kitsch

kitsch n. art, objects, or design considered to be in poor taste because of excessive garishness or sentimentality, but sometimes appreciated in an ironic or knowing waymy salt and pepper shakersI thought of this word a few weeks ago while dusting my collection of vintage salt and pepper shakers. I suppose if you walked around my home you would call some of the decor kitschy. But I started my collection of strange and "ironic" things a long time ago before the hipsters stole my style and turned it into an insult. Now when I think about the word "kitsch" I don't think about my cheeky, cute salt and pepper shakers or my vintage 60's self help books. I think about hipsters. I have a love / hate relationship with these smelly, overindulged beings. I am definitely not a hipster. I shower regularly and I tend not to take myself too seriously. However, I listen to hipster approved music, enjoy ironic art and tchochkes, and once lived in Brooklyn. It seems my life is irrevocably intertwined with them.It all started back in Rhode Island, maybe around 2002 or so. I had my first apartment in the attic of a building on Medway Street in the Wayland Square neighborhood of Providence. I graduated with an English degree from Providence College and wanted to live on my own, but really had no money. I fancied that I would become a journalist since I had interned at the Providence Phoenix and Providence Monthly Magazine, but quickly found out that writing for a paper meant a salary of about $500 (before taxes) and no health insurance. I also had a series of bad interview experiences, one in particular where I didn't get the job because my hand shake wasn't firm enough. So I commuted to Boston, trained and became a mutual fund accountant - the most bland and boring job I could have ever conceived for myself - but it paid the bills. Because money was tight and my apartment was pretty small, I began decorating with cheap things I found at tag sales and thrift stores. My boyfriend (future husband) and I couldn't afford to eat out at expensive restaurants, so we frequented a dive bar on the corner of my street called Mavericks and a little breakfast spot - Ruffuls. We would always pray that the Starbucks a block away from where I lived would screw up and give us the free drink coupon so we could get the vente frappuccino -  which counted as an entire meal. This is as close as I got to a hipster lifestyle - but I wasn't cool and I always showered. And I respected other people. Back then this was just called "poor."In a few years we moved to a lovely home in Oak Hill, Pawtucket. I ended up working in Product Development for a watchband company called Speidel and found my career path. We kept our ironic sense of decor and our love for indie music. In 2004, I came home with a record player I found at Home Goods in Seekonk, Ma. My husband thought I was crazy until we went to the Salvation Army and spent a few dollars on some old records and I convinced him that it was a wonderful thing to hear the crackling and static. We also inherited a huge and wonderful collection from my aunt which makes up the basis of our growing collection. These days my husband brings home more records than I do, traveling to places on business and seeking out strange (and kitschy) vinyls. Our neighbors back in Pawtucket were also a little strange and crazy. One always smoked a pipe and let his yard grow like a jungle. The other had vines growing through her roof and played the piano all day. You could always hear various concertos wafting out of her window. We adopted a dog, the infamous Stella, from Petfinder.com. She was a rescue born in a Kentucky shelter who we picked up in the parking lot of a hotel in Connecticut. She was supposed to be 40 pounds full grown, but was 40 pounds at 5 months old when we picked her up. She, our red leather sofa, our record player and records, and my collections of various kitschy junk lived a happy life - until we made the leap to NYC. We still showered and respected people, but we were ready for a change.Our first apartment was in Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn right near Fort Hamilton Parkway. We rented it from a landlord named Forest who we found through a tank top, lip gloss, flip flop wearing lesbian who drove the biggest Mercedes I have ever seen on the hottest August day ever. It was a duplex with a yard and no sub floor. When we moved in our dog Stella used to pee because she hated the city and it would drip through the slats in the wood flooring to the downstairs. For weeks we would come home to find what seems like aerosol sprayed urine on the downstairs floor. I thought we had rats or animals, until I spilled some red wine one evening and my husband saw it dripping from the ceiling while downstairs. Nevertheless, all of our kitsch fit perfectly into our first apartment - as if made for it. We enjoyed all that Brooklyn had to offer...loved Williamsburg and it's strange hipster people that dressed funny and wore face paint - until the hipsters moved in upstairs. Until then, hipsters were just people that liked the same things as us - just showered a lot less and didn't have serious jobs. Suddenly, there were random cats strolling around the duplex...and beer cans in our vegetable garden. The door would slam at 5 am...repeatedly...and we were never sure exactly how many people actually lived there. One day, we went upstairs to knock to have a reasonable conversation about what was going on - and found the door open with no one home. I will confess, we walked in...just for a peak. It smelled. There were full plates of food on the floor amidst piles of clothes. A cat carrier, little to no furniture. It looks like a bad version of a homeless shelter or drug den. And apparently these people went to Cooper Union...? We took our showering, respectable selves and all of our kitsch to Carroll Gardens, where the hipsters couldn't afford to live and the Park Slope mommies hadn't fully discovered yet.We now live in Maplewood, NJ and it's hard some days to live in such a distilled environment. I confess that there are days where I miss the crazy hipsters and their artwork and kitschy ways. We have a child now and Stella will be turning 10 soon. We now have a whole house to house our collections of music and kitschy decor. We have a hipster in the family now...my brother in law is an artist in Bed Sty - so if we ever feel like we are losing our edge, we have him over to do a spot check. I guess you could say we are kitschy suburbanites - "kitschanites." But it isn't about being ironic or cool for us. It's not a lifestyle. It's just a vein that runs through a lot of the stuff we like. We don't even curate it on purpose. It just happens. We sort of resent that the hipsters turned the things we like into a "thing" that a lot of people despise. If they would just shower, we could try to be friends...swap Instagram photos, make ironic Itunes playlists...

personality

personality n. the combination of characteristics or qualities that form an individuals distinctive characterI've been home for some time as a full time mom raising a young child, as you already know from reading this very blog. I have too much time to think about things. My brain seems to run all day. While I was driving to our morning coffee and munchkin ritual today, I got to thinking about personality and the role it plays in our lives. It's such an odd thing - this term personality that we choose to signify all of the good, bad and ugly things we tend to do regularly. It becomes really important in our day to day lives and interactions. I think this scene from Pulp Fiction best sums it up.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJCzrSENHnQ]In certain situations, I have been described as somewhat quiet. Growing up I was rather shy and would frequently not know what to say. Yet when you get to know me, whether through my writing or by just hanging out with me, you soon come to find out my quirky, goofy personality - my collection of characteristics that make me Kim. I've never actually sat down and thought about what these characteristics are. I suppose I can be a pessimist at times, but I always hold onto hope - so I'm not super negative or anything. I'd describe it as having a firm grip on reality. I can be stubborn - I'd rather say "determined" and that has led me to achieving goals I set in my little life. I love to laugh. Whenever I reconnect with people from my past they always mention how much I used to laugh...even if something wasn't THAT funny. I think I've made quite a few people think they are actually a lot funnier than they are. I am terrified of bugs...and I mean terrified. I once called my husband crying on a business trip because there was a bee in house...in the room upstairs, with the door closed...completely distraught because I was terrified of going near it. I frequently make my dog Stella eat spiders and other insects I find around the house. She's like a 60 pound furry aardvark. I would also say that I am somewhat of an idealist. I expect a lot from people. I assume that most will do the right and honorable thing all of the time and get really disappointed when they don't. But I am forgiving. I love a genuine apology. I adore honesty even more.So that's sort of a summary of my personality. Just a blurb. I guess I can add that I love hip hop and gangster rap. Being a 5'2 very caucasian female adds some humor to that characteristic when you drive a large orange Honda Element with the whitest baby in the world sitting (and dancing) in the back seat.I haven't really cultivated this personality of mine. It's taken me quite some time just to admit to some of the characteristics that comprise "me." I feel it would be inauthentic - which is another characteristic for my collection. I like things as they are - unforced and natural - like my son. It's somewhat refreshing to be around a toddler for this reason. He can't help but show his true colors all of the time - especially when you don't want him to. He  is the most authentic person I know. Perhaps sometimes a little too authentic. He's terribly stubborn and outspoken at times. He can be a bit shy with new people at first but warms up pretty quickly. He loves to dance and be the center of attention. He is in fact very much a ham. He generally doesn't want his mom to be doing anything but paying attention to him - including running with the jogging stroller. His personality was so strong today that he screamed the entire 2 miles drawing several looks of pity from everyone that passed us along the trail...including the wild turkeys and dogs.I can already see how my own personality is starting to rub off on him...in not such pretty ways. I suppose it's a good thing he spends so much time with the dog. She's very calm and zen...and protects me from all of the spiders and bugs. Having a second insect killer in this household is definitely a good thing.

gazump

gazump v. swindle (someone)Mad as hellAs a person that spends most of my current life dealing with the mundane duties of household maintenance and child care, I am always on the lookout for gazumpers. They lurk around every corner, it seems - when I least expect it. It's not as if I live on the corner of Canal and Prince, fighting off street vendors trying to trick me into buying faux designer wares. Yet even so, I feel like I should be wrapping my wallet in barbed wire somedays as everyone wants a share of my husband's hard earned money. So as a tribute to this wonderful, archaic, British word, I am awarding the Gazumper Medal of Morosity to two of my most recent and favorite swindlers - PSE&G (Public Service Electric and Gas) and the baby food squeezable pouch industry.PSEG - Putrid Service, Expensive GasI feel like I am always on the look out, trying to protect myself and my family from being cheated. It happens almost automatically sometimes - like my utility bill this month. I live in New Jersey in an old house with lots of drafty corners. Our gas meter is in our basement and once a month a meter reader is supposed to come by and read the numbers and report them back to the gas company so we can be billed appropriately. For awhile, mainly the summer when the weather was quite fine, the friendly meter reader was coming regularly and I would escort him to my basement to read the meter. It took a few minutes and it was simple enough. But then November came and he didn't show up. In fact, the last time I have seen him was way back in October. Perhaps it's been too cold or Hurricane Sandy messed up the schedule, but nonetheless, the meter has not been read. I didn't realize I was supposed to be managing this person and calling the company - since, you know, he's a paid employee of THEIRS. So 2 weeks ago, I received a bill for almost twice as much as the month before - and no one, including my dog and baby have touched the thermostats. In fact, my feet are frequently in a state of numbness because most of the time it isn't even warm in here. I had to make the unavoidable, dreaded customer service call. I am a notorious abuser of customer service representatives and frequently have anxiety about dealing with these people. I much too frequently find that there is absolutely no service being performed to me at all other than reading some sort of form letter or diverting me to someone else who knows even less. Most of the time they just hang up on me. Anyway, I behaved and was courteous on the phone with the rep and I came to find out they had been "estimating" our gas usage based on what an 80 year old woman who lived in this house over 2 years ago used. In truth, they have no idea how much heat or electric we have utilized until I called and read them the numbers myself. I'm supposed to get a credit next month, but still need to shell out almost $800 (!) to them by the 7th.This is a colossal gazump. We pay our bill on time every month as responsible home owners. I am assuming part of this bill goes to pay the meter reader who has decided not to show up every month. I wonder what he does instead...perhaps he heads into the bakery in town for a cup of coffee and a scone or perhaps he gets his nails done. I would hope he's at least doing something fun since I am now paying $800 for his incompetency. Whatever the case, I now have a special day marked on my calendar for waiting all day at home for him to come - and if he doesn't show up, I get to do his job for him and call in the numbers myself so as to avoid the company "estimation." So I award the highest medal of gazump honor to our utility company, whose service and business sense is about as archaic as the word gazump itself.Baby Food Puree (aka overpriced fruit mush in a plastic pouch)When I'm not waiting around my under heated house for the meter reader, I sometimes leave the house with my 1.5 year old son. When we do so, I have to make sure I maintain my arsenal of  emergency tantrum tamers at all times. I keep a diaper bag in the car with wipes, diapers, butt cream, a pacifier, a change of baby clothes, Purell, and 3 pouches of pureed baby crack...er fruit. I also keep a pacifier and more baby crack in my hand bag. If we are at the grocery store, bank or somewhere that I have to actually accomplish a task and my son decides it's time to throw himself on the floor because I wouldn't let him play with something hazardous (i.e.. butcher knife, electric socket, etc.), I whip out one of these squeezable pouches and - VOILA - he turns into a quiet, serene, suckling, precious toddler child...and I can get my shit done. The problem is that he is now addicted to these things and will run into the kitchen and bang on the cabinet door behind which they reside. I'm shelling out serious coin to keep him stocked up in small plastic pouches of things called Banana Baby Brekkie and Green Beans w. Greek Yogurt. I am pretty sure if I added up how much I have spent on them since he started eating them, I could buy myself one hell of a nice Louis Vuitton purse (not that I would since it would be covered in unidentifiable sticky smoosh in about 2 seconds.)So I did an experiment. A bag of apples costs about $3 at Trader Joes - which is about the cost of 2 pouches (the cheap, unorganic ones.) When steamed and pureed, that bag of apples makes about 6 to 7 pouches worth of the same stuff I am shelling out $20 to $30 a week for...and the bastards are adding water to theirs while mine is 100% pure! The magic in their equation was the actual pouch itself. If I have to stop and open a container and spoon feed the puree to my son, it no longer works. I need that instant squeezable, hands free peace of the pouch. It calms him down and gives him something safe with which to occupy himself. But today I have had a breakthrough...and I have found that they sell the same exact pouches, empty and in bulk at Target. No more will these purveyors of squeezable baby crack take my hard earned money! I can get 50 of their precious pouches for $14.99...and fill them with as much discount fruit, vegetables and yogurt I can cram in there. Over this gazumper I can clearly claim victory...PSE&G however will be an ongoing battle.So beware of the gazumpers. They lurk around every corner, in your heating vents and even behind the doors of your very own kitchen cabinets. Hold your children tight...and your wallets even tighter.

incunabula

incunabula n. the early stages of the development of somethingTiffany-Grace-tiara-shop-at-selfridges-fashionhorrors-3When I came upon this word, I thought of mitosis. My brain instantly snapped to the images I used to stare at in biology textbooks in high school...the ones with the little pink chromosomes so neatly dividing themselves. I suppose the inference is accurate as cells are undeniably the early stages of development of something - whether it be a child or an illness. It can have both a hopeful or sinister context, like so many things in our lives. All of my unfinished knitting projects also come to mind. They are like little physical manifestation of incunabula.Creating things excites me. My entire career has been about making things and nurturing incunabula into something tangible. Many years ago after my dreams of becoming a writer fell off due to lack of funds, a budding accounting career at Deutsche Bank proved to be the wrong path,and a job writing advertisements for clinical trials was just too boring, I fell into the role of product development for a watchband company in Rhode Island. It was a small, family oriented company. My first months were spent making spreadsheet after spreadsheet. Somehow I had become a computer whiz at Excel and I believe that was one of the reasons why I was hired. I also got to correspond with vendors in Asia, which was my favorite part. I had a wonderful boss who gave me opportunity and the ability to see and learn about the genesis of product. From drawing and concept, manufacturing and samples, to the final packaged consumer good. It was like magic. I loved seeing something come from nothing. Every trip to a store became like a museum visit, looking at things for seam lines and country of origin, trying to figure out how they were made. I fell in love with the process. Back then, I worked on watchbands and some small jewelry items, but I still treasure those years.Later I moved on to a job at a curtain rod company with more responsibility. This time I was the driving force behind the product vision. I worked with a designer who became one of my best friends in the world and together we came up with so many ideas and worked to make them into tangible goods. I traveled to mainland China and toured the factories for my projects and my life was changed. I remember calling my husband after a long day at a resin manufacturer, crying hysterically having seen the factory dormitories where the workers slept - 6 to a room on bunk beds - in a room smaller than the average bedroom. Yet they were so sweet and courteous - and I was incredibly humbled. All of those products on those shelves were no longer inanimate objects. People made them and when I was directing my projects, these people that were grateful for a crowded bunk and a bowl of rice were responsible for the outcome. To this day I do not view the things I buy the same way.Later on I went on to work for a tabletop company handling their crystal and glass product. Glass blowing was like watching incunabula in action. I traveled all over Eastern Europe visiting small glass factories and watching small glowing blobs of sand turn into beautiful glass vases and bowls by someone turning a pipe, blowing and making it look so easy. I traveled in cars across the rolling hills of Poland and Romania visiting places that are probably gone as the art of glass blowing and making has shrunk considerably. Even back when I was there the workers would talk about how so many of them had moved to cities to become taxi drivers or other working class professionals as the money was good and they didn't have to worry about factories closing. The American taste had changed and no one really spent money on handmade, lead crystal or glass. I feel special having been able to witness such a beautiful art and to have met such amazing artists.The culmination of my product career was at a company best known for it's signature blue box and amazing jewelry. Way back when I started working with watchbands, I remember coming home my first week on the job, completely excited and overwhelmed, and saying to my husband "Someday I could work for Tiffany." And then it came true. I worked on dozens of wonderful projects, some of the finest things I have ever held in my hands. Last night while I was watching Downton Abbey and noticed all of the ladies wearing diamond tiaras, I remembered the tiara I last worked on before I left on maternity leave and it made me incredibly proud and happy.I have been part of many an incunabula over these years. My career was very much my child and now it is all grown up. I made the choice to stay home and nurture a new incunabula - my son, Graham - and the journey will be no less difficult or rewarding. Through these many years of working I have learned how to bring an idea to fruition and nurture it to completion. In a way I was training for this all along.

fly

fly v. move through the air under controlflywheelMy son is 18 months old and in a lot of ways I am not very much older. When he was born my whole life changed, not just in the theoretical sense but in the actual sense. I gave up my full time job to take care of him, moved from Brooklyn to the suburbs, and went from having a very defined path to a dirt road with no blaze. I don't mean this in some macabre manner, but when I found out I was pregnant the old me started packing her bags because she knew she was on her way out. So the past 2 years or so has been a kind of painful rebirth. As he's cutting teeth, I'm learning how to make mommy friends (sometimes more painful.) While he's trying new foods, I am trying to learn to eat less of them. And as he has taken his first steps, I have found my own wings. But just like he didn't get up and start walking like a pro from the start, neither have I. I stumble...a lot. But I have found one thing in the past 2 years that makes all the difference in my life. Exercise. Specifically, indoor cycling or spinning.I have never been good at riding bicycles. I can remember the first time I went to Block Island with my husband crying hysterically because I simply sucked at it and we had no car so I had no choice if I wanted to see the island. I fell off the bike several times, in front of large groups of people, near shorelines, etc. Days after our little excursion, my ass hurt so bad I could barely move and I did not have the urge to do it again for awhile. Many years  later when we moved to Brooklyn, I purchased my husband a bike and he would ride to various neighborhoods, watering holes, even over the Brooklyn Bridge. I desperately wanted to join him...but I was just terrified and completely awful at it. We even spiffed up my old Schwinn ten speed with a gel seat and I got a new, red helmet, but after several riding sessions filled with tears and screaming, we just gave up. My shiny red Schwinn has a place of honor hanging on my workshop wall waiting for me to someday be able to ride it in all of it's glory...and perhaps someday I will. However, these days my saving grace has been a bike that goes nowhere.It starts when I schedule my class online. Free time is hard to come by, but I can squeeze in 45 minutes at some point, even if it has to be at 6 am. I put on my spandex and pull back my hair and head to the studio for sometimes what will be the most relaxing part of my day. When I get there, I grab a towel, a bottle of water and put on my velcro shoes with the pedal clips. Then I go to my favorite bike, number 36, and get her set up. My seat is a 5 and pushed all the way forward and my handlebars are usually at a 6. I borrow one of the gel seat covers to avoid soreness and make sure it's securely positioned for my ride. I hang my towel over the handlebar and wedge 2 bottles of water intothe holder meant for one, snap in my shoes and start to pedal. I check my positions - saddle, second and third - and then take in my surroundings, sizing up the competition and avoiding my reflection in the mirror.My favorite instructor is a singer and dancer on her bike (I have no idea in real life what else she does) and when she turns down the lights and raises the bass, I forget all about the dishes in the sink and the baby with the fever. It's me and my bike for the next 45 minutes. My favorite part is at the beginning when we "fly" by turning the torque all the way down and bringing the RPMs all the way to 100 for a full minute or more. The adrenaline pumping and the music blasting makes me actually feel like I am flying. When we're done with the sprint,  we start the climb. Usually we'll start in the saddle and my legs feel like I am cycling through quicksand, raising the torque to make it harder and harder along the way. At some point she'll let up and let us rise to third and use our full thigh strength to be able to pedal quicker. It makes me feel so strong and powerful. Sometimes it's Journey "Don't Stop Believing" or "Sweet Child of Mine." Other times it's Usher or Jay Z that get me over the hill. Regardless, I feel more like a warrior than a mom.The leader board in the studio lets us all see who's winning and I rarely put myself on it. Still, I can tell where I rank amongst those thatdo. Most of the time, I come in third or fourth place. Other times I win the class. It's in my nature to be competitive and I've learned that it can be a very powerful force when it comes to getting fit. Throughout the class, we rise and fall like a tide of riders going nowhere. I like to imagine what it looks like to the instructor as she watches an ocean of people pretending to ride bikes. I think it must either be humorous or moving...or maybe both. Either way, it feels good to move so fast and not have to worry about getting hurt...like driving a sports at the fastest possible speed without a worry that you could crash crash.The class ends the way it started - with one last glorious fly - one last chance to make it count. Then I stretch, I hydrate and I head home a winner. I may not get a shower for a few hours and I might have to wrestle with a diaper genie while my son runs naked in the same room, but for 45 minutes I wasn't a mom, housewife or trying to be anything than on that bike and feeling the beat. For 45 minutes I flew.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P-AYAv0IoWI]

compete

compete v. strive to gain or win something by defeating or establishing superiority over others who are trying to do the same.Rocky and DragoThere really isn't such a thing as a fair fight these days.  A competition that isn't secretly stacked somehow - where the opponents are only using their raw, nature born, gifts to win. I sincerely doubt it, anyway. As humans we all engage in competition of some sort during our lifetimes, more often than you realize when you really come to think about it - sometimes when we don't even know it. It's hard to know what the rules are or who sets them. For example, every time I send out my resume, I am competing with someone who might be best friends with the HR manager. That simple fact makes the rules of the competition much more than what I submitted in black and white. My unknown opponent has a leg up and I will most likely be the loser and won't even be called back. If I had known, I might have made some phone calls or connections on Linked In - but the rules are pretty few and the ultimate end is to win - to be hired - and it's not about fairness or following the rules. It's about who gets the job.There has been much discussion lately about Lance Armstrong and his admission of doping during the length of his cycling career. I don't usually go for this sort of topic, but I made the time to actually watch the Oprah interview out of curiosity. I fully expected to be disgusted with him, but to my surprise I really wasn't. In fact, the more I pondered his situation and admission, I simply felt the best reaction was to shrug my shoulders in disappointment and pity. Sure, he's cocky and arrogant even now after he's been humiliated - but I don't hate him. In my mind, he's simply human like the rest of us. He set out to win at all costs, and succeeded.When you think about it, the Lance Armstrong we all knew was a type of fictional super hero. Competing in a sport that sat behind so many other more popular international sports, it was inspiring to see someone with such super human ability take on a literal, harrowing road to victory. When he over came cancer and still won, he became an inspiration, a role model - almost an underdog who fell from glory and made his way back to the top through sheer will and raw athletic ability. Now Lance is just another exceptional person who won, not by natural methods or talent alone - but who stacked the odds in his favor by doping and enhancing his abilities in order to win. He's not a role model or hero, but he's still won.The nature of competition is to win at all costs, doing whatever it takes. Theoretically, whether a person cheated or not doesn't really seem to matter all that much. They still experience "the winning moment" and no one can really ever take that intoxicatingly wonderful moment away. In those moment, all of the races that Lance Armstrong won are still just as sweet. His sham organization, Oprah interview and sullied name cannot change those winning moments in the history of his life. Moments that you or I may never experience. And that's the main point of competition - to win. Not to be a good or charitable person or even a role model. It's just not what the word means.This is why we love "the underdog" and "the cinderella story." They embody the idea of winning all on one's own merit and by following the rules. By doing this, they become something more than just the winner. That is when heroes, icons, and role models are born. The perfect example being the training montage from Rocky 4 where Rocky is in the frozen siberian tundra jogging on the edge of a mountain to train. In contrast the next scene cutting to Ivan Drago being injected with steroids and training on a treadmill in warmth and comfort.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1SUzcDUERLo]In the end Rocky wins (and ends communism, but that's another story). But in reality, could he really have won? I mean, Ivan Drago was 3 times his size AND was on HGH most likely. The man killed Apollo in the ring for God's sake.We show our growing progeny movies like Rocky when they are young to instill the value of following the rules and working against the odds. We hope when they are old enough that they will choose the high road like the examples we tried to give them- but it's not an easy path. As much as we love them and admire them, the underdog rarely wins and, yes, of course, it's better to strive to be a role model or hero and not just win all of the time. But just like those cyclists who weren't doping in those Tour D'France races, we won't know their names. They are undoubtedly better people than Lance Armstrong; probably living very full and gratified lives. But they didn't win - and that was the whole point."It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game." The loser may be the better person, but if feels damn good to win. We fight wars, play sports and buy lottery tickets all on a quest to get that elusive feeling. Competing to win is in our blood. As a parent, I do my best to raise a Rocky, hoping that when the time comes for him to compete, he'll choose the mountain and not the treadmill.

gratuity

gratuity n. a tip given to a waiter, taxi cab driver, etc.ImageI have known a life tipping and being tipped. It started back when I was 16 and was working at my first job and spanned all the way through college. I was a waitress at a locally famous ice cream shop when I was in high school. I still marvel at the fact that I was even able to hold down a job with high school classes, track practice and homework - and no car. I used to report for work at about 5 or 5:30pm, tie on an apron and not sit down until close - which was around 11 pm. I scooped ice cream and made sundaes, egg creams, and cream cheese walnut sandwiches (for the seniors that frequented the place.) I received an actual paycheck every two weeks, but the tips were the entire reason why I thought the job was worth it. Now, I understand that I was no waitress tour d'force. I was 16 and barely getting any sleep, but I was always courteous and made really good sandwiches and sundaes. However, the managers that employed me had a system of pooling all of the tips earned for the night into one big bowl and then splitting it up amongst the soda jerks, waitresses and managers. This was pure bullshit. If I worked my ass off and earned a big tip, it should have been mine outright...and let's face it, the guys behind the counter had it way easier - far fewer customers and they didn't have the job of scraping down the grille at night. So, needless to say, I was dishonest...and of course I kept those really big tips.  I was morally against giving them up. I had earned it! After working there for about 6 months or so, I was let go. Not because they found me out, but because I was calling in sick too much...I think. I always wonder if they were on to me.Now that I am a stay at home mom, I tip people all day. At the Dunkin Donuts drive through in Newark, there is a little cup with a quote from Gandhi attached with masking tape waiting for me as I reach for my coffee: "Be the change you wish to see in the world." I wonder if the girls that I see in the morning get the double entendre. Unfortunately, I don't always tip them. I have a system...they get a dollar every few days because they aren't really serving people like a waitress would. However, I have my favorite Dunkin girl who calls me honey and sweetheart and asks me how I am doing. She always gets $1, no matter what. I suppose somehow I think this is okay even though I am applying rules to my gratuity giving...and as I mentioned above, I have big issues with that.It seems I have developed a system over time of how much to tip and to whom. If the service was good at a restaurant, I always tip well - over the required amount. Bartenders always do well by me too. The guys at the car wash also get a nice tip as long as they don't dog the vacuuming too much and it gets at least 80% clean (I have a dog and baby.) Tips are a random sign of gratitude and kindness. When you give a tip, you don't usually write it down or record it so you can claim it as charity later. Of course, when traveling for work you do, but in daily life tipping is an act of gratitude...unsullied by trying to take credit for something. I like to think that when someone is asking me for a tip, it's their silent way of asking for kindness; a token of gratitude for a small good deed done. It's an invisible exchange of well wishing between 2 people who don't know each other and may never meet again. If you think about it in this respect, tipping is a pretty amazing act of random unblemished kindness. There are those who would say that we should always be nice to each other and serve each other well without having to be rewarded. I wish we lived in a perfect world too, but we don't. Gratuity is a way of inserting civility into the daily chaotic, sometimes mean, place we live.All of this thinking about tipping brings back a favorite memory of mine involving gratuity. My husband and I used to frequent the best bar (in my opinion) that ever existed in Providence, Rhode Island. It was called the Custom House Tavern and was tucked in the basement under an old historical limestone building on Weybosset street. The sign still hangs there if you walk by, but the bar has since been boarded up and the upper floors turned to condos. It had a wonderful hammered copper bar and huge glass antique windows that looked out onto a cobblestone street. It was dirty. The furniture was old and rickety, only there to serve the purpose of seating its occupant, not to look nice. This was before smoking was outlawed in bars and I can remember many a night that I had to step outside to get a breath. As much as I didn't like breathing in the smoke, it created an ambience that doesn't exist in bars anymore. There was a small bathroom right next to the bar whose window glowed green when someone occupied it and you had to squeeze around people sitting to get to it. Above the bar were old antique tavern puzzles hanging. I always wanted to play with them, but never did. It was a place where you could find psychotic poets scribbling in tiny notebooks or even homeless people wondering in for a cold Newcastle. But every Saturday night it sparked to life with the "Lullaby of Birdland" being played by a small, lovely, jazz band. There was a saxophone and a bass - sometimes a trumpet or drums depending on who could make it. The leader and vocalist was named Buzz and if you sat close to the bassist you could hear him singing out the chords quietly to himself to keep time. The could play the hell out of Ellington's Caravan.During the intermission and at the end of the evening, Buzz would pass around one of those clear plastic barrels that usually housed Utz pretzels, but whose chief employment now was to collect tips. "Ladies and Gentlemen, thank your bartender, thank your servers and the band. And always remember to spey and neuter your pets," Buzz would say as the barrel made it's way around the small room and bar.The largest tips I ever gave were on those Saturday nights - and it was money well spent. A tip seems such a very small amount to pay for such music and company...and the sweet memory of those nights.[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsYhFFwyD00]

reverence

reverence n. a gesture indicative of respectReverenceAt the end of a ballet class, the dancers pay respect to the pianist and teacher by performing a series of curtsies, bows and ports de bras known as reverence. It is a physical manifestation of deep respect and honor. Several weeks ago I came upon reverence when searching for a word that could capture my feelings and thoughts regarding a recent tragic event. I have been struggling back and forth about whether to write and what to write about it because I don't have confidence that my writing here will create an appropriate reverence for those who have suffered and lost.  There are writers and artists far more eloquent and talented than I who have and will create tributes of much more profundity that I can express with my dictionary words. I've decided that instead of writing about how sad I feel about the whole thing, I would attempt something more reverent.The world would be a better place if we were all ballet dancers and could perform reverence when needed. Imagine at the end of a business meeting everyone standing up and performing a 3 minute reverence as a gesture of respect for what was just discussed or planned - or just for the whiteboard on the wall, comfy chairs and overhead projector. Having attended quite a few meetings in my life, reverence would add some much needed civility.As a reference, here is what reverence looks like:[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jQ2zm7zm9vY&list=PLBDD84F42CA1A02A6&index=13]Obviously this is not a realistic practice to propose, and unfortunately in our current world, the beauty and constraint of reverence would most likely be perverted into some sort of vulgar flash mob in Grand Central station - which would make it most irreverent.In the here and now, the word reverence seems quite archaic. So few things in life are truly respected and honored these days. As a society we seem to want to flock to the center of attention and when the spotlight has moved we flee to another center elsewhere. In the perpetual chase to the "next big event" we become more and more numb, never taking the time to pay respect or to really absorb the gravitas of the thing that has just occurred; always searching for the next thing that will restore feeling or emotion. Perhaps it is because we don't really understand "reverence" any longer or we feel the appropriate reaction would be to mimic what Hollywood tells us is sorrow or grief so that others will be sure to know we are suffering - like actors on a stage. In the case of Newtown, I feel this type of behavior is truly saddening and disrespectful.The other day I was watching MSNBC and a talking head named Ashley Banfield was speaking about the tragedy. With a flip of her perfectly coiffed, shoulder length hair, mascara coated lashes clearly fluttering with feigned emotion, she said that "Newtown would probably never recover." Her comment saddened and angered me and I wondered to myself if she ever listens to the words that come out of her mouth while she is on television. If she had any idea that her words were feeding a media fire, painting a picture of a town that deserves so much more respect. Or if she merely needs to boost the ratings for her paycheck.If Ms. Banfield had ever visited Newtown she surely would never have questioned whether it would "recover."26 people, some children, died in Newtown, Ct - undoubtedly one of the most horrific event that has occurred in in this country. But if we choose to dramatize the events and squeeze out all of the emotion and cinema, we are truly doing a dis service to those who were lost. The people that died in Newtown also lived in Newtown. There are far more happy memories shared at Sandy Hook Elementary than the one horrific event that occurred. For the parents that lost their children that day, it is in those memories that their children live. It is a place where teachers loved their students so much they ran in front of bullets to try and shield them as if they were their own children. Where neighbors took in children that fled the scene and people gathered to support each other in the aftermath.It is a place where babies will be born, children will ride bikes in the streets, lovers will be married and families will celebrate memories. Newtown is a rare example of family and community, far too beautiful and strong to be destroyed by this terrible event. It is the type of town that Newtown is that makes what happened all the more tragic. A community strong enough to endure and pay reverence to the memories of the heroes and children that died that day.

A Psalm of Life

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tell me not in mournful numbers,Life is but an empty dream!For the soul is dead that slumbers,And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!And the grave is not its goal;Dust thou are, to dust thou returnest,Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,Is our destined end or way;But to act, that each tomorrowFind us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,And our hearts, though stout and brave,Still, like muffled drums, are beatingFuneral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,In the bivouac of Life,Be not like dumb, driven cattle!Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!Let the dead Past bury its dead!Act, - act in the living Present!Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind usWe can make our lives sublime,And, departing, leave behind usFootprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,Sailing o'er life's solenm main,A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.