I am the Cleaning Woman

The other day a dear friend-- and a devoted reader of this blog-- posted that workmen in her new house were amazed that she herself had come in to clean and do a bit of painting – they were even more impressed that she actually knew what she was doing. My friend’s new house isn’t in Southampton or upper Park Avenue; it’s in a quiet middle class Long Island community. So why should a woman cleaning her own house with some acumen be an anomaly, I wondered.

I didn’t grow up in a house with a cleaning woman but many of my friends parent’s used one.  My middle class neighborhood was populated mostly by second generation immigrants from Eastern Europe, Italy and Ireland.  Perhaps having a cleaning woman distinguished them from their working class upbringings and signaled success in the new world. Either way, having an outsider come in and touch your stuff just seemed weird to me – just the way plastic-covered furniture that was off-limits to unreasonable activities like sitting, seemed…well, unreasonable.  Oftentimes, my friends would say that we’d have to play at my house because their mother needed to clean up before the cleaning lady came. Again I was puzzled.

But those same friends were deliriously happy to visit my home. They were in their own personal nirvana in my little mess of an apartment. My mother, God bless her beautiful but somewhat disheveled soul – did not inherit the cleaning gene.  Making up kooky poems, sitting on the floor cross-legged inventing games, or doling out salty or sugary snacks was her forte.  No one wanted to leave – and sometimes they didn’t.  Two of my closest friends actually moved next door to us after a time – I think just to be even closer to residing in our messy two-bedroom apartment.  

I loved my mother and was deeply proud of her warmth and joie de vivre. But as I grew older, I became a bit ashamed of our place with too many dusty tchotchkes, Christmas tree tinsel still embedded in the carpet in February, and unmade beds. So I learned to clean. Turns out, it’s definitely in my genes. 

Over the years I learned many cleaning tricks and tips from my late father. Boy, he was a maniac when it came to a sponge. No corner was left untouched. I remember once when he came to visit me at my current apartment and asked what I used to mop up damp spots on the bathroom sink after one had washed their hands. I had to reply, “uh…nothing, I guess.” It had never occurred to me. Now I have a lovely blue microfiber cloth by the sink for this purpose and think of him every time I un-dampen the counter.  

I’ve also picked up a lot of knowledge about more natural ways to clean your home and have eschewed many store-bought chemical-laden cleaners in favor home spun  solutions. For example, I now clean my tub and toilet with baking soda and I am still stunned by how much more it sparkles. F.U. scrubbing bubbles, you go nothing on me! Vinegar and water has replaced Windex (how can you ever trust anything that blue?) You have to get used the sour smell but it dissipates quickly. And I know that no one is breathing in anything toxic.

Is cleaning fun? No, not always, but it is satisfying and more than that, it brings me closer to what is mine and what is important. Karl Marx, always a personal hero of mine, wrote much about alienation from our labor in the industrial age. He worried that assembly line workers would no longer care about their products the way artisans and craftsmen did when only given a small abstract portion of the entire work. That’s kind of what I feel about my home. It’s mine because I do know each and every corner, nook and cranny and just how grimy, dusty or newly clean it may be. I know what’s in my closets. I know what’s in my pantry and what’s hiding under the bed.  I see what I have and I appreciate it as well.

And, as I dust along the baseboards I remember when my husband and I painted them now six years ago. We sweated and cursed. We spilled and ran back and forth to the paint store, but we enjoyed the process – because we were turning his white-walled bachelor pad into a colorful new home for us to share.

I have many dear, busy friends who simply do not have the time, the energy (nor the desire) to clean their own homes and that’s fine.  In fact, I’ve always admired the faith it takes to turn that responsibility over to a relative stranger. There are other ways to connect to your environment and feel a deep appreciation for it.  My mom made our house a home by collecting way too many mementos, by hanging up every scrap of paper painted by me and my sister along with our poems and stories, by having cookie   jars and candy bowls everywhere and by leaving our Christmas tree up for months.  This is what made her feel happy and safe and so I forgive her from messiness. Just as she forgives me as I surreptitiously clean her bathroom when I visit.

 My mom (right) has always preferred to focus on coordinating her outfits rather than  ridding her home of pesky cobwebs.

 

 

 

 

 

Buddy, Can You Spare Some Respect?

Often as I am writing these blog posts at my desk near the window, I hear the voices of eager young folks on my sidewalk below (the downside of a second floor apartment) beseeching passers-by to “take a moment” for Planned Parenthood or Save the Children or gay rights or animals.  After two or three hours of their philanthropic chanting, I need to muster all the tolerance I have not to drop a dozen organic free-range eggs on their well-meaning heads.

It’s not that I’m against fundraising – I’m not – it’s just that these kids give fundraising a bad name and I’m sick and tired of it.

I spent more than 25 years of my life raising funds for various, worthy non-profits in New York City. And perhaps the most frustrating aspect of this career was how woefully misunderstood , underappreciated and maligned it was. It’s weird, when you think about it. Why people would discount the efforts of a cadre of professionals trying to make a positive difference in the world. Not so weird, when you realize that their pocketbooks are affected.  Anyone who has worked with money – whether they’re a teller or a mortgage lender or a cashier – can tell you that people get pretty touchy when it comes to their funds.

I came into fundraising the way most of us do: I was a directionless graduate with good communications skills who wanted to help but didn’t want to get my hands dirty (so to speak.) Actually, I worked in the development office of my college as my work-study job as an undergraduate.  My job was to read the files in the corporate and foundation relations department and prepare a one-page summary. To me, each file was like a mini-novel, a tale of meetings and letters that led to buildings erected, professors hired and other lofty achievements. Much of the history had happened decades before my birth and the correspondence was typed on onion skin paper. I felt like a philanthropic Indiana Jones.  I could work in peace and quiet, practice my writing, but there were also swanky parties and receptions to attend. And I could be part of making the world a better place. I was sold.

So that is how I started my career. I wrote corporate and foundation grants that helped to fund rehabilitation programs for disabled men and women and feed hungry New Yorkers. Then I went on to learn how to throw tasteful reception for donors, craft an effective direct mail appeal, create mutually-beneficial cause-marketing campaigns, guide board members as they approached their wealthy and influential friends, ease donors into charitable estate planning, manage junior committees, design five-year strategic plans, build websites, establish facebook pages, while tending to the needs of my staff, my board, my bosses, my donors, the public, government officials and more.  And let’s not forget that ever-looming budget I was responsible for raising – the proverbial sword of Damocles -- hung over my head until the final day of the fiscal year.

Despite all the skills, expertise, experience, patience, tolerance and love needed to be successful in this career, I still received comments like this: “oh, you’re a fundraiser….my daughter does that too. She runs the bake sale for the temple,” or “fundraising, huh?  You must be on the phone all day. “  Or people would joke that they wanted me to raise money for their wallet, or they’d immediately jump to discussing one of the rare, ugly scandals involving non-profits. 

Sure it irked me, but it never stopped me. I truly believed in what I was doing and I still do.  It’s not easy to ask for money but that’s not what I thought I was doing. I believed that I was selling a much-desired commodity. It is my conviction that most people want to improve the world in one way or another: some want more art and music, others want to protect animals or children, millions want to cure cancers and other diseases or eradicate hunger. For those people, I have provided a way for them to be part of the solution.  I have ensured them that their funds will be used responsibly and safely to make the world better in just the way they want. And I have given them a nice way to take a tax-deduction and earn a bit more self-esteem. And, if there gift was big enough, they’d get some public recognition too. Not too shabby.

So this is why I want to douse those guerilla marketing pseudo-fundraisers below my window. They have taken the art and science of fundraising and turned it into begging and accosting – everything I have always feared  people will think it is.  But the problem is it works. And that is another thing I learned in my career: if it works, do it. Do you know why you get telemarketing calls at home? Because it works. Maybe not for you, but there are those who will sign up for whatever they’re selling on the phone. Maybe you don’t like direct mail appeals crowding your mail box but millions still send in a check this way (including my mother, God bless her!) Maybe you would never show up for a black-tie fundraiser, but they are still selling lots of $1,000 plates.

So the next time you get a call, or email or are greeting by a smiling young person on the street, I hope you will reserve judgment. But more than that, I hope you will think about the difference you can make in the world – whether you sign over your credit card to that young person, or join a walk-a-thon, or send a check in the mail or get your company to sponsor a charity.  Philanthropy is truly a beautiful American tradition and the folks behind it are – for the vast part – honest, skilled hard-working people.  

For those of you looking to support some great charities at this time of year I am happy to recommend the following:

City Harvest - rescues food that would otherwise go to waste and helps hungry New Yorkers

League of Conservation Voters - ensures that environmental issues are at the forefront of political campaigns

ASPCA - helps protect animals and sponsors adoptions

Brooklyn Museum - a vastly underrated but amazingly powerful cultural institution

Green Chimneys - pairs at-risk youth with animals that need rehabilitation in a farm setting

Gods Love We Deliver - delivers nutritious meals to people with AIDS and other terminal illnesses.

City Meals on Wheels - provides companionship and meals to elderly and frail New Yorkers.

 

 

Bubble Baths vs. Broccoli

Last Sunday, I posted something on Facebook that got more likes and comments than anything I’d posted in many moons. I wrote, “Today I achieved something I haven’t done in years, today I did nothing.” My friends, knowing me – or perhaps just knowing what it’s like to live in today’s world -- were very proud of me, inspired, jealous and enthusiastic. I received all these accolades just because I decided to rest and ignore my responsibilities for a day.

When you think of it it’s kind of a sad and scary statement about our lives, that such a simple thing to do to take care of yourself is noticed and lauded by a huge crowd of people. But self-care has become a rarity for many people I know (and millions I don’t.) And more troubling than that, self-care is a very misunderstood concept.

In fact, for many, many years I used to think I was an expert in self-care because I didn’t eat red meat, slept in on the weekends, walked my dog and treated myself to a spa day now and then and a cupcake when I deserved it (which seemed to be nearly every day!) But at 47 years old at the end of two of the most horrible, challenging years of my life, I felt achy and heavy, wasn’t sleeping well, was irritable and anxious most of the time and thought about death – a lot. It took me a long time to realize that I might have indulged myself and definitely cared for others but I had lost the ability to adequately care for myself.

Think about it, if someone asked what was involved in the proper care of an infant how would you answer? Well, you’d probably start with food. They need very specific food: breast milk or formula and then baby food. They don’t need a cronut or a diet coke – in fact, that will likely make them very ill.  Then you might mention sleep. Babies need a lot of sleep. It doesn’t matter that they haven’t learned to walk or talk yet – that will come in time. They don’t need to stay up just because that project isn’t completed. They need calm and quiet. They need warmth and safety. And they need touch and love to thrive. And, guess what, so do we.

But yet the beauty, fashion and food industries try to tell us that self-care is all external and needs to be purchased. Remember, “Calgon, take me away!” Almost every article you read in women’s magazines will mention the ubiquitous bubble bath as an example of self-care. Sure we all need to bathe, but a sudsy soak will never replace a nutritious diet, regular exercise, adequate rest, ongoing stress management and healthy relationships. Getting your nails done, a bottle of Merlot, or a shopping spree help won’t help really care for yourself either. This is pampering, not self-care. This is buying the baby a cuddly toy, not cleaning its bum.

I know this is an especially difficult pill to swallow for most of us – especially women and other caretakers. We would never consider ignoring our partners, children or aging parents. We have their health and well-being in mind all the time, but we love to put ourselves last -- just like I did during my annus horribilis. Unfortunately, sometimes it takes a crisis (health or otherwise), absolute exhaustion (mental or physical) or an external intervention to wake us up to the fact that we are abusing and neglecting ourselves – that if we were, in fact, caring for an infant the way we are caring for ourselves, child welfare would come and snatch that kid up never to return her to our home.

Don’t get me wrong. I didn’t turn around one day, put down the potato chips and become a shining example of health and serenity. I took it one step at a time, one day at a time. As I began to educate myself through the Wellness Certificate program at NYU, and now as a student at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition I began to learn and incorporate the REAL components of self-care. To keep it simple, here’s a list:

Sleep – at least 7 hours a night (I must admit I thrive on 9 hours). If you’re having trouble with this see an earlier post or message me.

Nutrition – Eat a variety of fresh fruit, veggies, whole grains, good fats and lean protein. Limit everything else.

Water – drink lots of it.  So many symptoms of physical illness and food cravings are actually just thirst.

Exercise – Make weight bearing exercises (either machines, free weights or your own weight) part of your weekly routine. Add cardio in between. Don’t forget to stretch. Aim for at least 150 minutes a week (hey, that’s just a bit over 20 minutes a day!)

Spirituality – carve out some time for peace and quiet, share gratitude, enjoy nature, meditate, pray, go to your house of worship…whatever it is, get out of yourself and feel connected to something greater than you.

Relationships – Make sure you spend time with people who love, support and appreciate you on a regular basis and limit the time you spend (including the phone) with what I call “emotional vampires.”

Fun and Creativity – all work and no play doesn’t just make Jack a dull boy, it slowly kills our spirit. Pick up an old hobby. Go play mini golf. Chase your pup around the house or park. Write that story that’s been knocking around your brain.

Feed Your Brain – Just like any muscle, if you don’t challenge it, it will atrophy. Try puzzles, watch a documentary, go to a museum or lecture, pick up a book on a subject you’re not familiar with – whatever makes you strain your gray matter a bit.

Take Stock of your Work Life: Are you happy, fulfilled and challenged? Do you like the environment or does it sap you of energy? What about your coworkers, boss and employees…do these relationships need work? What needs to be changed? Can you ask for help? Make a change? Can you leave (see me waving good bye to my thankless job in 2012.)

You can see why it’s impossible to do all of this at once if you have been ignoring yourself for a long time. That’s why it’s a good idea to pick one or two and try to see if you can improve that aspect of care on a regular basis, before moving on to the next one.

Just a year ago I felt old, worn out and sluggish.  I had difficulty switching positions in bed at night. I ate whatever I craved, whenever I craved it, but rarely got any joy from it.  I made a priority of getting my Will in order. I depended on solely my TV for fun and entertainment. I had lost touch with many of my favorite friends. I hated my job. I hadn’t written anything in years.  But yet, I thought I was taking care of myself.  A year later I can’t believe that was me at all. Today I have energy, enthusiasm and fun in my life. And I’m 28 pounds lighter, lowered my blood pressure and cholesterol as well!

Again, please contact me if you need help incorporating any of these suggestions for self-care in your life. I invite you to skip along on this happy road with me.

 

 

 

The End of the Affair

If you see me on the street, please be kind. I’m feeling a bit vulnerable and shaken. Last week I ended a relationship that spanned nearly twenty years. I left Time Warner Cable and switched to FIOS.

I can remember how the relationship started. I was a young woman moving to the big city full of hopes and dreams. Okay, I was 30 years old and moving into my studio in Gramercy Park. I honestly can’t recall if I had a choice in cable providers but that was ok. I was already in love. I was coming from a home where we still used an antenna and our viewing choices were limited only to the networks and their local affiliates. Now, I had myriad cable stations, I had HBO and I had what was to become my constant companion, NY1.

I miss you Pat!

Honestly, I start to choke up when I think about Pat Kiernan, Roger Clark, Roma Torre (and her ubiquitous crested blazer) and all the gang at NY1. I awoke to them every morning of my life since that fateful first installation on 22^nd Street. It was Pat Kiernan who broke the news to me that the first plane had crashed into the towers. I witnessed Roger Clark's triumphant weight loss day by day, month by month and then began to notice as the pounds packed back on.

NY1 was my subway guru, my weather – and subsequently – wardrobe advisor, my political insider, my protector (by alerting me to crimes and fuzzy videos of suspects), and even told me what other television I should be watching (I was a devotee to their “Watching Pictures On Demand” show.)

How could I ever give all of that up?

The truth is, no matter how much I loved NY1, my relationship with Time Warner Cable was an abusive one.  Over the years, TWC had done some rather unforgiveable things to me and I just kept turning the other cheek.

For instance, once my cable just died, out of nowhere, just stopped working. I called TWC and they tried to blame me by asking questions like, “is it plugged in, is it turned on?” etc. etc. They told me that I’d have to wait five days for a technician to come. I spent five days listening to music and playing old videos (the horror!) And when they finally arrived it turned out that a technician had turned off my cable (in the hallway) instead of a neighbor 's who had moved out. TWC didn’t send flowers, didn’t beg for mercy on bended knee. In fact, they fought me when I asked for a refund for those days without service.

Then there was the time when I had the audacity to cancel my “hotspot” because it NEVER worked. I had signed up to have my own personal wifi for my ipad because I was travelling back and forth to Palm Springs so often during my father’s illness, and needed to work and stay in touch constantly. When my father was actually dying and I was stranded in LA airport waiting for a connection I tried valiantly and the hotspot wouldn’t let me connect to try to find an earlier flight. I was helpless and TWC had abandoned me yet again – and when I needed them most.

One of the first things I did after he died, and I flew home was to call TWC. The customer (dis)service representative on the other line either had most of their frontal lobe removed or had been a Nell-like creature raised in the wild by something other than sentient beings. I went through my story, bit by bit and emphasized that this was a life and death situation – literally. And, besides that, the damn thing never worked. Not in doctor’s offices, not in homes, never. Therefore, I should be allowed to quit my contract without any fee. This female voice on the other end of the line refused and without any sort of empathy or remorse. I mean, how can you listen to someone tell a story of their father dying just three days before and not express some sympathy? It got so bad and so frustrating that I actually asked if she was a human being. She did not respond. Eventually, I spoke to enough people and made enough fuss that I was refunded the surcharge for termination – but it took months.

That should've been the final straw but it wasn't. I continued to take the abuse. There were outages for no reason; periodic pixilation during the Big Bang Theory; dropping the arts station, Ovation; capricious charges; constant billing increases; and; finally, the hubris of the CBS shutdown in August.

But still I wasn’t moved to switch. Like a spouse stuck in an abusive marriage, I just kept thinking it would get better – or at least not worse. I was reminded of one of my favorite sayings, “there are two things that people hate most: change, and the way things are!” That's why despite having consistently abysmal customer service ratings, TWC is still number one. Like others I kept asking myself, "What if I gave up Time Warner and my beloved NY1 and I wasn’t happy, what then? Would TWC take me back, would I have to pay some sort of fine, stay home for entire day waiting for them as a penance. And was I too old to learn a new channel lineup?"  The future was already uncertain, I needed the certainty that my cable gave me no matter the cost.

So, how did I find the courage to leave my abuser? Well, I didn’t. One of the great things of having a husband is that sometimes they’ll do for you what you can’t do for yourself.

One day FIOS was camped out in my lobby. I smiled as I walked by, like seeing one of those marvelously handsome naval officers during Fleet Week. Nothing would ever happen between us as long as I was in a committed relationship so why not smile. But my husband did more than smile, did more than flirt. He hooked us up.  

Loyalty and familiarity are hugely powerful, but so is money. When we realized that we could have a fresh start with a new suitor while saving $40 a month (not to mention the $300 gift card that should come in 12-16 weeks) things changed.

So last week, we hosted Mike, a very bright friendly FIOS technician, in our home for four hours. It was nerve wracking. Not so much because a stranger is untangling an overgrown ivy plant from some embarrassingly dusty cable wires and overhearing private conversations about my nephew, but because it represented my divorce from NY1 and from everything I knew about my television, my lover.

A week later, I’m proud to report that I’m on steadier ground. I printed out a list of my favorite channels. I’ve already memorized TLC, QVC and where the HD networks are. Heck, not bad for a 40-something, right? The picture is noticeably clearer, there are a ton more premium channels, and a local weather station. But no NY1.

Each day I wake up at the crack of 10 am (or 11 honestly) hoping to find out what’s going on in my world (because my world is NYC) and I’m shut out. I fumble around the dial trying to find something of substance and instead are presented with the Price is Right or the View. MSNBC seems to only have pundits talking about stuff I already know and not even that smartly. So I am forced to turn off the TV, read the New York Times on line, and then get to my writing or studying or house work or exercise. Hmmm?

Yes, I have found that without my friends at NY1, I get more done. I feel more productive and therefore happier.

But if you have NY1 and I visit your home, I hope you won’t mind if I sit down for an hour or five just to spend a little time with my old loves. ‘Cause breaking up is hard to do.

The Un-Complaint Bureau

Rich or poor, young or old, black or white there’s one thing all New Yorkers have in common: we all love to complain. This isn’t merely an astute observation it's fact. I remember my mother reading an article in the New York Times some 30 years ago detailing a study that showed that most New Yorkers met and engaged with strangers through the art of whining.

Think about it, it happens to us every day. You’re standing waiting for the train and they announce it’s going local (or express, whatever is most inconvenient.) You turn to look at the person next to you and you both roll your eyes and sigh. Soon after you’ll find yourself and your fellow train-taker explaining why this delay is especially disruptive or ironic to you, eg “I was going to take a cab…there was one right outside of my apartment. Now I’ll never make my doctor’s appointment.” Or, “My boss kept me late; I just missed the train before…how can this day get worse?” Chances are the kvetch-fest won’t stop there. By the time you reach your stop, you’ll have made a new friend.

In fact, a few months ago, a nice old lady was very concerned when an oblivious suit stepped on my sandaled foot and didn’t apologize. We began talking about how rude people can be, we got into New York City government (she asked if I remembered Mayor Lindsey, which I did) and by the time I got off at Penn Station she heartily approved of my politics and my choice of husband. We didn’t exchange numbers or become Facebook pals, but that person was a bright spot in my day and I will remember her for a long time.

Bonding with one another and breaking down the barriers of race, age and socio-economic status is great, but, for the most part, complaining can get out of hand. I invite you to try a very scary experiment: count how many times you complain in a given day. Congress, weather, your spouse, your neighbors, your friends, your boss, litterbugs, Time Warner Cable, Con Ed, the snooty waiter, the idling tour bus outside your window…whatever it is it can take up a large portion of our day and a lot of mental energy.

We call it venting but nothing really changes. According to Psychology Today, when we have so many dissatisfactions and frustrations, yet believe we're powerless to do much about them or to get the results we want, we are left feeling helpless, hopeless, victimized, and bad about ourselves. Obviously, one such incident won't harm our mental health, but we have so many complaints, this scenario happens many times a day. This accumulation of frustration and helplessness can add up over time and impact our mood, our self-esteem, and even our general mental health. No wonder why New Yorkers have the reputation for crankiness!

Sure, the city isn’t easy all the time, but it’s New York Freaking City for goodness sake – the capital of the free world! Anything we could ever want to eat, do or see is at our fingertips. Things actually run pretty well, when you think about it. We should feel privileged to live here. We should be walking around like Buddhist monks who have reached Nirvana.

So why don’t we? Personally, I think we are hard wired to complain and don’t really know how to break the circuits. I feel that we’ll also seem weak – an unforgivable transgression for New Yorkers – if we behave cheerfully or express gratitude. After all, we’re not granola-munching tree huggers from Vermont or Nebraska, right?

But when I do encounter that rare New Yorker that’s sunny and appreciative, I feel a bit chagrined. My doorman David is that kind of person. I happen to know that he’s a single dad with a long commute and a big extended family that come to him with their issues. But every day when I see him he has a big smile and asks about my day. I usually rant about the skateboarders who terrorize my dog or the BMCC students smoking in groups on the corner and he nods sympathetically. I asked about his life and he usually responds, “oh I can’t complain, things are good.” I look at my shoes with a bit of shame before I take the elevator up to my lovely, safe, clean home in the greatest city in the world.

The shame comes from wishing I could be as gracious and grateful as someone I know is facing tougher challenges than I. But that behavior is far from my instinct. But I can change that – and it seems that I have many reasons to other than being a pleasant person.

Researchers in the field of Positive Psychology report that having a positive attitude and expressing gratitude helps prevent (or reverse) a multitude of emotional and physical problems from anxiety to cardio vascular disease.

I decided that if I feel too proud and tough to express gratitude to my fellow New Yorkers, maybe I can just call it “uncomplaining.” Instead of bonding with a stranger over a rough commute or a long wait in a doctor’s office, I could share our good fortune over a smooth bus ride or quick checkout line at Whole Foods. If I say it with enough irony in my voice (like “this doesn’t happen often”) no one will mistake me for an enlightened yogi.

So here goes…

Today, as I was walking my beautiful border collie, I couldn’t help noticing the crystal clear blue sky, the gentle breeze and fluffy clouds of this picture-perfect autumn day. I realized that the past two months have been unbelievably beautiful weather-wise: August was warm, not hot, and September has been clear and breezy. Sure it rained here and there, but it seemed to do so mostly at night when we can watch the deluge safe and dry from our windows. As we near the anniversary of Hurricane Sandy, I realize how lucky we’ve been so far – ‘cause it could get worse.

Get it…that’s uncomplaining.  Some sun with a hint of doom. That should work, right?

No one can change overnight and New Yorkers are a pretty stubborn breed. So let’s try this exercise together. Turn to the person next to you at the movies when they show the 11^th preview and say something like, “don’t you love the smell of movie popcorn…so much better than the urine stench outside the theater.” Or when you’re tempted to unload on your mother about your husband’s forgetfulness you could swap it out with, “I’m so glad I don’t have to go through life’s crap alone anymore even if it’s with someone who can’t remember where we keep the scissors.”

 

I’d love for you to share your “uncomplaints” with me.

Escape Route out of the Rut

Recently, I was chosen to participate in a focus group on recreational activities in the Seaport area. Besides the fact that I think doing a focus group is possibly the easiest money to be made and they usually serve snacks, I was excited to do it as a very enthusiastically loyal resident of Lower Manhattan.

To qualify for the group, I was asked a multitude of questions about me, my lifestyle and my entertainment choices. Ah, there’s the rub. This is when I realized the serious rut that I’m in.  Here’s how the interview went:

Surveyor:  When was the last time you visited Brooklyn Bridge Park?

Me: Uh…where?

Surveyor: When was the last time you visited Governor’s island?

Me: Uh…I guess a year ago…no wait, it was before we adopted our dog…hmm six years ago.

My most recent non-restaurant night out
-- lots of culture, right?

Surveyor: Have you shopped at Century 21 within the last six months?

Me: Of course!

But the real death knell came when she asked: If you won an all-expense paid trip to any other city where would you go and what would you do? Remember, money is no object. I was stumped; totally stumped. Somehow San Francisco came into my head so I said that. Now, I keep wishing I said Buenos Aires (as if I was really being offered this trip!) And when she pushed for what I would do in this wonderful city I could only reply, “I guess go to a really good restaurant.” Pathetic. That’s all I could think of. I stammered for a bit and then added something about "seeing a show” (whatever that means) taking some tour (even vaguer). Perhaps even more depressing is the fact that three days later I still can’t think of anything else.

So there is my dilemma. Entertainment has boiled down to basically one thing for me: eating.  Sure, I hear music now and then – but only when someone else invites me. I have basically even stopped going to the movies. I can’t see the point of shelling out more than $30 for me and my husband when we can curl up on the couch and see that same movie for percentage of our Netflix membership a few months later. I haven’t been to the theater since I quit my job in fundraising. When you’ve gotten years and years of free tickets to Broadway benefits it’s painful to shell out triple digits for a ticket (well, at least for me!) When I was single, I would attend evening lectures at museums. That hasn’t happened in over eight years either.

I remember being super proud of myself and my husband that we played mini golf at Pier 25 on one of our rare "date nights" instead of -- you guessed it -- eating out. But mini golf is not culture...is it?

I live in a city that is often tough to bear. It’s crowded, dirty, very expensive, sometimes challenging to navigate, full of intense people darting through the crowd on their way to something very important or standing in the middle of the sidewalk completely oblivious to the world staring at their smartphone. But we stay because New York is a cultural mecca, right? Art! Fashion! Theater! Music! Ballet! Opera! Architecture! Literature! It's all here for the taking but I do not partake.

 

Last night I had dinner with a dear friend who complained that she’s behind watching all the “it” TV shows of the moment. She’s only up to season 2 in Breaking Bad and has way too many Masterpiece Theaters in her DVR. She explained that she’s out every night until 9pm going to lectures, doing pilates, seeing plays, etc. Having had the above epiphany just hours earlier I had to laugh.  I comforted her by explaining that she was living a 3-dimensional life and that TV was merely 2 dimensions. TV should be what we do when we have absolutely nothing else to do. She seemed to accept this happily until my husband came back from the restroom and asked her if she heard about the spin-off of the Walking Dead.

Well, I know change does not come easily but I am stating here and now that I want to change. I want to be as much a part of this vibrant cultural life as I was in my thirties.  Or at least get out as much as we did as a couple before we became doggie parents and decided a fun night was simply adoring the most beautiful border collie in the world. This photo is proof that we have been to museums -- even as far as Rome. I remember I liked it. Although I must admit I look rather jet-lagged!

Step one is that  tonight I’m taking my beloved TV-addicted husband to an off-Broadway show to celebrate his birthday  (for those who know him, his birthday was yesterday and it’s not too late to wish him a Happy Birthday!)

Step Two is enlisting YOUR help. I’m clearly not in the loop. So if you have ideas for outings let me know. If you’ve done something fun and interesting outside a restaurant or multiplex, please share it with me.

I know I’m too old and busy to be out there two or three nights a week. But I feel I can redeem myself if I do something cultural just once a month. So I implore you to send some suggestions my way.

Enjoy!

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.