

I can finally admit I was a sickly child, probably the sickliest of the six of us kids. Pale, wan, skinny, picky eater, frequent trips to the doctor for sore throats, coughs and stomach aches. I’m the one who had pneumonia in third grade, where I missed almost a month of school, and my mother had to bathe me in cold water to get the temp down. I was also one of the two to get my tonsils removed after countless bouts of tonsillitis – what I guess now is strep throat.

But there was a kind of upside to childhood sickness: time alone, time to read, watching the old black and white morning movies, and my mother, the knowing and comforting nurse, all to myself. Ginger ale, and toast, and chicken and rice soup, served to me in bed. No having to get up early and out into the frosty mornings. Time for my imagination to wander around the room and out the window and into the universe. Once the symptoms subsided and I was in recuperation mode, it was rather lovely and luxurious. Ah, the sick room – I remember it fondly.

Doesn’t work that way around here. By and large, my guys rarely get sick, and that’s a good thing. Mostly I have to credit my husband’s hardy genes; I can’t remember the last time he’s taken an actual sick day. For years, my boys didn’t see the doctor except for annual check-ups, and when I went to get my older son’s prescription filled at the pharmacy for an acne drug, they had no record of him. A couple ear-aches, passing colds, and the occasional sports injury. But we had no need for prescription coverage until the last couple years, mainly due to those expensive acne drugs.

When the boys are home sick, it’s TV or computer if they’re up to it. Mostly they sleep. It’s almost never more than a day at a time, and my older guy has taken on his father’s approach of bulldozing through most of life’s problems, including sickness, mainly because he doesn’t want to miss practice. Sure, I take their temperatures, and insist on going for a throat culture if it’s something lingering, but sickness is a very, very small part of their routines. Unlike me, the sick child.

Now, not so much. I try to take care of myself, eat well, get sleep and exercise, etc. Still, I’m the “delicate” one. Only now my mom is hundreds of miles away in PA, and there’s no one to soothe my brow, sit on the side of my bed, or bring me ginger-ale. It’s just no fun being sick anymore.

Rubbing My Eyes

Peggy Yalman — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 02:25:00 GMT

When a baby is tired they do one of two things - cry or ball up their little fists and rub their eyes. When I'm tired I do one of two things - lose something or do something really stupid.

It is a clear sign that I need rest when I drop my ATM card down the side of the driver's seat of my car and can'tt find it for eight months. I once even lost my purse and, after calling stores to try to locate it, found it a week later in the trunk of my own car - black purse on black carpet - too tired to see it. Or today I knew I was tired when I was sitting in the car rummaging through my purse for my car keys and getting really frustrated because I couldn't find them. And then noticed that the car was running - I had already put the keys in the ignition and turned the damn thing on! Time to hit the bed!

And just like a baby, I nap! You might find me on my oh so comfortable couch with a book spread across my chest while I take a 20 minute or 4 hour nap. I can nap just about any time and anywhere. Fully clothed with shoes on, lights fully lit, broad daylight, it doesn't matter - I can sleep. I take to the couch when my head is spinning from too much activity or too many emails or phone calls. I actually get a physical sensation that signals it's time to lay down my head and empty it. After a nap I am refreshed and can go on with life.

People ask me if I nap how can I sleep at night? No problem! I have always required a lot of sleep (hopefully 8 hours, often 7 hours, can't get by with less than 6 hours) so I sleep like a baby even if I have napped during the afternoon. Friends tell me that I am lucky that I can sleep so easily. Lucky? I don't know. It seems I inherited the talent from my father who takes a nap every afternoon and could always fall asleep at the drop of a hat. And, I passed along the talent to my son who had to be weaned off naps for first grade and never complained about going to bed at night. What a talented family we are - world class sleepers!!

Real Estate Hint - Let's talk about radon. Radon is a gas that comes from rocks in the earth. Radon seeps into houses and primarily accumulates in the basement but is also found on other levels. Realtors advise every buyer to test a house for radon as part of their home inspection. Home inspectors will perform the test which includes putting out cannisters in the basement for 48 hours and then sending the cannisters to a radon lab for testing. The US govt. has ruled that radon tested at 4.0 pcl or less is acceptable. Any radon test that comes in over 4.0 pcl should be mitigated for health reasons. Long-term exposure to radon has been shown to cause cancer. Therefore when a radon test comes in over 4.0, realtors suggest to buyers that they ask the sellers to install a radon mitigation system that will bring the level of radon below 4.0. In most cases, the sellers will agree to pay for the installation of the radon mitigation system. These systems run about $1200. Once the mitigation system has been installed it is good for life and the only working part that might quit is the fan. A periodic testing of radon in any home can assure homeowners that the radon is at a "healthy" level. As radon is a gas it can change according to weather, etc.. Radon test kits can be purchased at major hardware stores.

Shout Out For Kohler

Beverly Breton Carroll — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 19:14:00 GMT

I may sound like an old codger reminiscing about the good old days, but I still want to receive personal help when I call a company for information.  I'm not Internet illiterate. I do go to web sites at times for info and help, but I still have this archaic belief that it is not the customer's job to wade through FAQS, or email a question and wait for an answer, or go on an on line chat, unless the customer prefers those ways.  I still would like the option to be taken care of like a valuable customer, diva treatment if you will. Let me know I'm special to you and I'll want to hang around.

We have two sinks in our master bath with Kohler faucets we put in about six years ago when we renovated our bathroom.  The hot water faucet handle on my husband's sink is currently frozen stuck; the cold water handle on my sink is frozen stuck.  I had a plumber look at it. He took about two minutes, and said he really didn't know how to fix it, that I should probably just buy new faucets and he'd put them in. Not the first time a plumber has said to me he doesn't know a Kohler product well and suggested I just replace the whole apparatus.

So I called Kohler this morning, and they did it again. Made me feel special, respected, understood, valued. I was on hold for a few minutes after using the automated system to select faucets, then technical advice, then Melissa answered.  Her voice was warmly pleasant, and she honest-to-goodness sounded glad to be helping me.  I know I was glad she was helping me.  She located the style number for our faucets, using the rather spotty information I could give her off a receipt that suffered a major spill which totally washed off the ink, explained quickly what probably happened--calcification from the water, and once she said that, I noticed some white powdery evidence where the faucet handle connected, verified my address in their records, and dispatched four cartridge replacements my way:  two hot, two cold, no charge. You gotta love it!.

In the past, Kohler techs have helped me troubleshoot a running toilet. That part was around $8.37 total, and when it arrived with full instructions, I put it in myself in a couple minutes.  Kohler techs also helped me trouble shoot my leaking kitchen faucet, correctly again, I may add.  I will hire a plumber to install these cartridges in the master bath. I think strength and the proper tools will come in to play for this job, but at least I won't have to listen to another professional hem and haw about what part, how to get it, where or when, and then charge me for a second visit on the remote chance they decide to follow this job through.  The plumbers can't figure out what part I need, but I can? Yep, thanks to Kohler, and Melissa, and all the other sincere and helpful Kohler technical people WHO I HAVE SPOKEN DIRECTLY TO ON MY INITIAL PHONE CALL. What a concept. Kohler, you can have my business anytime...and every time.

The Significance of Dryer Lint

Shelli Altopp Miller — Wed, 27 Jan 2010 02:17:00 GMT

I had a most cathartic experience with dryer lint once. I was telling a co-worker about it today in hopes of comforting her. She is grieving the loss of her father-in-law. She thought she was further along in the grieving process when something she saw today caught her off guard and stirred up a fresh wave of tears.

It took a long time to grieve my Grandpa Altopp's death. He was of a slight build but mighty in personality. Grandpa had a tattoo eons before they were cool. On one hand he had three fingers; the other two were cut off by a saw while he was working at a mill. He picked them up, put them on a shelf, and kept working. He sang in public and cried when he gave his testimony of how he was "dried out on a mountain top", meaning he was saved at the Hebron Colony in the mountains of North Carolina and never touched alcohol again. He and I spent concentrated time together in the dugout during baseball season, especially during the spring break trips to Florida with my dad's teams. He loved the game and was well-loved by all the players.

Grandpa died several years ago while I was a graduate student in St. Louis. It was the end of the semester and so there were papers to write, exams to study for, and Christmas parties to host and attend. His funeral was in Indianapolis on December 23. It was a whirlwind of family, grief, Christmas gifts, and travel, and ended all too abruptly at the start of my final semester.

Flash forward to the summer following graduation and a new job in Kentucky. I inherited Grandpa's washer and dryer. My in-laws picked them up in Indianapolis and delivered them to my husband and me in Appalachia. Before I washed clothes the first time, I opened the lint catch and started to weep. Grandpa always wore an avocado-green polyester suit to church. There on the lint catch was a cottony green fluff. It was a tangible bit of him! I stood cradling the dryer lint, crying, "Oh, Grandpa!" I considered saving it. I wanted to. I couldn't bear to throw it away. He died six months ago and here I am bawling like it just happened. It was bewildering. Eventually I realized I didn't need the dryer lint to conjure memories of Grandpa. His legacy is alive in me.

I think my co-worker understood. Grief has no timetable. Don't rush it or stuff it as I had done. I've never looked at dryer lint the same.

Mothers of Daughters

Erin McCormack — Tue, 26 Jan 2010 01:21:00 GMT

I always thought I would someday be the mother of daughters;turns out that is not going to happen. I couldn’t be happier with my two sons, and would not change them for anything. But, in truth, when I found out from the ultrasound that the second child looked “highly likely male”, I shed tears in the privacy of my car. There was little chance there would be a third baby: we’d started later in life, and according to our planning and energy, two would be just fine. So, no little girls for me, and I have since grieved the loss of a dream, as well as reveling in being “Queen Bee” in my household of men.

I was the product of a female-dominated household, run by my mother after my father’s death with the help of my grandmother who did most of the cooking and caretaking when my mother was at work. We were four girls and two boys, but my sister and I were eldest - the little moms. The boys, maybe because they had no father, were given special dispensation to be “boys”, rough and tumble, more naughty, less expected of them in terms of household chores. In my house, the food provider, the bill payer, the disciplinarian and the bottom line was a woman - my mother. I was used to the idea of a woman in power, and so became a proto-feminist during high school and college days. It was my hope to raise feminist daughters – that is, confident, powerful and comfortable in who they are.

Lately, I’m not so sure. Some of the things I read and hear about relating to young women are terrible. There is this stupid ad on the radio: Give your girlfriend a gift certificate for cosmetic surgery for Valentines Day – “Make her a perfect 10”. Makes me sick. Not the surgery per se; an individual may want it for some specific purpose – droopy eyelids, a crooked nose. That I can see. Or, perhaps a parent for a child, after careful thought about cost, risks, and emotional issues. But a gift for Valentines?

Then there was the story on the 2020 TV show of the teen girl who is suing Starbucks, because her 24 year old manager told her she had to have sex with him, and she felt she couldn’t say no. The story claims that research shows that a high number of teens report sexual advances from adults at work. Well, duh! Who doesn’t know that? Perhaps because I had so many low-level crappy jobs when I was growing up, it was a fact of life, just another obstacle to maneuver around: grabbed from behind, kissed in the elevator,asked to dinner by my boss on the first day of the job. But even in those circumstances, when I really, truly needed a job, I never let it continue, even if it meant quitting the job. Watching the show, I thought, “What’s wrong with this girl that she doesn’t know to say “No”, “Back off”, or just getaway from the situation – and she had involved parents and lots of money. What made her self-esteem so low that she tolerated it? Accepted it? And then it hit me like a blow in the stomach, “Why should she be subject to it in the first place? Why was I?” It took me a long time to process that idea,that just because she was a young woman, any young woman -- myself or my hypothetical daughter - why should she have to deal with that at the workplace, and a system that allows it to happen, punishing the perpetrator only after the fact, because the mother finally stepped in? Wow, I was thinking, I put up with a lot of s…t and didn’t think it could be otherwise. Today, the problem is still there, but the young women seem even less equipped to deal with it. Sad.

Finally, the Mean Girls in South Hadley, Mass.who taunted a 15 year-old girl, recently arrived from Ireland, for dating an “off-limits”senior football player until she finally hung herself. They followed her, insulted her, made bad remarks on Facebook, harassed her unto death. And then after the fact, posted comments on-line that were smug and unrepentant. So far, no consequences, no punishment, and the question remains who is to blame: kids? School? Parents? Unkindness has been around forever, but this kind of cruelty in educated, comfortable young women seems a new development. Fueled by what? What has made it so crucially important to have this brash on-line life, posting hundreds of pictures, but an inability to feel empathy, compassion for someone in person - someone not so different from yourself?

Boys are a handful, but not so complicated, I think. The world seems not very appreciative of young women who would be full of sugar and spice, and trying to be nice. It’s no place for ladies out there; and not so easy for gentle-men, either

The Golden Globes

Peggy Yalman — Tue, 19 Jan 2010 00:34:00 GMT

Was I the only one foolish enough to watch the Golden Globe awards Sunday night? Did any of you watch? What did you think?

Here are my very, very random thoughts:

I like Ricky Gervais. He makes me laugh. I loved him in "The Office" and "Extras". I laughed out loud a couple of times during the award ceremony when he was on. Of course he made one really dirty joke about getting cosmetic surgery on his penis. It was probably a bit too dirty for the American audience, but he's British, and that's what they do. I only wish he was on more during the show. I mean, for goodness sake, he was the host and long periods went by with no sign of him!

Drew Barrymore acts like a dithering idiot. She said that she was not used to getting up in front of audiences. Come on! She has been a movie star since she was 7 years old. Can she really be that silly!!

Halle Berry has the most perfect body. She looked outstanding - even after having a child!

Helen Mirren has quite a good figure too!

Sophia Loren looks so taped together. I love her and she's beautiful, but at her age, is it real??? She looks like she might fall apart.

The repartee between Robert Deniro and Martin Scorsese was the most natural banter of the evening. They really did seem to know and like each other.

Chloe Sevigny won for her role in "Big Love" on HBO. I was surprised she got nominated, but she is really really good so I was glad.

I love " Mad Men". It won for best TV drama and it deserves it.

Also I am a big fan of Juliana Margulies in "The Good Wife" so am glad that she won an award.

I was disappointed that "Avatar" won the best drama movie award. I haven't seen it, but can a science fiction film with tons of computer generated stuff be the best drama of the year? What about "Precious"??

Speaking of "Precious". I was thrilled that Monique won the award for best supporting actress. She was absolutely terrific! But, the young woman who played "Precious" didn't win anything which I thought was a big oversight. And don't tell me that Sandra Bullock, who won best actress in a drama for Blindside, is a better actress than "Precious". Maybe they didn't give the star of "Precious" an award because they couldn't remember her name either:)

And can "The Hangover" be the best comedy of the year? Boo! It looks so stupid. Although I haven't seen it.

Jessica Lange and Drew Barrymore were both nominated for best supporting actress in the same TV movie, "Grey Gardens". First of all, the camera didn't even go to Jessica Lange when they read her name (was she in the bathroom?) and then when she lost to Drew Barrymore, I thought she was going to kill her - what a look!!

And, couldn't Steve Carrell smile even once? He didn't smile when Ricky Gervais teased him about the American version of " The Office" and he still didn't smile when he was nominated for an award. What's with that?

Mike Tyson with the large tattoo! And, why did they put him on stage? He had one line and almost flubbed it.

Meryl Streep was a lady as usual. She won for "Julie and Julia". Yeah!

Cher looked like Elmira. What a god awful dress and the long dark hair looked so passe. Where has she been lately, anyway? And I felt bad for her that they partnered her with Christina Aguillera. Cher? Cher should present by herself!!!!

Speaking of dresses - I don't remember too many. I liked Kate Hudson's white gown. Mariah Carey showed way too much boob! Jodie Foster looked beautiful. Jennifer Anniston dresses so well.

I would have liked to have seen Alec Baldwin. They said he was absent due to a pre-existing charity commitment. Haiti? Probably not. But, I thought it was a good thing they said he was at a charity even instead of just "boycotting" the show.

Haiti was mentioned a few times and in a respectful manner so that was a good thing.

Do you think I am too into this to be healthy? Let me know if you watched! We can dish together!

Real Estate Hint - Let the races begin! The spring market is off to a great start! And so early!! Just like the good ol' days! The buyers are coming out of the woodwork! I had 3 buyers on Saturday, 4 buyers on Sunday and 1 buyer on Monday. They're coming, they're looking, they're buying! Yeah! Lots of pent up demand after the debacle of 2009. The spring market is going to be great!

The College Admissions Game

Erin McCormack — Mon, 18 Jan 2010 16:11:00 GMT

We’ve just completed the rounds of college tours, applications and essays for our elder son, Dylan. He applied to 3 colleges, one of them early admission (Duke), where he was accepted and is going to go. It was his first choice, because when he went to see it, he liked it. It wasn’t on the initial list, since we knew little about it. One cousin suggested it and other cousin lives close to Duke and hosted Dylan and his father when they visited. We are happy with the outcome, but still totally in the dark on how the admissions game is played. We had no connections, no inside information, and no special talent or skill that would set Dylan apart. After this experience, I can say we are no more enlightened about how to improve odds for success, and whatever we’ve learned (well, except perhaps timeliness) doesn’t seem likely to help in the next round, when our younger son applies to college in four more years.

I take nothing away from my dearest son, who has been good humored and easy-going since birth. My husband says that he has my quick grasp, and his own good memory and willingness to work hard. That said, Dylan did well at school, but not the very top. Good grades, but not the best. Nice scores, but plenty of others did as well or better. When it comes to the question of how or why Dylan was selected among qualified peers, we have no answers, only pure and sometimes fanciful speculation. The Armenian last name, perhaps, if they were looking for greater diversity. Or possibly the combination of top level French classes (which his counselor recommended he keep) along with four years of high school hockey and lacrosse? Maybe it was his essay, “The Year I Won Nothing”, about, in spite of his long career of academic success, and decent records in league hockey, during his sophomore year, he played on hockey and lacrosse teams that lost every single game – a record of sorts. So, he knows of losing as well as winning? Could be. We just don’t know. Can’t tell you; can’t help you.

What I would share is this: that the senior year, while stressful, was only moderately stressful, since Dylan only did only three apps., and since we found out early. It could have easily gone a different way. What is interesting is that this time period was stressful in other ways, mainly to do with the health and welfare of some of the senior citizens of the family – probably our greater preoccupation at times. But in the end, not too much worry or focus on “which school” or “the very best school” worked out for us. Duke seemed a good match. Dylan did all the on-line parts of the apps.and we had a couple people look over the essay. A certain benign neglect took force; there maybe should have been more likely or safety schools, but we just couldn’t get around to it. And it turned out OK; maybe better than expected.

And, that may be the lesson; that it does turn out OK, for the most part, for most people. There are so many ways of getting to where you want to go. Spending too much time trying to figure out the system can be just a waste of time – since it’s neither completely open to market forces, nor based simply on merit. The system is opaque, and there are forces, fair or not, that are at work on how decisions are made. Rather, spend the time on the quality of life as you are living it, both as a student and as a family, and trust that it’s the skills of adapting and coping that count as much as advantages conferred.

[Winter] Ode To A Dog

Beverly Breton Carroll — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 17:31:00 GMT

You've seen me. Heard me. Rolled your eyes at me. You've wanted to gag. And you've wished you could tell me to stop, stop, stop.

I love my dog, crazily love my dog.

I talk to her all the time, calling her ridiculous names that somehow in that moment I don't care if anyone else hears. Bucket of love. Pumpkin cakes. I lay attuned with one ear at night the way any mother would with a child, and if I hear a cough or a whimper, I'm leaning forward in bed, on the alert, listening, if I'm not already headed down to where she sleeps downstairs to see if she's okay. I make her meals with chicken, brown rice, a vegetable, ground flax seed, egg shells, nutritional yeast, fish oil, garlic, vitamin e oil, and an occasional dash of green powdered super food. I think it's healthy, but the production I go through just about makes my husband sick.

I don't think I'd love her as much if she wasn't a rescue. She's from Louisiana, a Hurricane Katrina aftermath which gives me that much more of a picture of the disaster our little lab mix survived. She's a "hood" dog as my son says, and I respect her for her strength to survive living on the street and to emerge with the ability to be friendly, and to trust people. Neither of those traits are as automatic with her as it is with most labs. When she comes to be petted, she often walks alongside, then backs closer, giving me her butt so she can keep watching out in front for anything that might come at us as a threat. She demonstrates literally over and over "I trust you to have my back," and that makes mush ball me melt.

She is so many things I aspire to be: energetic, thoughtful, attentive, friendly, strong, enthusiastic, in--the-moment. As the new year unfolds, she's an ever present role model, and by far the best listener in the house, hands down. Or would that be paws?

I didn't think I could love her anymore. But I realized in these past couple cold weeks, I think I love her more in the winter. When I come in from running errands in the frigid weather, I love finding her feeling safe and relaxed, spread out on the living room couch where she can see out front and side windows. I kneel down and snuggle with her, put my face into her luxuriant tawny soft fur (kudos to that vitamin e oil), drape my body over her incredibly inviting warmth, and I'm more infatuated than ever. I can imagine cave dwellers or early settlers finding their dogs more inviting than a high-maintenance fire or an unpredictable spouse. Hmmm, maybe I can imagine that happening to me on an occasion or two.

Dog. Totally welcoming. Totally accepting. Totally warm. Totally love. Man's best friend indeed. Woman's, too.

Random Thoughts on Aging

Shelli Altopp Miller — Wed, 13 Jan 2010 02:31:00 GMT

"As we grow old...the beauty steals inward"
Ralph Waldo Emerson

As we grow old, our skeletons push outward. Our skin thins, sags, becomes translucent, revealing the bones beneath. The bones which have always been there holding us up, getting us through, are eager to announce their presence. Why do we fight it? Is a large, old Oak tree less appealing than a sapling? And let's not forget the wine analogy. People who are full of years have character. They've beat the odds, survived, and should wear their "uniform" proudly.

As we age, our true selves also emerge. The game-playing days of youth are spent. Ask for what you want. Wallow in emotions. Wear comfortable shoes. Have a sensible hair style. Say "I love you" with abandon. How freeing!

I work with elderly people. They are live, open history books. I'm amazed by their stories, their strength, and spirit. I marvel at their wisdom. There are good days and bad and they can't hide which kind they're having. They are from varying socioeconomic situations but have many commonalities. As we grow old, we grow more alike. So why fight it?

Relationships are the most important factor in having a positive aging experience. The circle grows smaller the more frail a person becomes, until only the most loyal family members and friends remain. They are the marrow. In my work I've observed people who have one, paid aide as their only daily contact and I've observed people who have several family members who check on them daily. If we spend our lives strengthening bonds with others, we will have strength to draw upon in our later years.

Now Let Us Praise....Alpaca

Erin McCormack — Tue, 12 Jan 2010 00:00:00 GMT

Sometimes something unexpectedly good comes along in life…achance discovery…something that has been around for ages…that changeseverything for the better. That’s how it is with me and alpaca. I have a new enjoyment of crisp fall weatherwith my black and camel ruana (aka cape) made of alpaca – so cozy, such lovelydrape. Thanks to alpaca, my attitude andappreciation of cold weather is so much different than it was. A winter walk isso pleasant with an alpaca layer under my coat that will keep me warm but notsuffocate or overheat. Freezing temperatures inside the rink? Alpaca keeps the body temperature just right,without getting too bulked out. Alightweight cardigan takes the chill off while sitting at the keyboard. And it looks good.

Once a true luxury item (prized by Inca rulers), alpaca ismore affordable and more accessible than ever, and green (alpaca live lightlyon the land). It’s used more and more inblends with other fabrics. Even some ofthe higher end, “wearable art” sweaters from Peru trickle down eventually to TJMaxx and Marshall’s, where they might sell for less than thirty dollars by theend of the season. The best garments areprobably still made in South America, (Millma in Bolivia),or a number of places in Peru.These are not cheap, and deservedly so. Well constructed, lasting, and oftenincorporating ethnic designs not only of Native and Hispanic culture, butcultures from other parts of the world. Or modern, or fanciful. In anycase, pieces that are nice to touch, functional in terms of comfort and warmth,not mass produced, and of natural origins. What more can you ask?

Alapaca has such a romantic history, not least because italmost disappeared from the planet. Itwas only the efforts of a few Inca survivors who herded alpaca to the highermountain regions to save them from destruction from the Conquistodors, whopreferred sheep. The indigenous population kept the animals and the weavingalive, but relatively unrecognized, until late in the industrial revolution, inpart because it took a long time to develop the technology to weave the alpaca fiber. Slowly, as ethnic culture became moreappealing in the sixties and seventies, alpaca hats, gloves, scarves caught onwith the hippie set, and then more into main stream. At the same time, Americanfarmers started keeping alpacas, appreciating their docile nature as well asthe high quality of the fibers. Perhapsnot yet an explosion, but more people are discovering alpaca as an alternativeto wool, more lightweight, and not itchy – really perfect for layering, and forindoor spaces that are kept reasonably warm in cold winter months.

Plus the beauty. Iremember perusing a Peruvian Connection catalog at one point, taken with thebeauty of the clothing, especially the alpaca sweaters and coats: the textures,the patterns, the colors, so substantial. The prices, however, were more than I would pay. Then, one day, I saw a friend of mine frombook group wearing a colorful alpaca cardigan – so lovely. I had a chance totouch it and see it up close, and I was taken. So, through EBay I began my search for affordable alpaca, and in time, Ihad a selection of four or five pieces that I have worn and relished. One in soft cream with delicate embroidery. Another with a fuzzy texture, a SouthwestIndian pattern in black, rust and turquoise. A third that features the animal designs of the Nazca Plain. And myruana!

I’ve never been one to love clothes – I use them untilthey’re worn, or else pass them on – but I’m fond, very fond, of myalpaca.

The Good Housekeeper

Erin McCormack — Mon, 04 Jan 2010 18:42:00 GMT

The opening scene of Jane Hamilton’s novel, “A Map of the World” depicts a woman at home with two small children: beds are unmade, dirty dishes in the sink, stinky diapers to be disposed of. In the story, the woman goes upstairs for some small errand, I forget what, and gets distracted looking at a map that she once perused with fantasies of travel. Meanwhile, one of the toddlers, a neighbor’s child that she is babysitting, wanders out of the house and down a short path to a pond where she drowns. The husband has been trying to make a go of their dream “family farm,” which of course is very labor intensive. The child dies; the dream evaporates.

“Clearly she’s depressed,” said one vocal member of my book group, “She let her house go to pot. She’s lost her self-respect, and doesn’t expect anyone to visit.” This seemed to be the consensus of the group, intelligent and self-respecting women in their fifties and sixties. “Maybe not,” I ventured. “Maybe it’s just not that important to her.” I was not quite forty. I had a number of friends who didn’t bother much about housekeeping;there were so many other things to do and think about. They didn’t identify with being “good housewives”. Thus ensued one of the most interesting discussions we’ve had in book group: the significance of housekeeping. Who does it and how? How important is it? What expectations and attitudes did we learn from our families? Somehow I couldn’t imagine a group of men, even those who read the same book, having this discussion. If I labeled my blog entry “Housekeeping, a Feminist Issue”, how many would read it?

Let me say upfront that I believe housecleaning should be paid for. We’ve had a Brazilian woman and her daughter clean every two weeks for the last ten years, for a reasonable rate. Funny thing, I never saw it in my future, and most likely would have disdained the idea. Cleaning was not an issue before kids. This idea came first from my neighbor who had hired these cleaners and wanted to refer business to them. It coincided with our tenth marriage anniversary, a gift I wanted more than a weekend away -- housecleaning for a year. Our twenty-first anniversary has passed, and they’re still coming, through trips to Brazil, two grandchildren, citizenship. It’s been so mutual, that when we talked about cancelling their services as a way to save money for college bills, we decided against it. We might be able to keep up the cleaning, especially with one boy less; but they need us too, for income and the transition to the American way.

Still, there is the need for daily cleaning and picking up.This, I see, is the issue that divides and separates generations and“types”. Over the years, I’ve found that there are some families who simply do not host events, in part due to the fact that their house is always a mess. They oftentimes are happy to bring food or otherwise chip in. A few of my peers have House Beautiful, and I’m not sure how they do it, or why. But there is a large segment who are always apologetic about the state of their houses. Indeed for them, the conflict is constant, and often has to do with family relationships, i.e., workaholic dads and over-scheduled kids – ours not immune.

After some debate with myself, I came to peace with the concept of “pickupable” – that is, the main, shared spaces of our house can be picked up in a reasonable time if we find that people are coming over. This requires about half an hour of going around “tidying” on weekdays after the boys have left. Before guests’ arrival, there is a short and shared burst of effort. Otherwise, the boys are free to have messy, but not dirty rooms – no food and drink remnants. There is a kind of “everything has its place system” - which mostly works once it’s been set up. For the reams of paper that come through, I have the most elementary, colored folder system, and then the large scrap paper pile. I do a springand fall cleaning, which mainly consists of recycling and getting rid of stuff that no longer has a real purpose in our lives. Hey, it’s not perfect; but we can live with it.

My sister gave me a good perspective once: “If I have a little free time in the afternoon, I’m not going to spend it doing housework. I’d rather read a good book."

Me, I’d rather write.

The Beatles Live on....in my Basement

Erin McCormack — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 00:37:00 GMT

The house is rocking: “I Get By with a Little Help from myFriends”. In another moment, the mood haschanged completely “As My Guitar Gentle Weeps”. Right now, there are four boysplaying various instruments, vocalizing and sometimes harmonizing to BeatlesRock Band down in my basement. Along with my son and his teen friends, John,Paul, George and Ringo live on. It’s like they’ve never left us. The four tall,skinny mop-heads from Liverpool have been partof my family’s lives since we heard them first in 1964. All four of us know their names, theirinstruments, most of the words to most of their songs. Donald has all the major albums sitting on ashelf downstairs. The turntable nolonger works, but we will not part with those albums. It’s Beatle songs we sing in the car on roadtrips. On a trip to NYC, we visited first the DakotaBuilding where Lennon lived, and thenthe Imagine mosaic in Central Park that YokoOno made in his honor. Who would have imagined the Beatles would be such avital link connecting my husband and I to our children’s generation?

My first attachment to the Beatles, even more than theirsongs was their appearance on the Ed Sullivan show. My dad, dead these manyyears, liked the Beatles, too. Then,since we did not listen to the radio, or purchase many LP’s, it was the Beatlescartoon on TV. John was my favorite,more than Paul or George who were considered cuter, or Ringo, who was just kindof goofy. Donald was serious about musicfrom early on, and eagerly sought and memorized each new Beatles album as itcame out, through all their evolutions. For a time, I was puzzled and put off by the political and protestelements in John’s music, dismayed that the band was torn apart and seemingly corruptedby the bad influences of the ‘60s and ‘70s. It wasn’t until later that I saw that each member was growing, maturing,changed by success, world travel and altered perceptions.

Now I know that had they followed the same pop formula, theywould have been quickly outmoded, outdated, and ridiculous. It’s that aspect ofchange, their experimentation and innovation that I now appreciate themost. They were, ultimately, somusical, mixing such different styles and types of instrumentation. I like,too, that they were a true group, each of them contributing, as opposed to the“auteur” singer/songwriter who might have a terrific backing band, but it’s asingle vision or viewpoint that comes through.

Always, at the back of my mind, I wondered how those humblelads managed to produce so much music of lasting value, seemingly out ofnowhere. It was the times, of course, and the spark of rock catching from musicianto musician across the continents. Thoseboys wanted to be emulate other musicians, the sound, the excitement, alifestyle so different from the relatively depressing nine to five jobs of theadults in their worlds. It may, also,have been that Irish streak. In thecourse of my genealogical research, I came across a couple websites on famouspeople/artists of Irish descent, including Lennon, McCartney, and Harrison. Thereason they were in Liverpool was the Famine,forcing their ancestors to look for work abroad. Irish, and Catholic – minorities within in agreat colonial power, one of the greatest – in a sense, outsiders looking in,questioning and rebellious.

I like to think it’s the genius within every one of us, eventhose we suspect least. Like my community college students, there are diamondsin the rough. Not that everyone of themis brilliant in the same way. I thinkit’s the times, the combination of personalities, the circumstances that arise,and the fearlessness of those who have not much to lose, and are willing todeal with discomfort on the way to where they want to be. No one had reason to think John Lennon wasthe artist and thinker he turned out to be. Maybe it was the exposure to allkinds of life experiences. Maybe the refusal to be defined as “nothingspecial”. And, largely, it was the continual practice ofhis art, his craft that got him better and better, even when not to his bestcommercial interests. I love the Beatlesbecause they were four boys making music in the basement, who grew into men whothought about the world and yet remained playful. John, Paul, George and Ringo;they’re welcome to play in my basement any time.