Suburban Kvetch

A compliment 14.2 years in the making

My daughter and I went on an impromptu, quick shopping trip today for a few things she needed. After she’d tried on no fewer than fifty items to arrive at five, I suggested we meander through the store just to see if there was anything else either of us desperately needed.

“You know,” I said, “I have a craving for a purple purse.”

“Purple?”

“Yep, purple.”

She walked through the aisles holding up bags that ranged from mulberry to eggplant and every edible color in between. Nothing was quite the right shade, the right quality or the right style. We checked another part of the store and I tried on something marked as blue but was clearly more dark lavender.

“Whaddaya think?”

“It’s weird,” she said. “You would never carry this.”

I set the bag back on the shelf. I wound through racks of clothes and met my daughter in an open space and we headed toward the check out.

“Hey,” I said. “Was that a compliment?”

“You mean that the purse was weird so you’d never carry it?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh huh.”

Obviously my sense of style, often disguised under a hair clip and oversized White Sox T-shirt, has not gone undetected. Not to mention, she was spot-on about the purse. It was weird.

My work is (just about) done.

Mom’s night out

I’m surely not livin’ the dream, but I reside in a picturesque Midwestern town with award winning schools, a quaint downtown and friendly neighbors. It’s ethnically diverse, has a commuter train station and a gorgeous new library. People stop their cars when you cross the street and wave when you walk by.

But…

For a single, 45 year old mom with two teenagers, it’s b o r i n g. Girls Night Out means home by nine — if I’m lucky and not home by 8. Conversations revolve around dads who are babysitting for their own kids, and the havoc that will be wreaked without mom at home. There’s talk of multi-family getaways, three-story additions and the perils of country club assessments. There are no single parents at all — or anyone without back-up or tee-times, no classes to take (don’t even mention it), no clubs to join and nothing for Jewish singles within 50 miles.

So, as daunting as it is that my kids are now a Senior and a Freshman in high school — it also means I am that much closer to moving somewhere else – ANYWHERE ELSE - perhaps where coffee shops with wifi are open late and there is more than one bookstore within a 30 minute drive. Heaven forbid — there might be other single adults and yes, maybe even a class or two. I’d bow down if I had a mall to meander, but alas, the only mall nearby is desolate, anchored by Posters-R-Us and Sears — and has been under construction for the entire decade I’ve lived here.

I’ll give credit where it’s due. It’s a tight knit community and I have steadfast friends who make me laugh. If I sent out an SOS in the middle of the night I would have more help than I knew what to do with. So, a while back, when a casual friend’s father passed away, I didn’t think for more than a moment whether or not I should attend the Shiva (the mourning ritual for Jews). It’s never wrong to attend a Shiva. Never wrong to show support with a plate of cookies and a hug.

And anyway, who was I kidding? I got to go out! On a Tuesday night! There would be adults! And food! Everyone would talk! I’d have to look nice too – you don’t show your respect in cut-offs. This would indeed even include mascara. Maybe even a spritz of perfume!

So off I went. I was where I should have been. It was a sincere gesture on my part, tainted only slightly – and stealthily – as I asked about the health and well-being of some old people chatting in the corner.

Five of my favorite mom blogs

Last night at holiday dinner a friend of mine asked if I went to that “Mom Blog convention” in Chicago this summer.

“Oh no,” I said. “I went two years ago and this year I stayed far away.”

I explained about the swag and the cliques and the pushing of moms with babies.  I recounted how blogging started for many as a vehicle for story telling and has morphed into a platform for free stuff.  I told her about Blog with Integrity and the effort to realize that the blogosphere is big enough for everyone — but that we need to know what we’re reading.

Everyone listening understood - even if they had never read a blog let alone a mom blog.  I described my penchant for writing for the sake of writing and connecting and for having a non-income generating platform for my own writing.

And then I realized that with all the problems I have with many mom blogs out there - I am tethered to quite a few of them despite myself.  Granted these are story-telling blogs, whether or not there are ads and whether or not there are plugs for someone’s own products or the products of others.

I abandoned having a blog roll long ago, even though I love finding new reading material on lists of other bloggers.  So here are ten mom blogs that I like to read, for whatever reason.  Some of these women? I’ve been reading them for four years or maybe more.  I read them because I met them or I feel like I have.  Others craft a great story.  Still more write short enough posts (yay for short posts) that it’s no skin off my key-tapping fingers to see what they are up to and it is usually interesting.  I do not gravitate toward single mom blogs - or blogs of moms with teens - or Jewish moms.  I’m drawn to sites that either show me something new or remind me of something old.

So while I do chop down mom blogs in my mind, and in public, I’m still a rampant fan of many.

Indulge in a few of these when you have free time:

Sassafrass
Jess is a Chicago divorced mom like me. She’s hip, loves shoes and writes a mean streak about all things mama.

Blogs Are Stupid
Blog Antagonist is one of the best writers on the interweb, hands down. She’s working full-time now so she’s not posting daily but you could chomp on her archives for weeks and never go hungry.

Chicky Chicky Baby
I read Tania not because I can’t remember ever not reading her blog, but because she is an honest, loving, harried and hassled mom of two little girls. She keeps the big picture in mind but shares the details - and is always on-target.

Thinking About
J’s blog is only a mom blog because she’s a mom. She writes about her life as Maya’s mom, but she writes beautiful posts about everything from her dog (ok, the dog writes the posts), restaurants, books, life in general and she posts the best recipes.

We All Fall Down
Cindy doesn’t post often but when she decides to write it’s worth reading. Always. There’s an air of sensibility and a lack of frivolity — although it’s always fun, easy to read and thought provoking.

I have 19 mom blogs on Google Reader and I like them all. I’m much more vested in the writing, editing and publishing blogs out there and they greatly outnumber the mom blogs. I’m a cynic when it comes to diary-like blogs and the ones that pitch products for breakfast — but it was good to recall and share the a few of the mom blogs that do make me smile.

Often.

Who’s on your list?

How gossip is like a new purse

Lashon hora is Hebrew for gossip. Negative speech. Evil tongue.

It’s a no-no of biblical proportions.

I’ve been thinking a lot about gossip lately. Girls do it, boys do it. Women do it very well, which in this case makes it worse. Men do it too, but claim to not.

Fact is, sometimes the bad part of human nature overwhelms our better judgment.

It’s like a purse on sale. Actually, even like a great purse, on sale, grown-up gossip is something I can definitely do without.

But in my suburban adulthood, both remain haunting and alluring. Neither the studded, suede, oversized, caramel-colored satchel, nor the mouth-watering gossip, add real value to my life. Each is a momentary fix that satiates and quickly goes out of style, losing it’s panache.

I know this -but it is hard to walk away from either one.

Although I did put myself on a purse diet that started longer ago than I care to admit. No new purse for me that would qualify as extravagant. SIGH

And recently I made my life a gossip-free zone.

I’m not sure which is worse. Or better.

According to Judaism do you know what the worst thing about gossip is? Listening to it. Yep. We passivists who simply listen and say nothing, who don’t interfere, are the only ones who have a choice. The person who is talking about someone else has already made his or her decision. The person being spoken about doesn’t have a say.

Although I have never been a gossip monger, I just wanted to pull the plug completely. More than anything it’s that looming parental responsibility that gets the best of me every time because wanting to set a good example weighs heavily upon me.

My daugher has entered high school like gangbusters. The teenage girl thing is going strong, and while she doesn’t seem to be gossiping - or be the target of gossip - I want to circumvent what’s bound to happen simply due to momentum and hormones.

So, I have put a personal moratorium on gossip. Spreading it or listening to it. (And I certainly hope I am not gossip fodder myself). And let me tell you, it’s not easy stop bending your ear to be in on the latest. I’ve realized that sometimes talking about others is the only thing that bonds you to someone else, or is a major part of a friendship. And in that case, it’s probably time to reevaluate that relationship.

And none of it is easy, even if it is good. Especially without a new purse to soothe my soul.

I’m not completely innocent either, of course. More than a few times recently I have picked up the phone to “tell” a friend something that was in no way a rumor, but certainly something not very nice. And you know what? I hung up the phone. No good comes of talking badly about someone else, or making fun of them in any capacity.

But because I have to cover all my bases, and because although I rarely like to admit it, I am human, I do have a few caveats for my new no-gossip lifestyle.

The Pick One Person Rule: That means you can have one person to whom you can tell anything, nasty or nice. Since I don’t have a spouse, who would hopefully be that person, anything I tell Sister-Friend is not gossip. She lives 600 miles away from me. Which leads me to rule #2.

The Distance Rule: If you need to get something off your chest because you’re about to burst at the seams, and in any way what you are about to say could be construed as gossip, you must tell someone who doesn’t know the people you’re talking about, and preferably lives several hundred miles away. If this person never visits you, you can use names. If they do visit you, using names is optional because it may lead to obvious ‘ah ha’ moments down the road.

The All-Bets Are Off Rule: If someone does something to you or your children personally, and it is 100% true because it’s first person, you can tell anyone you wish. If it involves someone else and me, revert to rules #1 and #2.

I think that about covers it, don’t you?

The next thing I’m going to work on is a change of mindset. Meaning, not even giving any of this a second thought. Why is it that tidbits are so juicy? (Oh, Juicy Couture has some nice purses). Why is it that if I see someone looking just plain awful in the grocery store I feel the need to tell someone else? Maybe I should just think to myself that he or she is having a bad day or isn’t feeling well. If someone decorates their home hideously, is that bad taste, or just taste different from mine? And why should I care?

I think it’s just human nature to be curious, and yes sometimes, nosey. (I also happen to think it’s human nature to need expensive wristlets.) I think we like to feel a kinship with others and sometimes that means having a common cause, and sometimes that means talking about someone else. One of the worst things about human nature is that unintentionally, and sometimes intentionally, we do things that hurt others - and ourselves. In hindsight, someone looks really ugly when they’re gossiping even though they may be glowing in the midst of it.

Come to think of it, the evil of spending money on purses pales in comparison.  Truly.  What’s the worst thing about purses?  That can only carry one at a time.

Maybe I need to go shopping.

(Originally published on Kvetch Blog in September 2006.  This post has been edited for relevance — it was written when my daughter started Junior High — and republished with permission of the author, who happens to be me.)

Dirty Dancing from the olden days of 1987

In 1987, at 23 years old, I went to movies without really knowing what they were about. I mean, there was no internet - at least not as far as I was concerned. We learned about movies from TV commercial and GASP — newspaper advertisements. Those usually black and white ads lead us to search the paper for times and theaters nearby. I think I chose movies with a ‘why not’ philosophy. I do know that I went to see Dirty Dancing with no idea at all what it would be about.

So my sister-friend and I drove to the movie theater (that is now a Target, I hear) — probably in a tiny white Datsun — and drooled and hyperventialted smiled and bobbed and tapped our feet for an hour and a half.  And like gazillions of others that movie became one of my all-time favorites and not only an roadmap for dancing (as if!) but a touchstone for all things romantic.

I’ve never been to the Catskills but, face it, does that matter if you can sing the Kellerman’s anthem? Since that day I’ve watched the movie countless times on TV — it’s the kind of movie that makes me put down the remote control and pay attention no matter where in the 105 minutes I happen to land.

Especially here. Really, do we even need the rest of the movie? Yes, we do.  I’m on a cyberhunt to secure my own copy…and will review it ad nauseam for the sake of history and in memory of Patrick Swayze.

Oh right, and Jennifer Grey’s nose.

Where were you on September 11, 2001?

I was in the house I live in now,  getting dressed and standing in front of The Today Show on my bedroom TV like I had done every morning for as long as I could remember.

I watched the plane hit Tower One.

I canceled my plans and moved to the family room where I watched TV for the rest of the day. And night. And the next day.  And probably days after that.

I kept my kids, in 4th and 1st grades, away from the news but I told them what happened. Sort of.

Where were you?

My sixth sense

I see…old people.

They’re everywhere.  You might be one of them, I don’t know.  What I do know is that all-of-a-sudden, from out of nowhere, they started appearing to me, not in my dreams, but in a place much more frightening.

My age category.

I answered my land line a few weeks ago and took an automated survey by new cell phone company.

What is your age?

Are you under 18? Press 1

18-20? Press 2

21-24? Press 3

25-29? Press 4

30-34? Press 5

35-39? Press 6

40-44? Press 7

45-49? Press 8

EIGHT?  I had to wait until EIGHT to push the number for my age group?  What happened to the 40’s being the new 30’s?   Guess no one told A.T. and T.

I do not see an old person when I look in the mirror nor when I look at my friends who range in age from thirty to sixty, with the preponderance falling between 45 and 55.  But show me a photo of people who are 45-55 whom I don’t know - and man, do they look old!  I asked a friend once if we looked like the scores of happy, hugging groups of strangers we come across on Facebook. You know, the women who look a little weathered with  a bit too much undereye makeup and a strange tan for Kansas in January and the men who are gray, balding with a little extra skin around the jowls?

She assured me, we do not.

A friend of mine in her 40’s married someone seven years older.  That makes him 55.  I have fun spending time with them as a couple - she’s one of my local BFFs and he’s a fun guy.  When together, it seems like we are all the same age.

I’m headed to a wedding reception this weekend for a 50-year-old friend who is marrying her long-time love.  He is 63. I have never met him, but my friend certainly is not old to me.

Yet, I went out with men in their 50’s this summer.

THEY’RE OLD!

The only upside is, that to them, I am decidedly young.

Maybe with friends, it’s the familiarity, the history (looong histories sometimes)that means — although we know them best, we see their faces through rose colored reading glasses.  I look at the faces of my friends from long ago and see the child within.  I hear a school yard chant in their present-day wisdom.  In the friends I’ve made in the decade I’ve lived in my current home, age only seems to matter when there is a milestone to celebrate and a party to plan.  Their faces look like mine.  Unchanged from ten years ago if only to us.  Maybe it’s the effect of seeing people often and not noting subtle shifts.  Maybe it’s the lake effect breeze.

We see only the best parts of ourselves and our friends.  I guess that’s as it should be - holding a steady course of aging with those around us certainly softens the appearance of fine lines and wrinkles.

But, when we feel a distant, gnawing sense of familiarity looking into the faces of strangers, our own reflection — for just one second — becomes a little bit scary.