Where Was My Sir Walter Raleigh?

  Chivalry is clearly dead -- at least in my backyard.
   Recently, the bossband and I went for a walk around the block, a regular attempt at exercise. Of late, some old teens/young adults have decided to turn our newly paved street into LOVE Park, that is skateboard central. Thing is, they don't seem too adept at balancing on a board with wheels while staying atop it.
  On our outbound journey, I was grumbling about the damage to the street. Yes, I've become one of those. Now that I'm on the neighborhood committee that makes decisions about things like paving the road and general curbside appearance, I'm a cranky old lady that's irked at the skid marks left behind by the Tony Hawk-wannabes/ain't gonna happen types.
  Anyway, as we walk, talk, complain, the bossband and I do our one-mile trek around the area. Thirty-minutes later, we neared our street's entrance. The skateboarders were still at it. I heard a screech, was about to say, "See, that's what I mean -- not good for the pavement," when I saw a skateboard sans skateboarder from the corner of my eye hurtling toward me at Concord speed. I screamed and went down for the count as it rammed into my ankle. My husband picked me up off that new pavement, and I cursed. My ankle hurt, my shoulder hurt, my wrist hurt.
   The skateboarder, who himself had flown off in the opposite direction onto the grass, but appeared none the worse for wear, apologized profusely and kept asking if I was OK. When I said, "No, I sprained my ankle," he said one more sorry and vanished, Houdini-style, from the general vicinity. I limped home. This time I was grumbling about how these things always happen to me.
  Then it occurred to me. The bossband was walking next to me on the outside. How come the skateboard didn't hit him? I enquired. "I stepped out of the way," he said, matter-of-fact.
  "How come you didn't save me?" I persisted.
  That led to an intense several minutes about primal instinct versus concern for your loved ones. His instinct was to save himself -- each man, or woman, for himself/herself. He didn't have time to think about anyone else. I should have been paying better attention when I heard that initial screech and jumped for dear life. I should have saved myself, in other words. This is, after all, the 21st century, equal rights and all.
  That has its share of sense and logic in it, the bossband's forte.
  But am I unreasonable to expect my one and only to take the fall for me, or at least grab me out of harm's way? A little chivalry would have been nice, don't you think?

Leaving Our Lives at the Curb

  Every other Wednesday is Show and Tell Day on the block. Actually, it's Recycling Day -- but it can feel more like a National Enquirer expose. There at the end of the driveway are our three cans full of recyclables: the Lucky Charms and Cocoa Puff cereal boxes, the bottle of wine, the plastic jugs of Welch's grape juice, the Amazon cardboard boxes, the Gatorade bottles too many to count, the crumpled Uno's Pizza box, the Biotene dry mouth rinse, and so on.
  We don't have to wait until a distant civilization unearths our landfills of detritus that will explain how we lived. We put it on display curbside every two weeks. We know the neighbors who prefer beers, and the ones who prefer one too many. We know who eats healthy and not so much. We know who drinks skim milk and who lives on pizza.
   Recently, our recycling company started accepting almost everything in a single stream. Our trash has gone from a couple of cans a week to nearly nothing. Now, we recycle almost everything. It's a grand feeling, helping out the environment and all that. But as I drive by my pile of recyclables, I can't help but think what it says about my lifestyle -- and my family's. I clearly feed my child too much sugary cereal. Does the low-fat and skim milk cartons compensate? And surely the tofu tray that juts out on top earns me some bonus points.
  Perhaps this public display of culinary and otherwise consumption will be the real fix for America's (and my) bulging waistline. After all, the true way to help the environment is not to buy it in the first place.

One-Year Anniversary

 This week was my one-year anniversary of becoming a Lady of Leisure. What a ride! As I wrote in my piece for the Philadelphia Inquirer, I viewed my early retirement as an adventure. And it has been. I've had the opportunity to write magazine-length pieces, essays, go to art shows (Capuccio at the Phila. Art Museum is excellent for any shopaholic), and throw myself into volunteering at the resident teen's school. Today, six month's of work has come to fruition in the school's house tour book! It was incredibly hard work but such a blast, and I'm proud of the result.
  So this Lady of Leisure is raring for year two. I guess I should rename my blog My YEARS as a Lady of Leisure!
  When I wrote my piece on early retirement, the reaction was divided. I got an email -- the first reaction -- from a reader who accused me of having "one rich husband."
 "Choices, what a joke! Most women I know who work and have kids do not feel as if there is a choice.  You won't do bathrooms?  Hmmm next life time I need to be so spoiled."
  Of course, many, many women have no choice on the matter. But many others do -- or find a way to make that choice a possibility -- and  yet still struggle with expectations, real or imagined. Other readers got that. "I could relate to it on so many levels," wrote one woman.  "It is somewhat comforting to know I am not alone in having a small panic attack when anyone asks me do you work.  As a retired successful advertising account executive, I sometimes say, "yes I work I just don't get paid for it."  This leaves the person wondering what in the world does that mean. I want to thank you for your beautiful words and for letting me know I am not alone.  I hope you are enjoying your leisurely tub soaks!"
  Yes, I do.

Workholic Lady of Leisure: Oh, What Would Mom Say?

The Lady of Leisure when she was twentysomething and a
Lady of Work at the Philadelphia Inquirer.

  To celebrate Women's History Month, the Philly Inquirer, my hometown newspaper, gave over the Style & Soul section to some style & soul. Ten women wrote essays about the type of stuff women debate endlessly with that inner voice echoing in their head. I was one of the chosen. Here's the link. I wrote about my decision to retire -- and how that's going now that I've done it for nearly one year. It starts like this:


  The question always leaves me stammering through a long-winded response.

Do you work?

For nearly 25 years, the answer was a cinch. I was a reporter for this newspaper. It always left folks surprised, sometimes impressed, and often a bit curious.

Last year at 48, I altered my career path - actually, I veered completely off the road and into the meadows of early retirement. That's what I called it, anyway. Now, the question of work and what I do with my time - really, who am I? - is much more complicated.

After all, work is so much a part of identity, and the choice to work or not to work - particularly for women - carries more baggage than a 747.

I watched my own mother juggle scientific research and motherhood. The lesson was clear: Women who are smart work.

And that makes my own choice fraught with layers of complexity that Sigmund Freud himself could not unravel. But, heck, I'll give it a try.

  The rest is at the this link. I'll post about the reaction shortly. And while you're at the www.philly.com site, check out the other rockin' essays.

  The coolest part was the chance to say I blog. Got 15 visitors that day, which is about what I get in the whole month. Though my numbers are going up, thanks to all of you. So keep reading. And start following.

Spiderman Spins a Web of Delights

  Theater critics have taken to trashing Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark as it continues its endless previews to  opening day, next week on March 15 -- assuming it isn't again postponed. My family went with relatives a couple of weekends ago. In a word, I thought it was FABULOUS!
   It had everything I want out of an expensive Broadway show: over-the-top sets and theatrics with wonderful music and not a bad story line at all. After all, good does triumph evil.
 The show was a combination of the circus, theater and rock concert -- all rolled into one. The acrobatics were literally over the top, as in over our heads. That alone was incredible and worth the ticket price. The show has become as well know for its tricks can go wrong as much as its tricks. Everything went right on our night, though there was that moment when Spiderman seemed to miss his footing as he landed on a second-story balcony platform. But he quickly scrambled to safety like a true spider-human.
   It was like the circus in that way. No one wishes for an accident to happen, of course. But the fact that it is a possibility -- and one you just might witness up close -- makes all those acts of teetering on high wires, tangling with tigers, racing on horses all the more exciting. Same here. And unlike the circus, all the action was done without any safety net, just cables. And cables wouldn't protect the stuntmen if they hit the balconies. We joked about wearing helmets.
  The show did a particularly wonderful job on sets, recreating the feel of the Big Apple and the battle between good and evil high above the skyscrapers. It also captured the comic book feel with it's pow! wham! splat! word bubbles, bright colors and spider walk up the walls.
  At the same time, it was a complex take on the Spiderman story with its base in Greek mythology and Greek tragedy, down to the comic chorus of teens who kept the dimmer among us apprised of the story line and balanced Spiderman's angst with silly jokes. I loved the little touches, like the girlfriend who acts in The Fly, another tale of metamorphosis. Or her self-doubt that she'd ever make it to Broadway. It wasn't perfect. It dragged in the second act, in part because of a sidebar of song and dance about a series of villains thought vanquished that reappear. But all in all, it was a wonderful evening of entertainment. And it has set a new standard for the Broadway spectacular. Go see it!

Love, Hate and Possibilities

  The radio interview went fine. Conservatives love this stuff. Comments have been mostly supportive, though a few folks are sure my son will hate me as an adult. But don't we all hate our parents, especially mothers, at some point? And then we go back to loving them again. So I'm not too worried.
  Here's the link again:
http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/20110202_Proud_to_be_pushy.html#comments.
  I think one mother put it best. She was describing her own mother's reaction to all the growling over Tiger Mothers. She said parents believe their children can do more than the child believes they can do. A mother's job is to help them see the possibilities. Exactly.

Pushy Me

Well, the essay is out. I'm doing a radio interview at 11:30 a.m. for WPHT-1210 -- Dom Giordano's show. Hope he isn't too attack dog.


http://www.philly.com/philly/entertainment/20110202_Proud_to_be_pushy.html#comments.

More later.

Tiger Mom Wannabe Outed

  Somehow I was persuaded to discuss my parenting style in light of Amy Chua's new book, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, in public, as in big city newspaper. My essay, which will appear in the Philadelphia Inquirer  Wednesday, begins this way:


 "I owe Amy Chua a big thank you. Finally, someone’s a meaner mom than I am."


  Now that it's headed for print, I'm a little nervous about the reaction it will get. Chua has gotten blasted for her iron-fist policies, ever since an excerpt appeared in the Wall Street Journal. As you'll see, I think her ideas are refreshing. 
  She's gotten threats and mean-spirited criticism. Locally, as in my household, my new nickname is Tiger Mom. It's still said more or less affectionately. So I think I'm safe for now.
  My essay's timing, though, is rather ironic. The day after my essay appears, my son's school is holding a mandatory health seminar on stress. One of the themes will be the pressure of high expectations on children.  Wonder if the researcher is an Inquirer reader? Then in March, the school is screening Race to Nowhere, a film about the mental-health crisis among young people that is, apparently, the result of high expectations.
  It should be an interesting few weeks. I'll post the full essay on Wednesday.
  

This Book Goes to My Child Along with the Memories

  In my continuing quest to organize the basement now that I'm a Lady of Leisure, I opened a box labeled "Lini's books" in  my mother's handwriting that had sat untouched for a few years. I didn't expect to have such a deep well of feelings about the contents. The box was a cornucopia of memories. I found Daphne Du Maurier's Rebecca, read over the summer when I was a rising senior in high school, and one of my favorites. I loved it just as much when I reread it -- this time on my Kindle -- for my parents book club. 

  Like a song, a book can evoke just as strong emotions, yank you back to another decade -- not necessarily simpler but worth remembering all the same. I've saved every one of my books. They line the basement shelves, waiting to be read again. Not necessarily by me, but by my son and my grandchildren -- a hope that always brings a smile.

  I found 15 volumes of the Happy Hollisters -- that perfect, big family that always stumbled onto mysteries to solve in their small town America neighborhood. Each of the volumes had a little number stuck to it. That was when I used to play librarian, what we kids did before texting to pass the time. I got the idea to inventory my hefty collection of books, creating my version of Dewey's decimal system. Each book also had its own index card kept in a small box -- a card catalogue, waiting for someone to check them out. For a while, the boys who lived behind us in Lexington, Ky., obliged. I made the labels with one of those label-matic devices sold by informercial, which I know is somewhere in my parents' house.
  
  My own child likes the Happy Hollisters as much as I did. A few volumes had appeared from an earlier clean-up effort, and he caught the mystery bug. Even though he's a bit old for the books now, I was delighted to find so many and promptly placed them on his book shelf. And he was appropriately delighted. In one volume, The Happy Hollisters and the Secret of the Lucky Coins, he showed me an inscription I had written:
     "I Read this book in India chapter 17 + 18
      "This Book Goes to my child + the rest of the seirous [sic]."
  That was series -- spelling was never my forte. Below the inscription, I had drawn a long line tagged "childs name."
  It's one of those shiver-down-the-spine moments. Here's my child -- the one I imagined in some way -- holding the book I held, reading the book I read, and adding his name in the spot reserved for him.

  I also found a range of college books, including Dante's Inferno, as well as Purgatorio and Paradiso -- the other two volumes that rarely get read. Hell usually hogs all the attention. That's the way of the Devil. But for a a college honors class, I had to read all three. Those were the days of contemplating how many angels can dance on the head of a pin.
  Tess of the D'Urbervilles, recommended by my mom as one of the most poignant tales ever, set me along the path to read and adore anything Thomas Hardy. Lady Chatterly's Lover, discovered on my own, did the same for D.H. Lawrence. I felt very grown up reading that book as a 15 year old, as if consuming some forbidden fruit. The box also had a Harold Robbins that the daughter of my father's best friend had given me as a birthday present. It shocked my parents once I told them the contents of the book. On my memory blast went through Somerset Maugham, whose Of Human Bondage was read when I was as miserable as the main character and sure life would never be good, and Sylvia Plath, whose Bell Jar always made me so sad for a life about to be lost.
  
 I also discovered my copy of the Odyssey and the Cliffs Notes I had purchased along with it. I always read the book (really!) but used the Cliffs Notes to tease out themes in my overachiever way. Both would have been handy last year, when my son read the same book.

  One of my happiest moments is when the Resident Teen's English class is reading the same text I read and then passing along my book with my margin notes in loopy script. He enjoys pointing out how my notes make no sense. Still, there's something wonderful about a child doing the exact same thing as a parent, a lovely continuity across generations. It's why dad's so enjoy introducing their sons to baseball, the same game they played as a child.

  I got to do that with Lord of the Flies. And tried with Ethan Frome, which I read in eighth grade and which began my love of English as a subject. But despite looking everywhere, I couldn't find my copy in time for him to read it in ninth grade. He probably prefers the new book I ended up buying -- but I was sad I had to forsake that passage from me to him. I think, I hope, he'll appreciate it more when he's older and has his own children to inherit his vast collection of fantasy books -- and the memories stored within those pages.