• Posted By panthergirl @ 7:22 AM • • •
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Why I Became a Feminist
Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving turned me into a radical feminist. Or, maybe I was born one and Thanksgiving just confirmed my inate belief that women have traditionally been treated (sometimes willingly) as second-class citizens.
Of course it wasn't just this particular holiday that validated my beliefs. Every Sunday, during the eleventy-seven course extravaganza known as "dinner", the same dynamic would be present. But I refused to buy in, even as a little girl.
In this photo, I am seven years old. I'm wearing an apron, as is my grandmother, my mother and my middle sister (for some reason, my eldest sister on the near left either escaped kitchen duty or shed the apron immediately afterwards. (My mother also seems to be either admiring the nasty perm she forced on my stick-straight hair, or she's thinking "You'll wear the apron and you'll LIKE it..."
I didn't mind the prep work all that much. My grandmother always made the macaroni from scratch. (the term "pasta" was never used. It was macaroni, no matter what it looked like.) She'd let us knead the dough and then she'd roll it out and cut the squares of ravioli or strips of lasagna. She'd lay a sheet on her bed, sprinkle it with flour, and place the finished pieces on it to dry. Also placed there were the strips of dough that would never make it to the table...gobbled up raw like so many strings of licorice. We loved the raw dough.
We'd stir the gravy (no, not sauce or tomato sauce...it was gravy), helped roll the meatballs, cut the provolone into little squares for antipasto. We sliced the pepperoni, put the turkey in the oven, rolled up the braciola (pronounced: bra-JOLE) and prepared plates of salad that featured iceberg lettuce, black olives and a red vinegar that came from the wine cellar in our basement. All of that was kind of fun.
The meal was generally a festive event (unlike our daily family meals, which are fodder for another post altogether). Everyone drank homemade Chianti (even the kids, and my mother who would offend everyone by putting orange juice and ice cubes in hers), and stuff themselves with everything from soup to nuts. Quite literally: Minestrone, antipasto, macaroni, meatballs and other meats, followed by salad, turkey, fruit and nuts. My grandfather would entertain us by cracking walnuts on his bald head. Then, percolated coffee accompanied by cake, pastries and cookies that were also sometimes made by my grandmother...particularly the anisette cookies with pignoli nuts. Those were my favorites.
But it was the after-party that infuriated me. The women would begin clearing the table and marching like lemmings back into the kitchen to clean up. Remember, this was before dishwashers and Teflon. We're talking HOURS worth of pot scouring, washing and drying dishes, wrapping leftovers, wiping down counters and tables and collecting linens. The men would do the thing that has spawned cliches to this very day: sit around the living room and watch TV, with their belts and flys open to free their bloated bellies.
By the time I was 7 or 8, I'd take advantage of the commotion and slip away. Thanksgiving would usually take place, as it did here, in my grandparents' apartment upstairs from us in our two-family home. I'd make my way downstairs and in the peace and quiet of my room, or better yet our "finished basement", I'd read the newspaper. When I began to do this on Sundays as well, I'd tiptoe down there and read the Herald-Tribune and my favorite comic strip: Miss Peach (little kids with giant heads).
As an adult, I once dated a guy whose family still functioned this way on holidays. The women cooked, the women cleaned up. The men ate, the men digested. When he suggested that I join the feminine cleanup brigade, I asked if we were going to pick up the plates with our vaginas. He decided to help out, and I was happy to assist him.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Not-So-Famous (but great) Last Words
Today is the 6th anniversary of the death of my son's dad (lung cancer, age 46). I originally posted this in April 2005. Thought it was a good time to run it again.
Yesterday, in an attempt to clean out the 49.5G that I've used on my laptop, I began opening a lot of files that I haven't looked at in awhile. In some cases, files that I didn't even remember that I had.
One of these turned out to be a written account of the last week of Tony's life. I guess in trying to process everything, I wrote every single detail of that last, grueling week.
After having been sick for 8 months or so, he took a rapid slide during those seven days that surprised even his nurses. Although his life was quickly slipping away, he maintained his sense of humor almost to the very end.
Two days before he passed away, his sisters and Lucas and I were sitting with him at the hospital, having seen him get progressively weaker. At one point, the phone rang. He looked at us and said, "Unless it's the Dalai Lama, I don't want to talk to anyone."
Those were the last words he spoke. Some day, I think my son will get a chuckle out of that.
Friday, September 11, 2009
A Loss of Innocence - An Annual Repost
We were never safe. We just thought we were, and it's hard to remember what that felt like. As significant as BC and AD, 9/11 changed everything.
I've always been a morning news person, usually flipping on the TV as I get dressed for work, background music to the routine of my daily life. For some unknown reason, that day I got up, got Lucas and Emma off to school and went to work without turning on the television or even the radio in my car. (Because I work in CT, we had moved from the city to be closer to my job in 1995.)
On the morning of 9/11, as I drove to work, my cellphone rang. It was a friend of mine, telling me that a plane had hit the towers. I started laughing, thinking that he was pulling my leg because of plans we had made to go to Windows on the World in a few weeks. He kept trying to tell me what had happened, and I almost hung up on him. Then, he told me about the Pentagon and my stomach fell. I knew, then, that he was serious. And that we as a nation were in trouble.
I don't remember the rest of the drive to work. I got there and stood in the lobby of our building, watching CNN on the plasma screen TV and seeing the towers fall. I remember one of the marketing managers saying, "We need to kill the fuckers!" We all stood there in shock, not knowing what was really happening, seeing the images of an enormous dust cloud chasing frantic crowds around narrow street corners. We tried to think of people we knew who worked in the towers, or who may have had meetings there that day. Mostly I remember thinking that this was it. That World War III had started and my children would not live to adulthood.
If you did not live in NYC or the tri-state area at that time, there are memories I can only try to describe to you. In the days that followed the attacks, the weather was almost inappropriately beautiful, and the skies without ANY air traffic left us in an eerily quiet state. Like when the power goes out in your house you realize how loud your refrigerator really is. People were extraordinarily kind to each other. We looked into each others eyes and felt a connection like never before.
Having grown up in the city and spent most of my adult life living in Manhattan and Brooklyn, I had to get down there as soon as I could. I wanted to hug my city. On the Sunday after the attacks, I took the train to Grand Central, with my camera and a notepad to record my experience. As the train made its way to the city, the doors opened at one stop and several menacingly loud "gangsta" guys got on the train and started banging on the doors, seeming to enjoy the fear that they could so easily instill in the passengers whose nerves were already frayed. The rise in adrenalin was plapable. The big bad thing had happened. Now, anything was possible. We got to the city without incident.
I walked from Grand Central Station to Canal Street, which is probably about three miles, taking pictures as I went. There was still a sense of hope, that the moms and dads and brothers and sisters and children on the flyers might somehow be found. But the prevailing sentiment, the most powerful and overwhelming hope, was that our government would not use this event, use our pain and our loss, to start a war.
There were two songs I heard that day as I walked. One was Kate Smith singing "God Bless America" (what this little boy is listening to on a gramophone in Washington Square Park).
The other was John Lennon, pleading that we "Give Peace a Chance."
Here's the video I made. Wish I could say "enjoy". (put your sound on)
Monday, September 07, 2009
Dates with Nuts
Back by popular demand... my online dating missive.
I wasn't a "Match.com" gal. Oh no. I went for the Nerve crowd. On the face of it, much hipper, quirkier, more creative types. And I loved filling out their profile form. (My favorite part: You have to fill in the blanks for "____ is sexy, ______ is sexier." My profile read: "Spooning is sexy, forking is sexier." God, I crack me up.)
As a result, I attracted an "interesting" crop of suitors. Rather than go into elaborate anecdotes about these encounters, I'll just throw out some highlights. If you recognize yourself here you could be responsible for driving a perfectly great catch into permanent hibernation.
- The author of a book on Frisbee-throwing who lamented that his ex-girlfriend just didn't understand his method of loading and unloading the dishwasher.
- The traveling AOL executive who found me online as he surfed Nerve from his hotel room in Sao Paolo. We were scheduled to meet three days later, when he returned from his business trip to his luxurious apartment in NYC. Unfortunately it turns out he was actually an unemployed writer LIVING in Sao Paolo, and did I mention that the hot picture on his profile was really his cousin Carlo from Naples?
- The handsome and fit stockbroker who arrived for our date at least 150 pounds heavier than his picture, wearing a too-small Harley Davidson t-shirt and suit pants. At least he had the decency to explain that he knew I wouldn't be attracted to him but he really wanted to meet me 'cause he thought I seemed cool.
- The severely nerdy copywriter who dropped to his knees when he saw me and said "Thank you, God." (I know it sounds flattering but it was creepy and desperate, especially since he was wearing Bermuda shorts at the time)
- The obsessive-compulsive who dragged me in and out of 12 restaurants until we found the one that was the correct temperature. Apparently he had a perspiration issue. Sexy.
- The seemingly normal art director who called me in the middle of the night thinking it would be really exciting to pretend I was his mommy and that we were hot for each other.
Gee, I had almost forgotten why I gave it up.
If you are considering finding the love of your life online, I have one very simple piece of advice: meet the person RIGHT AWAY. I mean immediately. Tomorrow, or sooner. It is very easy to develop a false sense of intimacy through the ether. And don't forget one very important fact: People Lie. 5'8" means 5'6". 185 lbs. means 250 lbs. Heck, even I lied! I've never forked in my life!
People do find love this way. And I've made some incredible, long-term friends through the web. But as they used to say on Hill Street Blues: "Be careful out there".
Monday, August 24, 2009
August 24, 1985... 24 Years Ago...
...my little girl was born.
Each year takes me back to the first rumbles of labor, having dinner in Brooklyn Heights at Henry's End with my husband and our friend Charlie. I casually checked my watch and noted that the contractions were regular, but a good 20 minutes apart. We went home, After dinner, at around 11pm, Mark drove Charlie home to Manhattan and I went to sleep. I woke up the next morning, knowing that "this was it". Still, our midwife said it was a good idea to take a bath and have a glass of wine (at 5am!). If this wasn't "it" the contractions would stop. Believe me, it was "it".
A bumpy ride up the West Side highway from Brooklyn to St. Luke's Roosevelt on W. 59th Street is not the most pleasant thing when your uterus is in a vise. But once we got there, the labor was quiet, peaceful and smooth (I kept hearing a woman screaming in the next room, only to be assured by my midwife that I was actually farther along than she was!). With the exception of the crowning of her head (why does the Johnny Cash song "Ring of Fire" come to mind? Hm.), it really was not that bad. Until she was born.
Emma had aspirated meconium into her lungs (if you've gotten this far, I'm assuming you know what that is. If not, look it up. Isn't that what all mothers say?) which led to her being rushed via ambulance to another hospital, one with a NICU, where she remained for a week. Her first APGAR score was a 3. (See "look it up" above). Unlike these days, I was transported there as well and was able to stay with her until she was well enough to come home. I feel very sorry for parents now who have to leave their sick newborns in the hospital alone... I don't know how they do it.
Although she gave us a lot to worry about at birth, she was the easiest baby! She slept ALL THE TIME. And when she wasn't sleeping, she was smiling. She never cried. (She made up for it later, believe me!) She's still happiest when she has slept for 12 hours. Some things really never do change...
This is pretty much indicative of all her baby pictures:
My favorite school picture...
And a modeling job that she did for a store catalog for "Think Big!"
Happy Birthday, sweetheart.
For years, when both of my kids were living at home, our tradition was to eat the same meals on their birthdays that I ate the night before they were born. For Lucas it's chicken fajitas... for Emma, it's soft-shell crab.
I'll get to spend a few days with her later this week and we'll go see "District 9" together. But this morning, as I walked past the Crayola crayon boxes and sticker books at the local pharmacy it took me back to what doesn't seem like so many years ago...
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Polkadot Panthergirl
...circa 1966. Traded the communion dress for this fetching pantsuit, socks and Keds (or were they PF Flyers?).
I was only eleven in this picture, and sometimes put crumpled up balls of looseleaf under my shirt to create the illusion of breasts. (not here, though) In those days, bras were so lumpy that the looseleaf looked pretty "real". Needless to say, I was in a big hurry to grow up.
That summer my mother signed me up for CYO Day Camp (Catholic Youth Organization). Based on my date of birth, I was put into the 10/11 age group. However, I had other ideas.
The very first day, I spotted a boy in the back of the bus who was singing "Satisfaction" at the top of his lungs. He was clearly NOT in the 10/11 group, but he was edgy and dangerous and I immediately ditched my funny glasses and sashayed back there and caught his eye.
We arrived at camp and were greeted by the director: a big, nasty-ass he-woman that I recognized as the gym teacher from hell at my sister's high school. A normal kid would have been terrified. Instead, I decided to doctor the birth date on my bus pass and get myself into the 13/14 group...to be closer to Jagger Junior who instantaneously became my boyfriend.
My mother hadn't yet taken me for my first AAA-cup fitting, so I spent the rest of that summer wearing my bathing suit top under my clothes in the event that he tried to snap my "bra". I said "shit" a lot. The real 13-14 year olds in my group answered every possible question I had about sex. (I imparted all this knowledge to my 9 year old cousin, who immediately lept to the conclusion that he was adopted, because "my parents would NEVER do that!!") Although blind as a bat, I refused to wear my dorky glasses. Priorities, man.
By the end of the summer I was WAY cooler than my yodeling paramour, and even without my glasses I realized he wasn't that hot. I eventually got my AAA-cup bra, about two years before it was completely uncool to wear one.
BlogHer in NYC Next Year!
Well, if I'm going to show up at BlogHer next year (and I am), I suppose I ought to resurrect this here thang.
I might post a few reruns over the next few days while I decide on a topic for my re-entry into blog land.... I have a few bouncing around in my head: The Air Traveler's Strife, Why I Think People Have Lost Their Minds (yes, all of them), Updated Pet Peeves and Other Daily Annoyances, Songs to Drive By...
My goal will be to post something new at least once a week, in between Facebooking and Twittering and ... oh yeah ... life.
See you (and I do mean SEE YOU) at BlogHer next August.
Monday, June 22, 2009
You Can't Make This Stuff Up
I know I haven't posted in a long time... sorry!! But something happened tonight that is too long for Twitter OR Facebook, so here I am. I'm also posting this on top of another bizarre incident I reported back in '07, so you can see how weird my life is in general.
Last week, I received an email from a company called Camp Meds. They are handling all medications required by campers at my son's (and apparently many others') camp. I'm not crazy about the idea, because you have to pay a $50 handling fee and you really don't know who is doing the handling.
Anyway, to increase my anxiety a little more, the email I got from them was intended for someone else, and attached to it was the personal profile and prescriptions of a camper who is NOT my son, along with a copy of the girls' mother's insurance ID card, phone numbers, etc.
I was horrified. I let them know and they pretty much blew it off as a "mistake". On Friday I decided to call the mother in Seattle to let her know what had happened.
She called me back today. We talked for awhile, she gave me her email address so I could forward the email to her, and then she said "You live in Westchester, right?" (she knew from my area code). I said yes, and she said she used to live in NY, but on Long Island. I asked her where on Long Island and when she told me the town, I said that my son's dad came from there. She initially thought he had MY last name and said that she didn't know the family, but when I said HIS last name she said, "Oh I knew them! I used to hang out at their house! Tony used to buy us liquor... I went to high school with Cindy..." She knew the whole damned bunch.
I still cannot believe it. And I thought the story below was the weirdest thing that ever happened to me...
--------
Pay close attention to all the details, for each one is critical to how this story plays out.
I normally leave my house at about 7AM and get to work at 7:30. This morning, because I was watching the news from Minneapolis, I left at 7:50. No biggie, except I knew there was a big management meeting/announcement taking place at 8:30 and I wanted to be sure to get there on time for that.
Since I pulled into the parking garage at 8:25, I went straight to the meeting instead of dropping my things off in my office first.
Most people had settled into their seats already, but I found one open chair next to my boss. I had to climb over a bunch of people to get to it, but I did it.
After the meeting was over, the 200 or so attendees filed slowly out. A woman walking next to me noticed my little shopping bag from a jewelry store in a town near mine. "I love that store!" she exclaimed. "Me too," I replied.
Then she said, "I used to shop there because I lived in V--- (my teeny town)". "I live in V---" now", I replied. "Oh, do you live in the O--- Condos?" "Er... yeah", I said...now getting a little creeped out. "Where in O---- do you live?" she asked. I told her my street name. She looked pale. "I lived on that street too...what number?"
"173", I said. "I lived at 172", she replied. By this time, both of our jaws had to be scraped off the floor.
Now, I tell you... what are the chances?? Like I said, normally I would have arrived at work early enough to drop my little shopping bag in my office. I could have sat ANYWHERE in that room of over 200 people. I've been sick all week, so chances were good I wouldn't even have been at work today.
I'm buying a lottery ticket. Seriously.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Take Our Daughters to Work Day
Yesterday, I received a memo at work reminding me to register my kid for "Take Our Children to Work Day." I thought it was a good time to rerun my blogpost from April 2006 on this topic, which is a real ho-button issue for me:
Take Out DAUGHTERS to Work Day.
That's what it was designed to be. Our daughters. To work. Now, it appears that the Ms. Foundation has caved to pressure from people who normally despise "political correctness" and changed the day to "Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day". I'm really disappointed in them.
The day was created so that girls, traditionally not exposed to lots of career options, could see what women do in jobs outside the home. Sure, more women work now than ever before, but educating our daughters about the realities of the workplace, including inequities in salaries and the "glass ceiling" is important. Boys have always been exposed to men in the workplace. Have you ever seen a magazine called "Working Dad"? Of course not. Sounds silly, doesn't it? Then why do we need this:
I find it so interesting that the people who complained about TODTWD as being "sexist" because it excluded boys are the same people who couldn't care less about ACTUAL sexism, in the workplace or otherwise. These are the same people who complain about "Black History Month" as being "racist". No, you see...every OTHER month is "White History Month". That's the difference.
It's a shame that TODTWD has been watered down, and I intend to write to the Ms. Foundation to express my displeasure. If they wanted to add boys to to mix, they should suggest keeping boys at home with their stay-at-home moms or dads, to show them THAT option, and what's involved with it. After all, that should be a choice for boys as well.
Friday, March 27, 2009
South African Adventure!
Just got back from ten days in South Africa. It was a business trip to Durban, but I also managed to get a few days in Cape Town and an overnight in a game reserve (Phinda) which was completely amazing.
We got so close to this male lion that it was literally terrifying. He was just sitting there, very quietly, but then got up and walked toward our (open) vehicle. He walked right along side the jeep (next to me), close enough that I could have touched him. I could not BREATHE. But he just looked up and kept on truckin'.
We saw tons of game, as well as amazing birds, bugs and snakes! The lodge was gorgeous and had an outdoor shower. But I didn't enjoy my shower so much as there were monkeys in the trees hooting and hollering at me so I ran indoors like the sissy New Yorker that I am.
Here are some great images from the trip. Some of these were taken by my colleague who brought a better camera, so I can't take credit for all of them...
The people of SA are truly amazing. Sometimes you go places where people seem very friendly but you know the second you turn your back they are making funny faces at you. (or am I just paranoid?) Here, everything that people say and do is so incredibly genuine. Even when service at the hotels or restaurants is a little kooky (serving 7 dinners to 8 people and not quite understanding why one person, me, is sitting there with no food?) they are so adorable about it you can hardly get pissed off.
Prices were so good that I ended up buying a backpack to carry the clothes I bought! Of course, had I paid the almost $10K in airfare that it took to get me there, it might not have been worth the couple of hundred dollars I saved. :) But that's the joy of traveling on business! Not to mention the frequent flyer miles...
One of the best parts of the trip, though, was the domestic flight from Durban to Cape Town on my way home. The flight attendant who was delivering the safety information was hilarious. First, when explaining the usage of the life preserver, he suggested that we tie the ribbons around our waist as opposed to our neck. Then he pointed out the light "for shining into the sharks' eyes". And lastly, he told us this was a non-smoking flight and that there are "smoke detectors and video cameras" in the restrooms. LOL
It was a great way to see who was actually paying attention!
Next stop... Istanbul in May.
Friday, March 06, 2009
Vote for Tiger!!
And help him win money for Greyhound Rescue and Rehab:
