I Am Woman Hear me...Whisper

Last week, a random sampling of five women from my neighborhood met up for lunch and a swim before saying a final farewell to summer. The hostess extended the invitation to a couple of friends and basically whoever had been standing within earshot. I had been standing within earshot and decided on a whim to join.

I had never been to the hostess' house. She was a mild acquaintance, but her invitation seemed sincere. I had a great time. The next morning, before eight, I got a text from a close friend who wasn't at the lunch/swim asking me how it was, with ample excuses as to why she couldn't be there. The purpose of the text was to put me on notice that she too had been invited, lest I think poorly of her social standing. 

I hadn't asked who had been invited--didn't care. And my close friend knows deep down that I don't care and never take attendance at events. But still, she had to make sure I knew she had been invited. I couldn't fathom why.  We've long since left high school, even our youngest children have  long since left high school, where social standing is the currency of life. I'm perplexed as to why a woman who runs her own thriving business and has successful children and a wonderful marriage cares what I or anyone else thinks about them? By all accounts, she should have been a lot more self-confident.

It got me wondering. Had the women's movement sputtered out somewhere around the 2000's? Was the "stand by your man" mentality of Kathie Lee Gifford, Hillary, Huma and Silda Spitzer a symptom of the times or a harbinger of times to come?

Sex and the City has been running on a loop on basic cable for the past year or so and lately I've been setting my DVR to catch up with the "ladies." As much as I've been enjoying watching them, I have to admit to being shocked. Not by their open-minded approach to sex or their fearless approach to any topic, for that matter, but by the way they fiercely protect their independence in a confident do-not-mess-with-me-honey kind of way. To coin an outdated, oft-used phrase of the seventies, with the exception of Charlotte, these women were "ball-busters." They have too much self-respect to allow themselves to be treated disrespectfully or to have their achievements undermined.

Frankly, I'd forgotten women could be like that. 

Many women in power, at least to me, seem so...apologetic. From Sheryl Sandberg to Uma, even to Hillary, the tone isn't the strident voice of the seventies I grew up hearing, its more like yeah, OK, I'm smart, but I need you not to feel threatened by that. And truly the tone today doesn't need to be tough or divisive to further women's empowerment, but it does need to be sure and unwavering. It needs to be confident. Yes, we've made tremendous inroads, but it feels as if we've hit a road bump. Hillary does, on occasion, lob a couple of phrases into the atmosphere about female empowerment so as not to completely lose the women's vote, but it always feels...staged. Too bad on you, Hillary, I'm too smart to be played.

I watched and enjoyed Ms. Sandberg's TED talk. I took away a lot of interesting tidbits, but it was a pretty passive presentation. In Yiddish words, we'd say she was pareve--bland. There was no passion or urgency to her message. She basically implored, no, begged women to reach for what should be rightfully theirs. Huh?

I cut my teeth on Helen Reddy's trailblazing song, I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar, now, it seems that women are too aware of how others are perceiving them and are taking great pains not to come on too strong and offend anyone. Pooh that.

As Ms. Sandberg says, most women still feel its too important to "be liked." 

Yes, I'm aware Lady Gaga sings a message of some sort, but frankly sometimes its hard to discern that message is actually from a woman, so elaborate are her stage get-ups. Yes, Beyonce, Taylor Swift, they do speak up, and that's a good thing, but for the most part, too many women have taken a step back and prefer to apologize or stammer and wonder too often how they're regarded by others. Even Lena Dunham, a highly-accomplished and successful writer and producer always seems to cave into herself as she whines her way through her titular show Girls. I tried to watch it, but could barely get through an episode. Lena, where's your self-confidence?

Note to Lena: set your DVR to old SATC reruns.

Sure, there are powerful women, but the interesting thing to me is how politely politically correct they are. I grew up hearing and watching women like Bella Abzug(I'm truly dating myself) wear whatever they wanted and say whatever they wanted. Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, real women who  frankly would have had a diminished impact if they were concerned with what other people were thinking about them. If they cared overly much about being polite.

Here's the takeaway.

If you want to blaze a trail, you have to look forward, not over your shoulder, wondering what the people behind you are saying. 

And why would you care anyway? 

They are behind you.

 

We Hate Liars...

...because they force us to face the truth about ourselves.

And the truth is we all lie. Everyone does it, so why are we so outraged when we're lied to? Could it be because we pinned our hopes on someone, let ourselves trust them, let ourselves trust IN them and then found out they were human? Where is all the self-righteous indignation coming from?

Here's the real truth.

We welcome the lie. We probably couldn't cope if everyone always told the truth. Remember that hilarious movie starring Jim Carrey called Liar, Liar? Jim Carrey plays a lawyer named Fletcher who is suddenly seized by the need to say exactly what's on his mind, no filter at all. Here's a small example:
 
Jane: Do you like my new dress?
Fletcher: What ever takes the focus off your head!

Of course there's a difference between a white lie and a whopper, the difference being, one we welcome and the other we spurn. But how do we know when the white lie has transcended the next level?

Last week I heard Dr. Laura weighing in on the Anthony Weiner scandal. She ran through the whole litany of what most people, women especially, were thinking about him...he's a liar, untrustworthy, a skank...and the list went on. But here's the interesting part, just the week before she had given a caller some very un-Dr. Laura-like advice. The caller, a female, said she had cheated on her husband once, had realized the mistake immediately, and had never done it again. She wanted to come clean about it to her husband.

And Dr. Laura said, "Don't."

Excuse me? Dr. Laura was advocating lying? What about the trust between spouses? She felt it would only serve to clear the wife's conscience and do nothing for the relationship, except ruin it. 'Forget about it and move on, and try your best to deal with the guilt because the harm would be pointlessly irreparable.'

At first I was shocked, but then I sorta got it.

It's OK to lie...as long as no one ever uncovers the truth.

We all loved Alex Rodriguez...before...but really, we all sorta knew he was using steroids, but we chose to ignore that and embrace his victories, his amazing at bats, his lock-in for the Baseball Hall of Fame. Why did the commission have to go and ruin it all for us? And now, the cheers at the stadium have turned to boos. And guess what, the lying goes on as Arod continues to lie to himself and his fans by appealing the commission's findings instead of gracefully admitting he was doping as did the other penalized players.

We're mad because he let us down after we chose to believe in him. That's right, we're mad because we chose wrong.  What's really happening here is that we're mad at ourselves...but we're not being honest about that.

We choose to turn a blind eye to things that are too hurtful to truly know about. We lie to ourselves and we lie to others. We have all done it; we will all continue to do it. It's called self-preservation. It isn't pretty, but the fact is we pick and choose which lies we choose to believe and which ones we allow to outrage us. And that's OK...let's just be honest about it. 

Huma, Huma, Where Art thou, Huma?

...Or shall I say, the wife of  Carlos Danger?

Cue the Zorro music...how fifteen-year-old pubescent a name is that? How incredibly, unbelievably, undeniably pathetic is this Abbott and Costello routine?  Anthony and Huma, I can't tell anymore who the straight man is supposed to be. At least when we laughed at Costello we were sorta hoping he'd get a clue and figure things out at some point...we were rooting for him. But with this pathetic Mayor-wanna-be of the Super Ego, it is sad, so very, very sad. Actually, maybe that's the name he should have emblazoned onto his cape...Captain Super Ego. Huma, start stitching, after all, isn't your role supposed to be...well, whatever Anthony decides it should be?

Huma, Huma, where have you gone?

Let me tell you what I think a good spouse's role ought to be.

A good spouse is a sounding board, available to rein in juvenile behavior, or less than stellar judgment.
A good spouse is the sane voice, the voice of reason when the other half is about to act ridiculous.
A good spouse will let you know if your bright new idea is really the next big thing, or a harebrained scheme.
A good spouse is supposed to stop their other half from attending a best friend's engagement party in shorts when the invite calls for formal wear.
And in the event that the spouse is still hell-bent on acting like a moron, a smart spouse will say, 'You know what, dear? You can wear purple shorts to the New York Hilton for Simon's engagement party--but I won't be going with you.'

Huma, why have you joined Anthony at the party?

A functioning marriage that is built on respect, mutual love and admiration, is one where you are encouraged to be the best you can be; where you feel comfortable taking a chance to spread your wings and challenge your skills to their fullest while your spouse is standing in the "Amen" corner.
A good spouse in a functioning relationship looks out for you and never knowingly puts you in an awkward position.

A good spouse is supposed to tell your when you have spinach in your teeth, or you're trailing toilet paper on your heel.
A good spouse is supposed to stop you from acting foolish.

In this regard the Weiners have failed each other. The Anthony and Huma show is like a Saturday Night Live sketch that has gone on too long.

Huma, I don't know what this smarmy guy has over you, but he has twisted you so far that you aren't functioning as the thinking, intelligent woman I'm assuming you to be.  If you are hanging in for your son, let me tell you, a man who disrespects women on the grand and public scale that your husband has is no role model.

Huma, take your dignity and grace and leave him. Your husband doesn't respect you, but please, regain your own self-respect. Think of your child's future, and your political one, which will be a lot stronger if you stay hitched to Hillary than to Anthony. Take your ambitions and your smarts and reclaim yourself.

Do it for your child.
Do it for yourself.
Do it for women everywhere. 

Ten Items or Less.....

Sass met wearied indifference at the express lane... and guess who won?

 In the midst of a hectic week of Passover cooking, serving, and cleaning up after a houseful of guests...o.k., my married children and their adorable offspring, my garbage pail up and died. I was rocking two other garbage pails at strategic locations in the kitchen and truthfully, the foot lever on the main garbage had declared itself on strike months ago, but it seems as if the Passover strain was getting to everyone. So off I went to the store that in a wink to the universe, rhymes with smart. Every time I enter the hallowed halls of the 'smart' store, I swear on my pinkie finger never to step a toe in there again. My experience last week was no exception. 

I raced down the appropriate aisles until I saw the trash receptacles (even garbage cans choose to be politically correct). I tried the foot lever, it seemed sturdy and the front panel had a large sticker on it boasting of a one-year warranty. Grabbing the large round cylinder in my arms, I was good to go, until I saw the checkout lines snaking toward me, daring me to choose one of them while knowing full well that the one I would select would having a delay resulting in a call to the manager who would be in a meeting...I stood frozen in indecision until I saw the express lane. Success! I waddled my unwieldly package over and plopped it down on the floor to wait my turn. And wait I did.

The woman in front of me began to unload her cart and was still unloading after she reached item ten. Item eleven began to make its way onto the conveyor belt when the cashier made a half-hearted attempt at stopping her:

"You can't buy that, you got maw than ten."
"I AM buying it, and this, and this, and this..."

She continued to unload the REST of the wagon. Didn't even look in my direction. Didn't even acknowledge that in a free and democratic society we have all agreed to abide by the clearly written and unwritten law of the frequent shopper, Thou Shalt Not Desecrate the Ten Items or Less line. There is a special Hell reserved for people who do, and in a more upscale shopping establishment appropriate steps would have been taken. I knew I would be alone in my protestation of her flagrant disobeyance of the law and since there was no one on line behind me to rabble-rouse, I sucked it in and remained silent.

Another feeble attempt by the cashier who seemed to be taking a nap in between scanning each item:

"You're not supposed to buy maw than ten things on this line."
"Well, I am!"

And she did. I was fascinated. She packed up her purchases, no manager was called over, no sheepish apologies were offered about running late to get the kids from school or that she'd left a pot cooking on the stove, just a moment of freewheeling unabashed political incorrectness.

I thought about her on the ride home and wondered what I was always apologizing about, what we, collectively as a nation, was always apologizing about. Every word we say nowadays is parsed. The President can't even compliment a female attorney general without an immediate outraged response from the media and watchdog groups whose existence is predicated upon catching people being human and saying stupid things, sometimes.

Don't you dare call the woman serving soda at ten thousand feet a stewardess, she's a flight attendant...the person on the phone whose accent and poor connection makes them sound as if they're speaking underwater is not someone in India (who's being paid half of what an American would be paid) she  is a service care coordinator...seriously, what does that even mean? A fireman....nope, don't even think about it, it's firefighter to you, thank you very much. Be afraid to speak, be very afraid.

And here I had just stood in line behind a woman who is probably a fair representation of the collective mentality of many Americans who are simply trying to get through their day, make some purchases and basically keep their focus primarily on themselves, not about what's happening anywhere else, in other countries, other states, even what's happening right behind them. She had exactly one goal in mind, to service herself in any damned way she pleased, disregarding anyone and everyone that might get in her way. It was so the antithesis of liberal America and the rhetoric spewed by the talking heads on TV and in the papers that I actually found it refreshing and mildly amusing, even if I was the recipient of her lack of largesse, the unwitting victim of her general disdain.

I came into my kitchen filled with my children sitting around the table, enjoying each others' company and with a sigh of satisfaction set down my new purchase.

My son jumped up, "Great! A garbage pail (political correctness only goes so far, even from a liberal college freshman) that finally works!" He pumped the foot lever a few times and I was glad to put the whole episode from my mind. As I headed to the laundry to search for some clean linen I heard him call after me.

"Ma, the bottom of the garbage pail is cracked. You're probably going to have to return it if you don't want garbage leaking all over the floor."

I hid my smile and poked my head around the door, "I think I'll send you to do the return."

Perhaps it was time for the college liberal to get a civics lesson into the mind of middle America.
 

Valentine's Day...feh

Valentine's Day is tomorrow.  Although I don't subscribe to the commercialized Hallmark/Godiva-chocolated notion of love and actually feel sorry for the poor sots who will find their efforts deemed subpar by their supposed love ones, I want to weigh in with a thought about finding love.

Tuesday's Science Times reports on the effectiveness of the algorithm behind the matchmaking site eHarmony. This site makes the choice for the client based upon their answers to the extensive 200 questions that they need to answer and forwards the site's computer-generated selections, rather than forwarding an array of available  mates for the client to choose from themselves. I find this distinction especially interesting because I do something similar when I attempt to set up singles at the local "matchmaking" group I volunteer at.

 Let me explain. Along with Patti Stanger, the Millionaire Matchmaker, but at a much lower pay grade, I set up marriage-minded couples who would not have met on their own and hope they date successfully, resulting in a match. I have noticed that when I present a boy/girl (I deal primarily with young professionals in their late twenties) with ONE selection and sell the hell out of it, I stand a better shot at a successful meeting and if I'm any good at this, many more dates and possibly a marriage proposal.  If I offer three or four ideas and leave the choice up to them I find it leads to the shmorgasboard effect. You know how it is at a sumptuous buffet. Everything looks delicious and is enticingly presented. The vast array of selections available is tempting and even if your plate is full and you are chewing away on a gastronomical delight, your eye is still roaming the room looking for more. 

The first thing eHarmony has going for it is that anyone willing to spend the time answering 200 questions, 180 of which are pointless, is either very serious about getting married and knows it takes effort to make a relationship successful or is out of work and has nothing better to do with their day than answer questions. Hence a successful weeding out process right there. According to the article in The Times, there are many factors that translate into an easy match: level of agreeableness, level of willingness to experience new things, spirituality, general optimism...the list goes on. These things can be matched easily through a dating website and actually offer a firm foundation for seeking a like-minded mate. And I would tender the theory that these matches have a certain predictable solidity and staying power to them.

But what about the well-known law of "opposites attract?"

My theory on opposites attracting is that the exact thing that you found so cute about your partner at the six-month point is the same thing you have to gnash your teeth at ten years down the road. I believe a more subtle version of the opposites attract tenet leads to greater satisfaction. A couple that complements each other and thereby creates a whole by contributing their half of the equation--he has great ideas but lacks the follow through and along comes a very organized woman who is lacking in creativity but has great organizational skills. These two halves are opposite but not necessarily completely opposing. These two halves equal the whole and hopefully the sum total is greater than the parts. This, I believe, is something less jarring and has staying power.

Ultimately, you have to know yourself and what works for you. Every person is unique and every couple has their own dynamic that might be easily predicted by a computer, or not, but I also like to rely on that elusive element known as "Kismet" or "Bashert"--which is a Yiddish work for it. We are hopeful there is that extra plus of Fate that leads us to the person of our dreams and pray that we look for ways to make it all work out rather than look for ways to complicate it.  

And if you find yourself alone on Valentine's Day, really, who cares, it's just a day and the good thing is there are 364 more of them to find someone before next year's February 14th rolls around.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

What is up with all the lying? Lance Armstrong, Manti Te’o, Susan Rice, every politician who has ever stood in front of a microphone…what happened to the antiquated notion that most of us grew up with—Honesty is the best policy?  Who cares anymore about integrity and honesty? Frankly, the truth seems to be beside the point, a notion reserved for people from a different generation. As a concept, it leaves a lot to be desired, but notoriety, now that's an idea with bite.

I don’t follow football, but being the mother of two avid fans, I can claim a middling ability to recognize some names. I’ve heard of Mark Sanchez, Drew Brees, Tim Tebow, Peyton and Eli, Tom Brady and a couple more names that escape me at the moment. Owing to the latest firestorm of incredulity at the whopper of a story delivered by the Notre Dame Heisman almost, the name Manti Te’o is now a household name—so, mission accomplished, I guess.

But if we’re all going to find out the truth anyway, what could be the point of lying? 

My guess is that it’s Ego—the insecure need to feed it, the belief that some people are above the truth, that their awesomeness can transcend it. It can be as simple as that. Either we won’t catch them because they’re that good at covering their tracks, or we’ll be so enamored of them anyway that we’ll forgive them. Maybe it simply never occurred to these liars that they would be held accountable for their actions. That takes a strong helping of ego, and I believe that is the common denominator here. 

All of this denial while the public is watching the cringe-worthy protestations allows these lying, slippery, snakes (sorry) to dig in deep after being found out, continuing the charade until it becomes a living breathing thing, at which point it is time for the 'sit down interview' with whoever lobbied hardest for the ‘get’.   

Lance Armstrong chose Oprah who showed the interview on her cable station OWN that no one can find (which would have been a great idea, Lance, in the days before ‘you tube’). 

Nevertheless, this was a brilliant move on Lance’s part for another reason. We all know what happened when James Frey lied to Oprah about what we now know is a highly fictionalized account of his memoir about his struggle with addiction, A Million Little Pieces. She was furious that she and her millions of followers were all duped into believing his fabrication of events. Knowing of her integrity and gravitas, Lance and his people probably figured he would give his redemptive interview to her in a last attempt at salvaging his tainted reputation. Oprah was well aware that she would be giving a platform to a known liar and scrupulously had the 112 points he made during the interview thoroughly checked, finding them to be factual. Imagine her shock at having been fooled again when 60 Minutes released their story a couple of days ago that the chief of the USADA claims Lance lied to Oprah during his interview.

If I wasn’t dizzy trying to keep track of all the lies by our reigning whopper champs, Lance and Manti, I’d be truly entertained. But as it is, I'm just sad.

My cleaning lady, who is paid an hourly wage, told me she left an hour and a half early last week, having forgotten to tell me about a doctor appointment. I had paid her for the day before I left, and there was no reason for her to be honest about the missing hours except for her own innate integrity and conscience. And because I always despised those teachers who would take off the two points you discovered when you added up your test score rather than leave the grade intact for your honesty, I’m not docking her pay. Her admission was refreshing rather than distressing. I appreciate her having been adult enough to do what others who have been propped up by our society aren’t man enough to do--speak the truth and take a chance on the fallout.

 It is truly a sobering day when someone we have allowed to represent our country in a worldwide sport, a multi-millionaire, a spokesman for charities, sports equipment and a myriad of products has less integrity and a whole heck of a lot less grace than a maid who takes pride in her work and herself. 

Powerless on Plum

6:42 last night marked our one week anniversary of no power…in many, many ways, but most specifically the kind that comes through a mysterious labyrinthine set of wires fondly remembered as electricity that we never think about…for one minute, until we get the enormous bill each month. And yet we count ourselves as among the fortunate. Catastrophic, unprecedented total devastation…these are some of the terms used to describe what a lot of us on the East Coast are experiencing right now.  Hurricane Sandy chewed up and spit out most of the seaside from Maine to New York and a lot of real estate in between. And even if we can all agree that the destruction is no laughing matter, humor, and looking on the bright side is what will get us through the days ahead. Except of course for the corny jokes that started several days before the storm made landfall. Interestingly enough, my husband bore the brunt of them through silly emails. 

Your wife, heh, heh, when she lets it rip, look out...I always thought Sandy was so sweet, let’s see what she has in store…

“Did you remind them I spell my name with an i….” I snapped. If the jokes were funny I would have laughed along, I think.  Apparently people become hard of hearing when they are looking to lay blame at your doorstep, to which I say I’m grateful I have a doorstep. It’s a cold, dark, doorstep, but my home is still standing.

“I think we should book two rooms at a hotel, you know, just in case,” I told my husband last Sunday morning.

“O.k.”

“You don’t think we should?”  

“If you want to…”

I frowned, “You weren’t here during the Halloween storm; you were in China. We were without power for four days. It was nuts.” When the lights went out Monday night I looked at him accusingly.

“Fine, I’ll make some calls.” Turns out most of the hotels in our area and beyond had no power and those that did were already booked. I was careful to keep the judgment from my voice. We pulled out candles, turned on flashlights, donned our winter coats and huddled. My son quickly bought a month of 3G service for his iPad and we sat glued around the dark kitchen table hanging on Mayor Bloomberg and Governor Christie’s words as the live feed kept us informed. The next morning I pulled out a trimline phone I had bought years ago at Radio Shack during a power outage and plugged it into the wall. We didn’t have phone service until Wednesday and when it rang shrilly we all jumped.

“What was that?” my eighteen year old asked.

“A telephone,” I said, pointing at the wall.

Wrinkling his nose as he looked at the alien object attached to the wall, “Really?” he said as he ran to pick up the novelty item. He must have been fascinated because the phone could sit three inches from his hand as he watches the Giants game and he still wouldn’t answer it. This phone (without a caller ID display) was the black version of the white one I got as a teenager for my own room…several years ago.

Wednesday morning I opened the fridge, pulled over the garbage and started dumping things in.

“What are you doing?” my husband asked.

“The…Power…Is…Not…Going…Back…On,” I said, gesturing at Bloomberg’s overly enthusiastic deaf translator who stayed stalwartly by his side even through his mangled Spanish, offering us the few moments of comic relief we desperately needed in what was clearly an escalating situation. I looked at my usually take charge husband, whose biggest fault right then was his optimism and saw it register.

“I’m going to get a generator.”

“Finally,” I muttered, not believing that any generators still existed within a six hour driving range, but held my tongue.

He called me two hours later. “I called that guy I know upstate who knows a guy that owes him a favor. It will be here this afternoon.”

I let out a shriek. The power was back on Plum.

Then we became slaves to the beast. It ate more than my sons, made more noise than them, and spewed more noxious fumes. But we were grateful. My take charge husband had a goal—making sure it never ran out of gas—quite a challenge since we had four cars to keep filling up as well and lines rivaling the gas shortage of the Carter administration. First World problems, my sons told me, still recovering from their forty-hour loss of internet.

By Friday the whole neighborhood was up and running except for Plum Road. We had gone to Queens to our daughter for the weekend and met many other displaced people. My brother called from the block on Sunday.

“There’s a truck here, I think the guys are from Ohio, or maybe the moon.”

“What do they say?” I asked eagerly.

“We have no electricity.”

Geniuses. Maybe they’ll be able to predict who will be the next president.

.