Remembrance Outside the Box

This week marked the 12t^h anniversary of September 11^th, and the first year I didn’t formally commemorate the horrible events of the day. It wasn’t a deliberate decision at first. A month ago I was trying to find a mutually available date for lunch with a former boss, and Wednesday the 11^th is what we settled on after much back and forth.  As I entered the lunch date into my schedule, I realized the significance of the day and was oddly relieved.

Admittedly, it’s not easy to live a mere four blocks away from ground zero on the anniversary of the attacks. The preparation for remembrance starts many days before with a beefed up police presence, then come road blocks and barricades, then the frighteningly loud convoy of motorcycle riders circling the area at midnight on the eve of the attacks. Aside from having commercial jets fly dangerously low, I don’t think there’s any more you could do to shake one’s nerves to the core. So, I guess it’s not surprising that when I had an opportunity to get out of Dodge, I took it.  

But it was more than that. When I awoke this Wednesday morning, my husband asked me if I was ready to turn on NY 1 and watch the reading of the names.  Before I could even rub the sleep out of my eyes, I replied an unequivocal “no.”  Steve nodded and I believe he was relieved as well.

It’s not that I’m ready to forget, it’s just that I’m tired of remembering in this very pomp-and-circumstance-public-political way.

Yes, 9/11 changed the world. The consequences of the attacks have touched everyone who was alive that day and everyone born afterwards. But it directly affected millions of New Yorkers, hundreds of passengers and their families on the three flights that were hijacked and crashed, and the workers in the pentagon. And I believe that we who were directly affected have the right to remember the day in a very private and personal way.

That’s why I decided that in my post today, I would recount my own experience that day.  It is not nearly as dramatic as many of my friends’ accounts or as grim and upheaval-causing as what my husband lived through, but it is mine and no one else’s. It doesn’t require a live telecast or elected officials to mark it; Just me, here at my laptop.

I hit the snooze an extra time on September 11, 2001. It was primary day and I had told my staff I would be in late after voting. I figured the polls would not be so busy and I would catch a bit more sleep under the auspices of fulfilling my civic duty. As usual, NY 1 was on my TV as I rushed around my studio apartment in Gramercy Park getting ready to leave for the day. I was in the bathroom putting on make-up when Pat Kiernan announced that there various reports of a plane flying into the World Trade Center. I rushed into my living/bedroom and sat down. I would not get up for some time. I called my mother living in Westchester to share this odd story. We continued to speak as I watched the story unfold. At first reporters assumed it was a private plane gone awry, but soon we would all be disabused of those impressions as the second plane crashed into the second tower.

Now, this is when my behavior doesn’t really make sense. I hung up with my mom and was determined to get to work. Why? I just felt compelled to be with my staff and perhaps be of service. But I believe now that I just needed to be with fellow New Yorkers. If this was the end of the world I didn’t want to be alone.

I grabbed a cab and when my eyes met with the cabbie’s I immediately knew he knew what was happening. I told him I needed to go to Houston and Sixth Avenue. He told me he’d try to get me as far south and west as possible but that they were already blocking off streets. He dropped me at West Broadway and I ran the rest of the way.

In those days as Director of Development at Gilda’s Club NYC, I worked on the fourth floor of an historic brownstone. My office was more like a parlor with a flowered couch, comfy chairs and a TV. There I found my staff huddled around watching the coverage. Most days, they annoyed me with their petty disputes and their resistance to new work. Today, I was elated to find them all alive.

When they announced that one of the planes was flight 11 from Logan Airport, a chill ran down my spine. My stepmother, Carol, had been working that run for years as a flight attendant for American Airlines. I immediately grabbed the phone and called her cell. In a huge moment of grace, she picked up the line bleary and sleepy 3000 miles away in Los Angeles having landed from flight 11 just several hours before. I was the one to let her know what was happening and that her coworkers had perished.

When I hung up I thought about who else I should call to let them know I was safe. I had the sudden thought that I should call my grandparents. Of course, they all had been dead for years. But for some reason, they kept popping in my head. Today, I believe they were with me the entire day. And because this is my story and no one else’s this is my truth.

When the first tower fell, my coworkers and I rushed up to the roof. We had to see with our own eyes, unfiltered by the television screen. It couldn’t be real, could it? Shortly after we gathered on the roof and watched the dust cloud settle, the second tower fell. We gasped. There was an eerie silence -- as if the city had been muted by an alien remote control.  I began to really think this was the end. This was it. No more New York. No more life.

My boss made the decision to send us all home early. For those of us in Manhattan it was clear we would be walking. For others it was unclear how they would get home. As the door to the townhouse locked I wasn’t sure I’d ever see any of them again. I started down Sixth Avenue alone and was struck by the sight of people casually eating lunch at Bar Pitti and other outdoor restaurants and cafes. It was like something from a Fellini film.  A dark smoke cloud hovered ominously above, ash-covered zombie-like workers from wall street were trudging their way uptown having witnessed death and destruction first-hand while denizens of Soho sipped on fruity cocktails and dipped their forks into crisp salads. Denial can be very soothing.

I stopped by the old Cabrini Hospital to see if they needed blood, but no bodies nor wounded had arrived. They didn’t know what they needed and turned away me and many other well-meaning New Yorkers. I continued up Third Avenue and passed my childhood idol, former New York Met Rusty Staub, on the street. You can’t miss him. He’s tall and stout with flaming red hair. When he played for the Montreal Expos they called him “Le Grande Orange.” We both smiled at each other as if we were old friends. Things had become officially surreal.  

I reluctantly entered my apartment desperately still needing human contact but not knowing where I should or could go safely. Instead I watched the news compulsively and manned the phones – checking the locations of all my loved ones and recounting what I saw to family and transplanted New Yorkers.

I called my closest friend at the time I learned her brother-in-law – a mentally disabled adult working in the mail room at Cantor Fitzgerald -- was gone.  Her husband, a trader for Goldman Sachs, said when he arrived home that he was covered in his brother’s ashes. I will never forget that image or the sweet man who was part of an extended family for me. I had worked with the staff at Windows on the World for many events and mourn their loss.  There are many more people who I had known in one way or another, but I do feel blessed that I didn’t lose anyone close to me that day.

In the days that followed, unable to get downtown to my office, I spent quiet, comforting days in friends’ homes talking, playing music (or, in my case, listening to others play music!) and eating whatever we had in the fridge.

Slowly, life returned. Not to normal. No, there would never be normal again. But there was life, work and even play after a while. Well, at least for me.

It was surreal, frightening, strange, inconvenient but not personally tragic for me. I lost some acquaintances. I lost the two iconic structures that I watched being erected as a kid in Brooklyn and believed belonged to me. I lost a sense of false security that I will never get back along with the ability to travel through American airports with a Muslim surname without being stopped. But I didn’t lose a member of my family, or my job or my place to live.

My story is my story. It doesn’t fit into a patriotic one-size-fits-all box. That is why I’m glad that I spent this Wednesday afternoon having an enjoyable lunch in midtown followed by some productive shopping at Marshalls.

And that is why I am glad to share my story with you – my friends – today. The process of recalling that day – moment by moment – on paper has been hugely powerful and I am grateful for the opportunity.

Now, I invite you to share your stories with me – whether you think I know them or not.

I'll Take the A train

There are probably more jokes about the NYC subway than there are about airplane peanuts.  And fictionalized tales of woe from a quotidian subway ride have been featured in movies and television as diverse as Seinfeld, The Odd Couple, Law and Order, Sesame Street and the Taking of Pelham 123. Our poor but devoted friend the subway has become the butt of jokes and the scapegoat of nearly every “why I’m late for work” story. That’s why I’m here to defend the subway and share with you some of my favorite subway moments.

Let’s start with history. How can you not marvel when you consider that this intricate warren of underground tunnels and stations were built at the turn of the century.  In fact, from the original 28 stations built in Manhattan and opened on October 27, 1904, the subway system has grown to 468 stations – that’s only 60 fewer stations than the combined total of all other subway systems in the country. And just for you trivia geeks:

• Highest station: Smith-9 Sts Brooklyn, 88 feet above street level.
• Lowest station: 191 St in Manhattan, 180 feet below street .

And if you’re as much in love with the history as I am you can take a little (mostly in distance) trip back in time and actually ride through the original City Hall Station. All you have to do is stay on the #6 train at it’s final downtown stop (Brooklyn Bridge/City Hall) and ride with it as it circles back to the uptown platform. Make sure you don’t blink but you’ll get to see some cool underground history.

You can also see an enormous collection of beautiful, weird, strange and fascinating artwork in our subways. The MTA Arts for Transit has commissioned and installed artwork in dozens of stations since 1985. The book detailing these great works is available in their museum store – I got one for my husband for Christmas a few years back.

 

Of course one of my favorite aspects of the subway is speed and efficiency. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate to waste time and I am pretty cheap. So the subway is a dream for me. Unless you have a helicopter at your disposal there’s no faster way to get from the Battery to Washington Heights  during rush hour (approximately 30 minutes) or Coney Island to midtown on a Saturday (about an hour) than the subway. You can ride for 31 miles (the longest continuous ride from Far Rockaway to 207^th St. Manhattan) for $2.50. You’d need to take out a mortgage for a taxi ride of the same length.

And despite all the griping about delays, if you take the subway regularly you have to admit it’s on time a huge majority of the time. In fact, its reliability is something I think we all take for granted. For example, one day I was standing on the platform of the #2 at Chambers Street (my “home stop”) when a German tourist asked me about the train schedule and where was it posted (this was before the electronic schedule indicator signs). I explained that we don’t have any posted schedules because the trains come so often. He snorted in derision doubting my word and was beginning to roll his eyes when the train came rushing down the tracks. Take that you Bavarian boob!

Okay, culture and speed aside, the thing I love most about the subway is the people. A ride on the subway means being herded into a glorious tin car with people who ordinarily would never mix.  I’ll never forget the punk girl on the A train who unlaced her Doc Marten boots, pulled off her sock and began to clip her toenails as we sped past Columbus Circle. Or the deranged homeless couple who conducted an argument straight out of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe about who should have custody of the wheelchair, their sole source of “income.” The “wife,” whose burgundy wig appeared to be sinking down her made up face, truly believed it was her turn, but her Vietnam vet-looking mate was quite convince it belonged to him. A family of four very blonde, very bemused tourists watched intently. Ahh, there you go, I thought: an afternoon’s entertainment basically free of charge. You want to bet that’s the first thing they told their friends when they got home?

I’ve seen celebrities sitting next to heroin addicts on a nod; nurses trying to make it home after a long shift chatting with Japanese students; Lawyer-looking dudes getting into intense disputes with homegirls with platinum weaves. It’s our own mini UN for chrissakes!

Our lives literally take place on the subway. I had my first kiss on the lips from my now husband as we parted ways on the N train. I’ve reunited with old friends by serendipitously running into them on the same car. I’ve read great novels. I’ve witnessed moments of violence and despair, and saw a pick up or two. And I once fulfilled a life-long dream by sitting in the driver’s booth while we hurtled from West 96^th to 34^th Street (long story.)It’s the spectrum of human experience all while barreling underground.

So the next time you complain that the #5 is too crowded (which it is…and why I can’t wait for the 2^nd avenue subway!!!) or that the F is too slow, or that the A is too dirty, just think about what we truly have and how good the subway is too us.  After all, if the A train was good enough for Duke Ellington, it’s good enough for you!

9-10-13: You are Invited

As the days drew closer to my eighteenth birthday I could hardly wait. I was longing for the privileges that came with being an official adult. No, it was not being able to drink legally (which was the case in 1982) nor was it so I could enlist in the armed services. I awaited my 18^th birthday so I could vote.

 From the time I was a toddler, my mother would bring me in the voting booth with her. I, in fact, convinced her to vote for McGovern (there was just something about that Nixon guy I didn’t trust!) She continued to bring me in many, many years after it was cute – or perhaps even legally allowed.

I don’t understand the allure the voting process held for me. Perhaps it was the secrecy, or the power that each individual had in such an enormous, important process, or just that it was the purview of grown-ups. I just loved it and couldn’t wait until it was my time.

For those of you who know me, this nerdy confession should come as no surprise. Any illusions I had of being cool or hip (or whatever the cool, hip word for that is) were abandoned long ago as I continued to add more and more plaid to my wardrobe, root for the Mets, chuckle at the Big Bang Theory night after night and brag about my Scrabble wins.  But my love of the election process – although severely flawed—is being threatened from within and without.

The abolishment of the Voter’s Rights Act and the disturbing increase in voter requirements in certain states are certainly blatant examples of right wing factions trying to suppress the vote of disenfranchised groups including ethnic minorities and youth.  But what worries me even more is apathy – especially among younger potential voters.

Both my niece and nephew were eligible to vote in the most recent presidential election and neither did. My sadness and disappointment over this news was palpable.  When did the family zeal for the political process die and why? Of course, it wasn’t just my niece and nephew who didn’t make it to the polls. In 2012, only 50% of eligible young people voted. The good news is that’s up from a low of 37% in 1996, but it’s still disgraceful in my eyes.

Have our youth stopped believing that their vote makes a difference? Are they disillusioned with politics and politicians as a whole? Are they jaded from voting online for everything from the next American Idol to their favorite cat video? Could be all of them, I guess.

But the fact remains that despite the graft and corruption involved in our elections, our country is still governed by the democratic process – something that millions of people around the globe can only dream of.   And the only way we can fight corruption is by speaking up politically and attempting to vote out those who do not govern as we see fit.

Our voting privilege is a serious responsibility and like all responsibilities requires a bit of work. Last night I shushed my husband, stopped what I was doing so I could view the debates for New York City Public Advocate.  In many ways, I take local elections far more seriously than national ones. On a day to day basis, I feel that I am more affected by municipal laws and policies rather than federal ones.  I certainly notice the new bike lanes more than the effect of a new highway in South Dakota.  It’s one thing to show up at the polls but it’s another to make an informed vote.  That’s why I try to pay attention to debates and read as much as I can about the candidates.  I’m not saying it’s easy to get passed all the rhetoric and mud-slinging but it’s possible.  Browsing the candidate’s websites is usually a good place to start. Come on…you can spend an hour or so checking out their platforms, right? For more information on the upcoming election, where to vote or how to register in NYC please see:  NYC Board of Elections

If you don’t think it makes a difference than just compare the New York City of today to where we were 12 years ago. Good or bad, the changes have been enormous and much of them as a result of the present administration. From new construction, to healthy eating laws; from bike lanes to stop and frisk; from disaster preparedness and response to traffic – our lives are literally governed by the laws created by the men and women we put into office.

So please remember that Tuesday September 10^th is democratic primary day in New York City. You have ample time to listen and learn until then.  Perhaps I’ll see you there.

 P.S. If you think I’ve been pushy with you this is nothing. When I met my husband he had not voted in at least a dozen years. I told him this was a deal-breaker. I “guided” (read: dragged) him back to the polls where his first new vote was for Bernie Goetz as public advocate. When he revealed this to me later in the day, I rolled my eyes at his choice (the first of thousands of eye rolls in our relationship!) but was glad at least he made a choice.

 

Table for Two

I recently read that the restaurant as we know it today didn’t exist until the late 18^th century. For a New Yorker like me that’s like learning that air didn’t exist until Eisenhower administration. How could there be a time without restaurants? How can there be life without what has become our alternative kitchens and dining rooms?

Adam Gopnick in his book, “The Table Comes First,” reminds us that many of our life milestones happen in restaurants: first dates, engagements, break-ups, job offers etc. But for me it’s the smaller moments that I remember.  

Back in the 70s when I was a child, it was truly a rare occurrence to dine out. About twice a year on special occasions my mom would take my sister and me to Joy Teang, our local Chinese joint on Ralph Avenue. It was a darkly lit white tablecloth establishment with lots of oriental décor. As we tucked into our egg rolls, spare ribs and Lobster Cantonese I felt like I had been transported to a foreign land. But one night we had a different kind of adventure when we witnessed a hold-up. An armed, masked man came in and demanded the cash from the till. We all watched as he dashed out as quickly as he had appeared. A few moments later the police arrived. We never moved. It was just more entertainment and we devoured our meal.

Meanwhile, somewhere on the upper east side of Manhattan, my bachelor dad was spending most of his lunches and dinners rubbing elbows with the glitterati in the finest restaurants of the day. In fact, for decades, his caricature adorned the walls of the original Palm.

Weekends with my father meant trying some new kind of food. This thrilled me and horrified the less adventurous palette of my sister. One week it was raw squid in the city’s first Japanese restaurant. The next time it was a sampler platter of tacos, enchiladas, chile relleno and refried beans during my first Mexican experience. And in the summer we’d drive out to Sheepshead Bay and sample dozens and dozens of clams and oysters at Lundy’s.

A rare occurrence: my whole family out to dinner. Circa 1967

My father and I were in our glory dining out. And it was during one of our dinners out that – for the first time –I realized how alike we were. For us, food was magical, spiritual, powerful, and mystical and had the capacity to change our mood. Of course, I was to learn that this had mixed consequences.

Over the years I’ve attempted to analyze the allure of the restaurant. Why do I and millions others flock to restaurants not only to mark the memorable moments of our lives, but to treat ourselves and – of course – to find sustenance. In a world in which we are responsible for each and every minute of our lives: get up on time, make your bed, clean yourself, get dressed, catch the subway, get off the right stop, work your ass off, return emails, pick up your drycleaning, pay your bills, plan your vacation on-line, meet your friends, find your keys, ad infinitum, it’s nice to sit down and take a few hours off and let someone else (or a well-trained team of professionals) satisfy your needs. What a beautiful concept! You take a seat in a lovely room, someone hands you a printed list of what they are prepared to make for you, you tell someone who comes right to your side what you want, they bring it to you, you eat it and all you have to do is whip out some piece of plastic and figure out a tip in the end. 

And like that robbery in the 70s, restaurants also provide a vast amount of entertainment – usually in the form of people-watching. I’ve seen oodles of celebrities dining by my side (or drinking at the bar!) I’ve overheard outrageous conversations and run into old friends. And, I once witnessed a man have a heart attack and be carried out of Josephine’s – the luxe French bistro owned by the illegitimate son of Josephine Baker.  The owner followed the gurney as it weaved in and out of the tables and exclaimed in a thick Parisian accent, “…only in New York!” I’m still not sure what he meant by this but I will surely never forget it.  

Life happens at restaurants like nowhere else. You can choose to fill your belly with comfort food, fuel your body with nutritious fare or send your taste buds on an exotic holiday. You can date, reunite, celebrate and plan while sharing these experience with scores of strangers (some stranger than others.)  Other that the transporter from Star Trek, I know of no other vehicle that gives you such power to transform a moment in time.

I believe that one of the reasons I have stayed in this crazy, crowded, noisy, expensive city is for the restaurants. Unlike my late father, I do not frequent the finer dining rooms or the “it” spots of the week.  But living here means that at any time of the day (or even night, in most cases,) I can have whatever cuisine I desire.  My favorite coconut bun or hand-stretched noodles are just a 15-minute walk away in Chinatown.  I can order escargot until 2 am at one of the three (that I know of) French bistros in my neighborhood. When I feel like Italian I can choose between northern, southern, casual or haute cuisine. I can eat vegetarian, macrobiotic and vegan at a variety of places.  And, I am proud to have a favorite Vietnamese restaurant when most of America probably has never even tasted a Vietnamese meal.

That’s why as an adult, I was so proud to be able to return the favor to my father, to continue his legacy. When he used to visit me from his adopted home in Maine, I would set up a crowded itinerary of all the restaurants to hit. Our time together would be a mini road trip up and down the streets of Manhattan sampling as much exotic fare as we could stomach – trying to digest all the foods that were unheard of in Kennebunkport. I remember finishing a four-course Indonesian meal and stopping off for a piece of authentic New York pizza on the way home. This is how we bonded.

When my father was sick with bladder cancer, I would try to buoy his spirits by promising that as soon as he recovered I would take him on yet another tour of my favorite New York restaurants. He’d smile weakly thinking about all the great meals he had enjoyed over the years all over the world. He’d been fortunate enough to sit down at tables in Hong Kong, Israel, Italy, Mexico, France and many more places I probably don’t even know about.  I believe he remembered each meal in fanatical detail and would often attempt to recreate them in his own kitchen. At times, I was fortunate enough to be served his attempts. But deep down, he and I both knew that these culinary adventures were in his past.

A few months later as I stood in front of a room full of mourners reading the words I had carefully, lovingly written to remember my father, I chose to share what I realized was my fondest memory of our time together. He had just emigrated to Kennebunk, Maine. When my sister and I came to visit he wanted to show off his new home and took us to the Cape Arundel Inn (in view of the Bush’s vast compound, he pointed out.)  I was enjoying an amazing meal of steamed clams, lobster and other delights when the dessert menu came. I studied it furiously for several minutes with my brow furrowed. My father looked over to me and asked what was wrong. I replied, “I can’t decide between the chocolate mousse and the lemon cheesecake.” It was then he said three words that I would carry with me forever: “get them both.”  And I did.

Those words have stayed with me because he was acknowledging our shared love of food and of the dining experiences. He wanted me to indulge and to be happy and he wanted to be the author of that joy.  And that is the reason why restaurants will always be a huge part of my life and continue occupy enormous real estate in my heart and mind.

 

 

Karen's favorite restaurants/best and worst dining experiences:

Current Faves

Mexican: The Little Place – my favorite local haunt. Family-run authentic joint on Warren and West Broadway.

Vietnamese: NhaTrang – Baxter between Bayard and Walker

Chinese: Great New York Noodletown – 28 Bowery

Comfort Food: Bubby’s – Hudson and North Moore (skip the brunch to avoid crowds – but save room for dessert.)

Tex/Mex/Southern/Trailer Trash: Cowgirl Hall of Fame – Hudson and West 10^th  (nutty great place for events)

Haute Italian: Petrarca – Church St and White. Mellow and fab food.

Old Time Italian – Arturo’s – West Houston and Thompson (mobster ambience and jazz!)

Greek: Kyclades in Astoria – fresh fish done simply and deliciously. In Manhattan: Uncle Nicks on 8^th Ave and 29^th .

Ukrainian: Veselka – 2^nd Avenue and 9^th Street. Borscht and pierogies say no more.

Spanish: El Coyote – 23^rd Street between 7-8^th. Real swanky, great lobster and paella.

Midtown Lunch: Lugo – 33^rd between 7-8^th. Good service, outdoor options and tasty small dishes along with amazing pizza.

Dining Experiences

Best: A shout out to my dear friend (and avid reader, Andrew) who FINALLY escorted me after a long-held bet to Lutece just months before it closed. I will probably never experience such exquisite service.

Worst: Nobu L. After years of anticipation, I finally booked a table on my birthday and was treated about as kindly as Leper at a germophobe convention. In a nearly empty restaurant, I was given a tiny table right next to the kitchen and bathroom. When I asked for a better table the seater left us for 3 minutes and came back to put us in the 2^nd worst table.  There’s no excuse for this kind of discrimination – especially years after a hot opening. Boo Hiss! Won’t ever go again. 

Trash or Treasure

A few days after Christmas a few years back, I was walking with my beloved Border Collie, Rollo, when we spotted something rather odd. Piled upon a large snow-filled tree planter was a box of brand new dinnerware and a lovely small white vase. Remnants of tissue and wrapping paper were still in the boxes. Clearly, these were discarded gifts. Maybe a scorned lover couldn’t stand the sight of them post nasty break-up, or a frustrated spouse or adult child was disgusted that these were not her taste. For whatever reason, these brand new beautiful, useful objects were now trash. Well, not really. That lovely small white vase is now on permanent display in my living room (after a thorough steaming hot wash.)

In my eight years in Tribeca I have collected more than that white vase walking the streets. I gleefully saved a fabulous pine book case, found a new home for a really cool porcelain jug, repurposed some construction materials to shore up holes in our dog run, and picked up an interesting book or two. I have spotted a few chairs and promptly alerted friends, and nearly dragged home some pristine heavy plastic storage bins but couldn’t carry them on my own. 

It’s not that I can’t afford to buy my own vases, bookcases or books; it’s more that I can’t stand to see something that still has life and value go to waste – especially when you consider that garbage is taking up a lot of valuable real estate on earth.

I just don’t understand how people can throw out undamaged, working items. It boggles my mind. And, as the years go by, the usable trash issue seems to be getting worse as a younger, richer generation slowly becomes the majority in lower Manhattan.  But, in all honesty, every neighborhood, every culture has their share of good garbage.

At my former job, we all had to pack up an enormous office (an entire floor of a large midtown building) we had occupied for more than a dozen years to move across the street. Because we couldn’t afford to hire professional movers for this part of the dirty work, staff had to spend extra time each day going through desks, closets, filing cabinets etc. and toss or pack literally tons of papers, supplies and weird miscellany. As the weeks went by, people got hastier and lazier with this task and just began chucking stuff without much thought. I was both mystified and angered. How could someone toss a gross of padded envelopes – something we’d surely need across the street – just because it was too bulky? As, a non-profit, this was not just wasteful, it was unethical, I thought. So each day, at the end of the day, I’d take a step stool and I’d search through the large bins to rescue envelopes, pens, cassette tapes, stuffed toys, sets of unused still-packaged beauty products, paper clips, staplers, tons of reference books and even the step stool I was using.  As coworkers watched me they chose to ridicule me rather than pitch in. Fine. I knew I’d never run out of supplies.  And those dictionaries and other books were sent to libraries in poor communities.

It doesn’t take a lot of research to find new owners for useful objects. Having cleared out two homes of deceased loved ones and undertaken my own kitchen renovation, I’ve become a bit of an expert on what to do with stuff you no longer want, need or have space for. In most cases, you don’t even have to leave your home to make the stuff disappear. And, in other cases, you might have to make the short trek to the post office of local thrift shop. Ironically, I found those dishes and vase one block away from our local Housing Works Thrift Shop. I know they would’ve been delighted to receive these objects and earn some funds for their cause.  

For large bulky items like sofas or electronics that you can’t hoof over, Housing Works, Goodwill and the Salvation Army will come collect it. But beware; they all have their own rules and restrictions. Housing Works will only take wooden furniture and might want to check out anything upholstered, (hello bedubugs!) Salvation Army won’t pick up items other than furniture, so if you’re getting rid of an entire household of stuff, you might want to go elsewhere. I used Goodwill to clear out whatever was left in my mother-in-law’s home that my friends, family and neighbors couldn’t use. They came and carried out an entire household of furniture, clothes, tchotchkes, books, cookware, electronics and more. They came when they were scheduled, were efficient, quick and polite and I got a substantial tax deduction.  Whomever you chose, it’s a win-win-win: you get rid of things, someone gets something they like on the cheap and a worthy cause gets to help others with the proceeds.

Maybe you want to cut out the middleman and just make sure you find a new home for your vintage stereo, trampoline or waterbed, then there’s Freecycle. The Freecycle Network™ is made up of 5,107 groups with 9,394,089 members around the world. It's a grassroots and entirely nonprofit movement of people who are giving (and getting) stuff for free in their own towns. It's all about reuse and keeping good stuff out of landfills. Each local group is moderated by local volunteers and membership is free.

If you’re feeling more mercenary there’s always Craigslist, Ebay and other resale sites.  When I said sayonara to my office job a year ago, I was left with an extensive wardrobe of strictly work-appropriate clothes along with the lack of a steady income. My dear friend Marilyn turned me on to Poshmark, a clothing consignment app with a social media component. If you have a smartphone or tablet and some time each day to market your stuff (really easy) then you can turn your cardigans into cash – not tons of cash, but enough to finance the purchase of some more appropriate garb such as shorts and sandals.  For those of you interested in my gently used apparel you can check out my Poshmark closet: kazeez315.

And for my bibliophile friends, the Strand is still buying back books. Of course, you’ll have to cart them to their Union Square location and deal with their snotty staff, but at least the books are no longer taking space on your shelves you get some latte money. Amazon also offers to buy back textbooks and I’m sure other online retailers will do the same – maybe even for other books.  Senior centers and hospitals will likely be interested in adding your unwanted books to their library too.

If you’re lower tech-oriented there are still community bulletin boards to post items. My condo has one and I nearly bought someone’s entire bedroom set that was listed (the dresser was too big sadly.) Check out churches and school – they can usually direct you to people in need as well. I have a friend that needs to unload a grand piano and I directed her to three of our local music schools.

If I haven’t convinced you yet not to just throw away your stuff, please consider this: the plastic waste in the Pacific Ocean is now floating along as an island larger than the state of Texas.  The largest dump in America, the Puente Hills Landfill, has risen to a height of a 50-story building. My fevered brain is obsessed with these thoughts. Does that mean I have ceased my use of all plastic? No, but I recycle every bit of it I can – along with every piece of paper, cardboard and metal. But, in a gleaming ray of hope, our own Fresh Kills Landfill in Staten Island -- which covers more than 2200 acres -- will soon be a new community park and entertainment center.  Which just goes to show that the damage can be reversed of we use our hearts and imaginations.

So I urge you, before you toss something just think about it. Consider the energy that went into creating it, the value it might have to someone else and the space it will take up in our dumps or oceans.  And see if there’s something else you can do with it other than abandon it on Warren Street for me to collect.

If you have something today you don’t want, feel free to post it here and see if someone else will give it a good home.  Also, please post other ideas to reuse or repurpose unwanted usable stuff. Thanks!

"And here it is, the most important day of your life." Keys to a Successful Wedding

By the time I got married at age 43 I had probably attended 100 weddings. I was maid of honor three times and a member of the wedding in several other affairs. I’ve witness Jewish, catholic, a zillion denominations of protestant ceremonies; I’ve attended mixed race weddings, gay weddings, second weddings, third weddings and shotgun weddings. I’ve dressed for black-tie, beach casual and everything in between.

Sufficed to say, being the judgmental control freak that I am, I had gathered quite a few opinions on what I wanted – and more importantly did not want -- for my own wedding. Also, I should humbly add that in addition to all the weddings I have attended, I’ve hosted, organized or helped to run dozens of events during my 25+ careers as a professional fundraiser.

So, you may ask, was my wedding perfect? Basically, yes. I can honestly say that I have only one or two teeny tiny regrets (which I’ll get to later.) Therefore, because I feel that I successfully threw a wedding that didn’t break the bank, made me and my husband eternally happy and grateful and seemed to entertain my friends and loved ones, I thought I’d share my not-so-secret secrets with you.  And, while I’m at it, I think I’ll also share some opinions about wedding do’s and don’ts.

Lesson # 1 – Splurge on what’s important (but only what’s important.)

My beautiful and tasty cake!

Unless you have rich and traditional parents who want nothing else than to spend their fortune on a single day (albeit an important one) in their daughter’s life, or you are a Kardashian and have big corporate sponsorship, you probably want to reign in the costs of a wedding where you can. So figure out what means the most to you -- whether it’s flowers, photography, dress, venue, food, limo, invitations, music, favors, or the honeymoon -- and give yourself relative carte blanche on those one or two areas. And then you cut corners and expectations for the rest. For example, I am a cake fanatic so there was no way I was going to have anything but my dream cake and that was one from the Cupcake Café.  I was shocked at the cost (roughly $10/person or $750 in 2007) but I didn’t think twice about it.  In the end, it was delicious, beautiful and worth every penny to me.

Lesson # 2 Cutting Corners by Getting Crafty

The wedding industry knows that you have a big budget and that’s why things like favors and invitations – basically paper and ephemeral -- cost so damn much. So these were two areas that I decided to take on myself to save some bucks.  Nowadays there are many websites that allow you to create your own invitations. They provide a variety of card stock, designs, places for photos and text and even envelopes. I did mine through the now defunct Kodak website and paid under $100 for my invitations. I asked my guests to call or email to RSVP saving all of us time and money. For favors, I recorded a CD with songs that we played at our wedding. I through in a bottle of water and candy for the ride home too. Final cost: $2.50 per guest.  The CD is my mom’s favorite piece of music – but that could be because she’s my mom!

Lesson # 3 Cutting Corners with the Help of Friends

Like most New Yorkers I am blessed with many talented artistic friends. So I asked them to provide their services in lieu of a gift to us. One friend played flute while we walked down the aisle, another did my makeup and a third took pictures. And an old DJ friend gave me a discount – I tried to get her services for free but couldn’t quite call in that favor. But, hey I tried.

Lesson #4 – Cutting Corners by going UnWedding

I had no idea what to do with my hair when my photographer friend said, “I know someone who can make you look like a movie star!” I was impressed and excited. I called his salon just to get an idea of what this service would cost me. An assistant wouldn’t quote me a price nor would he allow me to even speak to the hairstylist until I answered the following questions: where was the wedding being held, what kind of venue and how many guests. What on earth did these things have to do with my hair, I asked? Well, my musician friend who had played untold weddings revealed the answer. People in the wedding biz set their price based on the wedding’s budget. They hear you’re having a wedding in a fancy NYC hotel with 300 guests, well then you are going to pay probably twice as much as the woman having a backyard affair in Queens with 50 close friends. I was quoted something like $300 for the hair style run-through and $250 for his services on the day of wedding. No thanks.

Instead I went to a local salon and scheduled a trim. I asked the guy (who had done my hair satisfactorily a few times) what he would do to my hair if I had a big event? He took some time and played around and we decided to flat iron it. I asked if he would open up early on a Saturday so I could get prepped for such a party and he said yes. I never mentioned it was my own wedding.  It cost me nothing for the run-through and something like $50 the day of (I added a big tip for the sin of omission.) I continued to see him for my haircuts until the salon moved.

Lesson #5 – Cutting Corners by Going Off the Rack

I watch not one but three different shows about wedding gown hopping so I know for some this may sound like sacrilege. But I had no vested interest in looking like a princess so I was happy to shop in normal stores for my wedding dress. Even if you want a floor length white gown there are many non-wedding options: evening gowns, prom dress and good ol’ cotillion gowns all come in white, ivory and blush and are practically indistinguishable from wedding dresses but cost a lot less. I wound up finding an beautiful, ethereal Kay Unger knee length halter dress with tiny gold point d’esprit. I felt lovely, airy, special and comfortable – not like some corseted doll. Just saying. Oh, and it was on sale, and I opened an account at Bloomingdales to save an additional 10% so it cost me under $400.  One of the few regrets that I have is that I didn’t take the time to have it professionally altered. I had my dry cleaner’s tailor adjust the straps a notch but I should’ve done a tad more. I was busy. No biggie though.

Lesson # 6 – Cutting Corners by Trimming the Guest List

Here was our credo: Only invite people we love (and their partners – if we hadn’t grown to love them yet!) The fewer people the less you’ll spend. But perhaps more importantly, the more time you’ll have to spend with each of them. Both of these things were important to us so we decided to keep the guest list to under 80 people. It wasn’t super difficult because we both have small families, but we did have to make some tough calls. The old co-worker I hadn’t seen in a year didn’t make the cut, neither did the friend of my husband’s that always picks fights with me and owes us money. People get over it and if they don’t well maybe it’s just as well.

The Lesson to end all Lessons: Enjoy yourself

Perhaps the most important thing I learned from my years doing events was that inevitably something would go wrong but that probably nobody but me would notice. Knowing that, I could avoid sweating all the details and be mindful of the miracle of the day. The morning of the wedding I just kept repeating to myself, “be here, be present.” And I was. As I walked down the aisle holding my husband’s hand, the crowd turned to watch us. I saw a sea of happy faces from every aspect of our lives. There were my friends from college, Steve’s old cop buddies, my crazy family, his less crazy family, his kung fu classmates, my work colleagues -- everyone we loved was in the same room. It made me laugh and my laughing made the whole room laugh. It set the tone for a wonderful day. 

When planning the day I arranged for food and beverages that Steve and I liked – besides the cake – instead of what I thought might impress. I asked the venue (Battery Gardens – a lovely restaurant/event space in my beloved downtown Manhattan.)  to create a special lemonade for me during the cocktail hour. I ate the dinner – something that not many brides do – and spent quality time with people I love. It was a beautiful day and I remember every second of it. 

Now a few words on being a proper wedding guest:

·         Don’t wear white…ever, under any circumstances! It is still wrong and it will always be wrong.

·         Don’t give a gift that’s not on the registry. If you don’t want to deal with the registry, just give cash. Anything else is a waste of your money and awkward for the couple.

·         Don’t call the night before the wedding with questions (directions, what you should wear, if you can bring someone else, etc.) Figure it out yourself or ask someone close to the couple.

·         RSVP by the required date. Don’t make them chase you down they have enough to do.

·         Ask if there’s anything you can do to help – it will be well-appreciated.

·         And when it comes to the reception, have fun but not too much fun…if you know what I mean.  It’s not fair to the couple to make a scene and in these days of instagram, twitter, facebook and instant videos it’ll come back to haunt you.

Feel free to post any other tips you may have

 and enjoy wedding season!

 

 

My Name is Karen and I am a Feminist

            I was born in the middle of the “women’s liberation movement.” It was an exciting time when women replaced apron strings for miniskirts, they joined “consciousness-raising groups, they wrote sexually-explicit novels where the heroines called the shots,  they demanded equal pay for equal work and to be considered for non-traditional work in offices, construction sites and in government.  Divorce rates rose and disgruntled and smothered women left their husbands to “find themselves.”  This movement was mirrored in movies, television and magazines (the entirety of the media basically in that age.) Media idols like Mary Tyler Moore, Jane Fonda and Sally Field showed us we could still be feminine and attractive while forging new trails for our sisters.

In those days how could you be anything other than a feminist? You’d have to be an Archie Bunker-like ignorant blow hard to deny our rights and our equality.  Those who defied us were, in fact, portrayed as old fashioned buffoons.

So when did feminism become a dirty word?

As my readers now, I am currently enrolled at NYU pursuing a certificate in Wellness. I am currently in a class studying the psychological aspects of wellness. Half of my class are bright, young women a year or so post college. The other day one of them began to explain her feelings about gender differences with regard to emotional relationships. She abruptly stopped herself and apologized for “sounding like a feminist.” 

I, in my inimitable subtle style blurted out “what wrong with that.” No one answered me and the class discussion continued as if this apology had been accepted without question. My heart sank.

In the 30 years or so since I’ve been a teenage girl looking up to my feminist role models it seems that not only have we stopped progressing but that the movement never happened. It’s like waking up after a long coma to find that aliens have taken over your planet and the society now worships something as despicable as earthworms.

It is clear that women in this society are in crisis – but non many of us know itWe’ve made little progress protection women from domestic violence, and our rights to terminate pregnancies is quickly vanishing.  It is horrifying to me that many women politicians are joining in to strip these rights away. Even something as simple equal pay for equal work – the foundation of the once controversial “ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) never did pass and is rarely discussed seriously in corridors of power anymore.

Worse still, women’s self-esteem and body issues continue to grow worse leading to eating disorders, cutting, drugs promiscuity and other dangerous behaviors. 

Pervasive non-stop media (social and otherwise) is most certainly a cause. Girls and young women are bombarded with images of overly thin, overly sexualized women. These images transmit the message that their bodies are commodities and their self-worth is tied to whether their body resembles these “ideal” forms.   

What happened to my female heroes of the silver screen? They seemed to have retired quietly. Women rarely portray brave, everyday heroines who stand up to men or giant corporations. Instead prominent female roles primarily support the flashier male roles. In fact, over the last ten years, the roles that have garnered actresses Oscars have been historical figures such as Margaret Thatcher or Queen Elizabeth, June Carter Cash or the serial killer Eileen Wormos.  Sandra Bullock snatched her statue for playing a strong, affluent southern mom who champions a poor African American boy so he can play football for her alma mater, all the while by putting food (albeit take out) on the table. Not exactly Norma Rae. Then of course there’s Jennifer Lawrence’s quirky, slutty dance fiend who draws Bradley Cooper out of his funk. Or poor Hillary Swank who dreams of boxing to pull herself our of poverty and misery only to be ostensibly murdered in the ring and “saved” from further misery by her patriarchal coach. Sigh.

 

These are not women that young girls can exactly aspire to be.  Sure, one can argue that women have become action heroes. And I guess that would be a bit of progress if they didn’t appear to be just heavily armed Barbie dolls with guns like Angelina Jolie in Lara Croft series. And on TV, women are back to being frustrated moms, sexy girlfriends – but that’s scripted TV. Of course reality TV is where the devil resides when it comes to this crisis.

Reality TV shows pitting women and against women for the attention of a strange man, instant fame and fortune due to sex tapes, and waif-like supermodels have created a world for girls where the skinniest and sluttiest are winners. But that of course is not the case in the “real world” where the seats of actual power – the boards of Fortune 500 companies, elected government positions, religious hierarchies and the leadership of media organizations -- are primarily still occupied by men. 

Now, as a student pursuing my certificate in wellness, I am very interested in helping women overcome eating disorders, malnutrition among other self-destructive behaviors that are clearly the end result of low-self worth.  When trying to have someone adopt a new behavior or belief system it is more effective to give them a new positive notion to adopt rather than just information that the old idea is harmful.  For example, when helping someone change eating habits you can’t just tell them to stop eating burgers and fries, you need to show them what foods are good for them and ones that they might enjoy.  So, when attempting to remove patterns of negative thinking from individuals

Therefore, to me the answer is both simple and yet seemingly impossible. We need work to eliminate the negative messages on TV, the internet and movies that tell us that our bodies are merely commodities and our worth is tied to whether these bodies resemble some warped ideal. We need to replace them with images of women and girls succeeding because of attributes other than conventional beauty. This could inspire a new generation of women to rise to take back their power.  For every well-armed Barbie doll we need equal or greater access to images that celebrate intelligence, compassion, courage, creativity, humor, strength and other important qualities that actually lead to success in life. I would love to give a current example of popular character who exemplifies that but I can't think of one. 

The first step is that we stopping participating in the problem. What does that mean? It means that you don’t watch The Real Housewives of Anyplace or any show that depicts women as greedy, dependent, idiot fembots. It means that we reconsider our relationship to designer clothes and accessories that encourage us to spend our capital on useless ephemera instead of saving or investing funds that will ultimately lead to greater independence and power.  If you think about how many women -- even midldleclass women -- who are unable to leave their abusive husbands or just unfulfilling relationships because they can’t afford to leave, and you might think twice about your next pair of Louboutins. And if you already have a healthy bank account, perhaps those shopping dollars could be better spent in the coffers of organizations that help women escape the horrors of slave trafficking, or that educate inner city girls, or provide equal access to sports in communities that only focus on boys. The opportunities for you to help are limitless.   

 

And,  because words have so much power,  I ask respectfully that you please remove the word girl from your speech when referring to any female over the age of 18. Girls don't enact laws, girls don't run companies, girls don't change the world. Would you call Hillary Clinton a girl?

 

But, more importantly, we need women to stop being afraid of being feminists. So, if you already agree with everything I've written then please speak up. Shout if from the rooftops. Be proud of being a feminist. 

Come on join me.  Say it…My name is _____ and I’m a feminist. Simple. Together we can reverse the regression of our movement just as quickly and insidiously as we have lost our way. Happy Friday my sisters (and brothers!)