(This is an excerpt from my newest book: One Hundred Open Houses. I don't know why this book doesn't sell better. Maybe it's the cover or the blurb. When someone finally reads it, they go crazy with praise. I read parts of it over and over. When I sell a copy, I almost cry with happiness.)
After meandering through three expensive apartments at 17 West 16th street (real homes with foyers and dining rooms and something called a logia – a wide useless hall to me), I decided to go home. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and it was doubtful I would find the holy grail, aka the perfect apartment, today Even though my head was beginning to hurt, I was also happy that I could not eat for another two and a half hours on the drive home which meant that I had a calorie deficit for the day. If life was reasonable, I might drop a few ounces. There was a heart healthy cooked meal waiting in my refrigerator and it beckoned me home like a candle in the window.
The day before, I had made a meatloaf out of ground turkey combined with half a jar of Classico basil and garlic sauce, an egg and some Arnold’s croutons. Whatever genius person at Shady Brook Farms came in one Monday morning in 2001 and said: “Look at all these turkeys left over from Thanksgiving, why don’t we grind them up and sell them as ‘ground turkey’,” my hat’s off to him/her. Ground turkey never tastes gamy, it’s vacuum packed, it keeps for a day or two without turning brown and it makes the best meatballs and meatloaf.
I debated whether to warm up a slice of the loaf in some butter or just eat it cold slathered with ketchup. In some manic reversal of my usual post divorce rule –no serious cooking - I had also made barley (a grain unknown to me except through canned soup) substituting lemon juice for half of the water required. The result was unremitting good tasting stuff. I was ready to sit down with my warm meatloaf slice, brown and crusty from the butter dip it had just received in the frying pan, the lemon infused barley, a couple of slices of fresh tomato and a glass of Walnut Creek Chilean merlot when the phone rang.
It was my ex sounding really upset. He had received an e-mail from one of our sons telling him that a trip to Peru had resulted in a spiritual awakening and he was going to remain there for the rest of his life living among the animals. The e-mail was accompanied by a photo of our boy, meditating between two llamas. The llamas had their legs tucked under them and appeared to be meditating, too. When I checked my e-mail and saw the picture, I realized for the first time that I didn’t know this boy at all. In a million years I would not have guessed that he had a spiritual side and that it would kick in in Peru. Why was he even in Peru? And were llamas so passive they would sit like that for a portrait?
“Pisssaro Pissed on Peru.” That’s how I had helped the kids memorize the explorers and that’s what Benjamin said to me when I called to ask him, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Mom, I can’t believe you and Dad thought I was serious,” he said. “It was a joke.”
I love this boy. I love all the children at different times but not all at the same time.
I don’t know why. I know how it’s supposed to work but I also know how it really is.
When I got into the tangled bed I had left unmade that morning I couldn’t find the top sheet but I let it go. I decided to mentally rehearse inhabiting my new life. How would I wake up? What would the bed be like? How would the light play in the room? What furniture would surround me? What would the temperature be in the room? What would be my state of mind? What would I do first thing on awakening? I knew I had to live in my new environment mentally in order to let go of my present house. At first, it was hard to imagine a different bed and it was next to impossible to really feel the newness of waking up in a totally unknown room. Then I got the hang of it and I felt a faint breeze from a nearby window and wafting in was the scent of early morning freshness with just a hint of fermenting garbage. When I looked down, I saw a shaft of light streaking across narrow floorboards the color of weak oolong tea. As I drifted off to sleep, I decided brown was my favorite color.
The phone rang twice but I didn’t answer. Once I knew Benjamin was safe I didn’t want to talk anymore.
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Marilyn French,Rona Jaffe,Lillian Hellman,Betty Friedan and me
I met Marilyn French because we shared an agent. One day I walked into the agent’s townhouse/office and there was Marilyn French. I had read her groundbreaking novel The Women’s Room and could not believe what I was reading. She had mined my psyche and organized all of the buried dissatisfactions and laid them out in a story that mirrored every suburban woman's life. Marilyn sat next to me on a little bench in the entryway and chatted for a minute. I was overstimulated and began to babble. I blurted out something extravagant like “you changed my life.” This was not true. I continued to live exactly the same way but now I knew why I was annoyed. Oh, wait, I remember something: I wrote my own account of events in Report From The Heart.
I met Tom Wolfe before he was The Tom Wolfe. He was a reporter for The Washington Post and used to eat in a restaurant owned by my uncle where I occasionally worked. Besides being witty and charismatic Tom was already wearing his signature unique wardrobe. I once asked where he had acquired his epaulette driven military officer’s coat. He said that he bought all his outerwear at The Nearly New Shop nearby.
I met Lillian Hellman, the famous playwright (who lived with Dashiell Hammett, the famous mystery writer) in Michael’s a fancy restaurant in Manhattan. I had just written an article for Ladies’ Home Journal and the editor took me to lunch. Ms. Hellman knew the editor and stopped by on her way out to talk to her and I was introduced. She was a short compact woman cylindrical in shape and her expression had solidified into an imperious stare. Her small hard handbag dangled from her wrist. She did not gush as to how happy she was to meet me. She just waited for the introduction to be over. BTW, Myrna Loy who played Nora Charles in the movies made of Dashiell Hammett’s Thin Man was friendly and engaging. I met her on a train from Washington to New York and she thought I was very brave to be traveling with three children under six. I kept thinking: 'Nora Charles thinks I'm brave.'
Even though she was cold and unresponsive, Ms. Hellman did not deserve the hand grenade tossed by Mary McCarthy who accused her of never writing an honest word including ‘the’ and ‘and’.
I met Betty Friedan crossing Bay Street in Sag Harbor on the east end of Long Island. Betty was extremely short and she had a very large head with those googly eyes. Again, I lost all sense and began gushing. She kept on walking and didn’t even acknowledge that I existed.
Rona Jaffe once gave me a terrific quote for my book Best Friends. You can imagine how happy I was when we wound up at the same party in East Hampton. I went over to thank her. She looked me over, said four or five cold words and walked away.
Maybe I met all these women when they were tired of talking or tired of living or tired of having people tell them how wonderful they were. I can see where that could happen although I still love it. But hey, they gave me something authentic to put in this column.
I met Tom Wolfe before he was The Tom Wolfe. He was a reporter for The Washington Post and used to eat in a restaurant owned by my uncle where I occasionally worked. Besides being witty and charismatic Tom was already wearing his signature unique wardrobe. I once asked where he had acquired his epaulette driven military officer’s coat. He said that he bought all his outerwear at The Nearly New Shop nearby.
I met Lillian Hellman, the famous playwright (who lived with Dashiell Hammett, the famous mystery writer) in Michael’s a fancy restaurant in Manhattan. I had just written an article for Ladies’ Home Journal and the editor took me to lunch. Ms. Hellman knew the editor and stopped by on her way out to talk to her and I was introduced. She was a short compact woman cylindrical in shape and her expression had solidified into an imperious stare. Her small hard handbag dangled from her wrist. She did not gush as to how happy she was to meet me. She just waited for the introduction to be over. BTW, Myrna Loy who played Nora Charles in the movies made of Dashiell Hammett’s Thin Man was friendly and engaging. I met her on a train from Washington to New York and she thought I was very brave to be traveling with three children under six. I kept thinking: 'Nora Charles thinks I'm brave.'
Even though she was cold and unresponsive, Ms. Hellman did not deserve the hand grenade tossed by Mary McCarthy who accused her of never writing an honest word including ‘the’ and ‘and’.
I met Betty Friedan crossing Bay Street in Sag Harbor on the east end of Long Island. Betty was extremely short and she had a very large head with those googly eyes. Again, I lost all sense and began gushing. She kept on walking and didn’t even acknowledge that I existed.
Rona Jaffe once gave me a terrific quote for my book Best Friends. You can imagine how happy I was when we wound up at the same party in East Hampton. I went over to thank her. She looked me over, said four or five cold words and walked away.
Maybe I met all these women when they were tired of talking or tired of living or tired of having people tell them how wonderful they were. I can see where that could happen although I still love it. But hey, they gave me something authentic to put in this column.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
#SampleSunday: Softgoods - the pretty things women are dying to wear
(Hijackers are intercepting deliveries of Armani,Kors,Dior,Klein and Prada. It happens right under the nose of guards and truckers. Who is behind it? Where are the clothes ending up? Detective Bradford Jennings III is going to find out)
It’s a bright sunny Wednesday but as everyone knows the narrow streets and tall buildings in the Garment District don’t let the sun in until later in the day. Angel Hilario has worked as a “floater” for the past seven months and job suits him. He’s not the type to keep still and the work of pushing racks of fancy clothes from truck to showroom is something his nervous system can handle. This morning, he’s pushing a rack of sequined evening gowns and thinking about his girlfriend who broke up with him for the tenth time. You can see by his swagger and the quick violent pushes and saves he plays with the rack that he is both restless and distracted.
On the fourth violent push an Anglo-Saxon thirtysomething catches the rack and stands between the clothes and Angel. Bradford Jennings III is not your typical cop or your typical plainclothes detective. For one thing he has the calm demeanor of someone who has never had to scramble for attention or for money. He’s not a pretty boy but he is good looking in a preppy way. His eyes are a different story. If you have any idea that he is soft, his eyes will persuade you otherwise. His eyes give him a different dimension and few people can look into them without wondering what happened to him that hurt that much. Jennings, sockless, wearing jeans, loafers and a button-down shirt stands firm between the clothes and Angel making him stop. Jennings has had enough conversations with Angel to put them a level above acquaintances. They would never have drinks together but they might confide personal information given the right circumstances. Bradford acknowledges that Angel - although his job and clothing point to the contrary - exhibits an air of superiority. Go figure.
“Angel you were here yesterday morning. What did you see?”
“Hey, detective,” says Angel, “when you gonna learn to pronounce my name. It’s Anhel, broad A and G like H.” He pauses and puts a finger to his forehead. “Yesterday I was moving evening sweaters with feather collars. If the birds’ rights people throw blood on the merchandise, I’m dead. I wouldn’t have noticed King Kong. I didn’t see your man, Lieutenant.” He pauses again and this time looks at Bradford with a brazen grin. “The guy’s got guts. Santa Baranza! He hits every week. In your face. You ain’t gonna get him.”
Bradford responds with good humor. “He’s a worthy opponent.”
“Hah! He’s a fucking genius magician,” Angel answers. He is certain that his knowledge of human nature is superior to the guy in the button down shirt.
“He’s a criminal with a lucky streak,” says Bradford, still unperturbed.
Angel’s shrug says he’s betting on the hijacker. “Where’s your socks? You’re gonna catch cold.” Angel gives the rack a healthy shove that sends it racing down the crest of the road. It looks like a sure crash but in one bound, he has it back. You can hear his cackle all the way down the street.
It’s a bright sunny Wednesday but as everyone knows the narrow streets and tall buildings in the Garment District don’t let the sun in until later in the day. Angel Hilario has worked as a “floater” for the past seven months and job suits him. He’s not the type to keep still and the work of pushing racks of fancy clothes from truck to showroom is something his nervous system can handle. This morning, he’s pushing a rack of sequined evening gowns and thinking about his girlfriend who broke up with him for the tenth time. You can see by his swagger and the quick violent pushes and saves he plays with the rack that he is both restless and distracted.
On the fourth violent push an Anglo-Saxon thirtysomething catches the rack and stands between the clothes and Angel. Bradford Jennings III is not your typical cop or your typical plainclothes detective. For one thing he has the calm demeanor of someone who has never had to scramble for attention or for money. He’s not a pretty boy but he is good looking in a preppy way. His eyes are a different story. If you have any idea that he is soft, his eyes will persuade you otherwise. His eyes give him a different dimension and few people can look into them without wondering what happened to him that hurt that much. Jennings, sockless, wearing jeans, loafers and a button-down shirt stands firm between the clothes and Angel making him stop. Jennings has had enough conversations with Angel to put them a level above acquaintances. They would never have drinks together but they might confide personal information given the right circumstances. Bradford acknowledges that Angel - although his job and clothing point to the contrary - exhibits an air of superiority. Go figure.
“Angel you were here yesterday morning. What did you see?”
“Hey, detective,” says Angel, “when you gonna learn to pronounce my name. It’s Anhel, broad A and G like H.” He pauses and puts a finger to his forehead. “Yesterday I was moving evening sweaters with feather collars. If the birds’ rights people throw blood on the merchandise, I’m dead. I wouldn’t have noticed King Kong. I didn’t see your man, Lieutenant.” He pauses again and this time looks at Bradford with a brazen grin. “The guy’s got guts. Santa Baranza! He hits every week. In your face. You ain’t gonna get him.”
Bradford responds with good humor. “He’s a worthy opponent.”
“Hah! He’s a fucking genius magician,” Angel answers. He is certain that his knowledge of human nature is superior to the guy in the button down shirt.
“He’s a criminal with a lucky streak,” says Bradford, still unperturbed.
Angel’s shrug says he’s betting on the hijacker. “Where’s your socks? You’re gonna catch cold.” Angel gives the rack a healthy shove that sends it racing down the crest of the road. It looks like a sure crash but in one bound, he has it back. You can hear his cackle all the way down the street.
Friday, October 7, 2011
So What?
Sometimes I write a blog and I’m afraid to publish it. Okay every time I write a blog I’m afraid to publish it. Someone recently freaked me out by saying, “It’s not the book you wrote, it’s the book the reader reads.” Oh! When you publish, you’re inviting someone to look inside your head and take apart your psyche. When you make writing public, you’re putting on a bathing suit on the first warm day of summer and asking an indifferent audience to assess what happened to your body over the winter. I’ve been putting my writing out there for over thirty years and I’m still afraid of making a fool of myself. Many times I will hit “publish” and then click on the “edit” pencil so the words will revert to me for safekeeping. I rearrange a line or two and put it out there again. Then I take it off and then put it on.
What am I afraid of? Let’s say someone reads a blog and thinks. “I didn’t understand one sentence of that blog.” Or “Wow that was a lot of whining for nothing.” Or “At least no trees were cut down to put that drivel out there.” Here’s where I should drag out my “So What?” card. I made my “So What?” card about two years ago when one of my friends was confronted with a serious problem. It may sound callous but it is a good ploy for focusing attention on exactly what we think the outcome might be to any dilemma. When something bad happens and I pose the question “So what” I’m forced to verbalize the shadowy fears that bunch together in one big tangled ball of anxiety. So what if no one likes it? I say to myself. They’re not going to come here and kill me. I’ll ride it out. Friends might be delighted that you made a fool of yourself. You’ll make them happy. When I hit “publish” I imagine all the subscribers have stopped what they are doing and even though they live in separate parts of the world, they have come together to point and cluck in dismay over the infantile choices I’ve made.
The “So What” solution however is built to counter. “Even if that’s true, eventually people will forget and go on with life. Who thinks about Tiger Woods these days?
Often, when the blog is disseminated to subscribers, I will receive an e-mail that says: “This made my day. I laughed so hard and its only 8:30.” When that happens I go back to the blog to see what I’ve written that is funny. I don’t know when I’m being funny. I try to write about the ironies and craziness in this world but I can’t be sure any normal person shares my reactions.
I love writing the blog. My big dream in writing was to have a column and write about everyday things. My blog is like a column except there is no editor to save me
What am I afraid of? Let’s say someone reads a blog and thinks. “I didn’t understand one sentence of that blog.” Or “Wow that was a lot of whining for nothing.” Or “At least no trees were cut down to put that drivel out there.” Here’s where I should drag out my “So What?” card. I made my “So What?” card about two years ago when one of my friends was confronted with a serious problem. It may sound callous but it is a good ploy for focusing attention on exactly what we think the outcome might be to any dilemma. When something bad happens and I pose the question “So what” I’m forced to verbalize the shadowy fears that bunch together in one big tangled ball of anxiety. So what if no one likes it? I say to myself. They’re not going to come here and kill me. I’ll ride it out. Friends might be delighted that you made a fool of yourself. You’ll make them happy. When I hit “publish” I imagine all the subscribers have stopped what they are doing and even though they live in separate parts of the world, they have come together to point and cluck in dismay over the infantile choices I’ve made.
The “So What” solution however is built to counter. “Even if that’s true, eventually people will forget and go on with life. Who thinks about Tiger Woods these days?
Often, when the blog is disseminated to subscribers, I will receive an e-mail that says: “This made my day. I laughed so hard and its only 8:30.” When that happens I go back to the blog to see what I’ve written that is funny. I don’t know when I’m being funny. I try to write about the ironies and craziness in this world but I can’t be sure any normal person shares my reactions.
I love writing the blog. My big dream in writing was to have a column and write about everyday things. My blog is like a column except there is no editor to save me
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
The many faces of remorse
Everyone is familiar with buyer’s remorse but remorse has many faces.
I have eater’s remorse several times a day, followed by gym remorse and couch remorse.
I have transactional remorse when I go to the bank and the teller says, “Hi, Consuelo.” What just happened here? No, see I have money reposing here that you take out and play with and lend to other people without paying me interest. A bank is a solemn, formal place. There’s no “Hi, Consuelo” about it. All you can say to me is: “Would you like that in twenties or fifties?” If you must refer to me by name you have to put Ms. Mrs. Miss or Your Holiness before it. If I have a gun in my hand, you may say, “Don’t shoot. Here’s the money, Ms. Baehr.”
I have grocery remorse and high anxiety every time I buy peaches. It’s almost impossible to get decent peaches in a supermarket. Here’s the way it goes.
“These peaches are rock hard, will they soften?”
“Yes, just leave them out for a day or two.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“The last time you said that, they didn’t soften up for a week and then they were mushy and mealy inside.”
“Can’t be. Are you sure you bought them here?”
“No, you’re right. I bought them in Tasmania.”
Every time I buy ice cream I have dairy remorse because I know that I am delaying yet again my decision to go dairy-free and ditto with bread and gluten-free. I have resolution remorse for promising to do things that I never do.
I have conversation remorse every time I talk to my friend Hilda because she runs the Rhetorical Inquisition. (modeled on the Spanish Inquisition) This is Hilda’s dialogue. “You don’t still eat meat do you?” or “You didn’t sign the petition to sterillize the deer, did you?” “You’re not going to vote for those Republican thugs are you?” “You’re going to let the cat sit on your toast, aren’t you?” “You’re not still a day trader, are you?” (I’ve never been a day trader.) One day I will say to Hilda, “I just shot a deer and had it butchered so I’ll have venison steaks all winter.” Hilda once called our former president an inchoate mass of deception.
My goal is to be remorseless, like the recidivist thief Willie Sutton. When asked why he robbed banks Willie said, “Because that’s where the money is.” Willie Sutton robbed banks for forty years and never looked back or felt remorse. He also dressed really well.
Sometimes I have blogger’s remorse.
I have eater’s remorse several times a day, followed by gym remorse and couch remorse.
I have transactional remorse when I go to the bank and the teller says, “Hi, Consuelo.” What just happened here? No, see I have money reposing here that you take out and play with and lend to other people without paying me interest. A bank is a solemn, formal place. There’s no “Hi, Consuelo” about it. All you can say to me is: “Would you like that in twenties or fifties?” If you must refer to me by name you have to put Ms. Mrs. Miss or Your Holiness before it. If I have a gun in my hand, you may say, “Don’t shoot. Here’s the money, Ms. Baehr.”
I have grocery remorse and high anxiety every time I buy peaches. It’s almost impossible to get decent peaches in a supermarket. Here’s the way it goes.
“These peaches are rock hard, will they soften?”
“Yes, just leave them out for a day or two.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“The last time you said that, they didn’t soften up for a week and then they were mushy and mealy inside.”
“Can’t be. Are you sure you bought them here?”
“No, you’re right. I bought them in Tasmania.”
Every time I buy ice cream I have dairy remorse because I know that I am delaying yet again my decision to go dairy-free and ditto with bread and gluten-free. I have resolution remorse for promising to do things that I never do.
I have conversation remorse every time I talk to my friend Hilda because she runs the Rhetorical Inquisition. (modeled on the Spanish Inquisition) This is Hilda’s dialogue. “You don’t still eat meat do you?” or “You didn’t sign the petition to sterillize the deer, did you?” “You’re not going to vote for those Republican thugs are you?” “You’re going to let the cat sit on your toast, aren’t you?” “You’re not still a day trader, are you?” (I’ve never been a day trader.) One day I will say to Hilda, “I just shot a deer and had it butchered so I’ll have venison steaks all winter.” Hilda once called our former president an inchoate mass of deception.
My goal is to be remorseless, like the recidivist thief Willie Sutton. When asked why he robbed banks Willie said, “Because that’s where the money is.” Willie Sutton robbed banks for forty years and never looked back or felt remorse. He also dressed really well.
Sometimes I have blogger’s remorse.
Monday, October 3, 2011
I never thought the Kardashians would show me the way
I want to believe in God. Who wouldn’t? For one thing it makes death more attractive because you think well, at least God’s behind it and he knows what he/she is doing. With death you have no assurance that anyone is in charge. Belief in God would make life so much easier. When trouble came along you could just turn it over to you know who. There's a wonderful package that comes with belief in God. I’ve mentioned before that one of my favorite bible passages resides in St. Paul’s letters: Faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen. This remarkable premise implies a reliable order and someone had to put that order in place and that someone would be God.
That passage is several steps above plain old “magical thinking” because, hey it was filtered through a Saint who was transformed in a flash of understanding and then passed along some astounding good news. “Whaaat? R U kidding me? You mean if I have faith - whatever that is - I can have a whole lot of money and good sinuses and my deviated septum would freaking heal itself and let me breathe right for once?”
Whenever any public figure I admire talks comfortably about God, I get excited. Oh, wow, if he/she believes in God, then it must be true. Good! I’m not standing in this “vale of tears” ( Psalm 84) all by my lonesome. Right beside me, is G O D. Despite my umpteen years with the nuns (forgive me Mother Di Pazzi) and the Catholic Church I find it hard to think of God as “a ready help in trouble” another fantastic Biblical promise. Imagine having someone who is all knowing, all powerful, all loving as “a ready help in trouble?” Really? You mean when I can’t turn off the hose and water is cascading in places where there shouldn’t be any water, I have a Master Plumber at the ready? That’s what it says in Psalms 46:1,2. God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.
Just in case we missed all the other road signs, there's a very simple extra promise and it’s not from Wayne Dyer during pledge drive on Channel 13 but from Mark 11:24. Mark as in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Whatsoever ye desire, believe that you have it and you will have it? “Whaaaat? R U kidding me?” No, this is serious. This is the Bible speaking, not some well-marketed how-to book.
What is even more fabulous, everybody can have all of these promises without working hard or doing anything special. It says so, right in (Matthew 6:28,29). Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. So let me get this straight: all you have to do is sit on the couch and do nothing but have faith. Yup.
But how do you have faith? Ay there’s the rub (Wm. Shakespeare, Hamlet). I think that journey is different for everyone but one of the key ingredients is to pay attention to the way things go. Train yourself to be present and you will start to see reliable sequence in place of randomness. Instead of seeing the universe as adversarial and nitpicking, decide it is a benevolent system that wants to see you succeed. Actively look for and recognize serendipitous help in small things and then move on to bigger things. Expect to be indulged. Expect to be loved. Expect to find easy solutions to your problems. Remember it says, Whatsoever ye desire believe that you have it and you will have it. Look at those crazy Kardashians. They just roll along getting things because they think they should. I never thought I’d look to the Kardashians to show me the way, but darn it they know how to get a lot of good stuff without doing much.
Good luck with this if you are in the same boat and please share your progress. If you are way ahead of me, share that, too.
That passage is several steps above plain old “magical thinking” because, hey it was filtered through a Saint who was transformed in a flash of understanding and then passed along some astounding good news. “Whaaat? R U kidding me? You mean if I have faith - whatever that is - I can have a whole lot of money and good sinuses and my deviated septum would freaking heal itself and let me breathe right for once?”
Whenever any public figure I admire talks comfortably about God, I get excited. Oh, wow, if he/she believes in God, then it must be true. Good! I’m not standing in this “vale of tears” ( Psalm 84) all by my lonesome. Right beside me, is G O D. Despite my umpteen years with the nuns (forgive me Mother Di Pazzi) and the Catholic Church I find it hard to think of God as “a ready help in trouble” another fantastic Biblical promise. Imagine having someone who is all knowing, all powerful, all loving as “a ready help in trouble?” Really? You mean when I can’t turn off the hose and water is cascading in places where there shouldn’t be any water, I have a Master Plumber at the ready? That’s what it says in Psalms 46:1,2. God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea.
Just in case we missed all the other road signs, there's a very simple extra promise and it’s not from Wayne Dyer during pledge drive on Channel 13 but from Mark 11:24. Mark as in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Whatsoever ye desire, believe that you have it and you will have it? “Whaaaat? R U kidding me?” No, this is serious. This is the Bible speaking, not some well-marketed how-to book.
What is even more fabulous, everybody can have all of these promises without working hard or doing anything special. It says so, right in (Matthew 6:28,29). Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. So let me get this straight: all you have to do is sit on the couch and do nothing but have faith. Yup.
But how do you have faith? Ay there’s the rub (Wm. Shakespeare, Hamlet). I think that journey is different for everyone but one of the key ingredients is to pay attention to the way things go. Train yourself to be present and you will start to see reliable sequence in place of randomness. Instead of seeing the universe as adversarial and nitpicking, decide it is a benevolent system that wants to see you succeed. Actively look for and recognize serendipitous help in small things and then move on to bigger things. Expect to be indulged. Expect to be loved. Expect to find easy solutions to your problems. Remember it says, Whatsoever ye desire believe that you have it and you will have it. Look at those crazy Kardashians. They just roll along getting things because they think they should. I never thought I’d look to the Kardashians to show me the way, but darn it they know how to get a lot of good stuff without doing much.
Good luck with this if you are in the same boat and please share your progress. If you are way ahead of me, share that, too.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
E-warning! I'm going to ramble.
The poverty level in the U.S. has risen for the fourth straight year. I don’t have a clear idea of what poverty means today. When do you reach that point where you say: “Oh, I’m at the poverty level. How did this happen?”
The conservative Heritage Foundation says living in poverty is better than many people imagine. (Possibly because none of the members has lived in poverty.) Due to housing and food subsidies, poverty doesn’t necessarily exclude having a television or two, a computer, internet service, a dishwasher or Nike sneakers. You might not be able to afford a personal trainer but you can probably get a free gym membership. Even if you’re not quite at the poverty level there are many handouts for people whose income is under a certain amount. You can receive help with your heating bill and your electric bill. You can get food stamps and could spend them on Lays salt and vinegar chips and Entenmann's powdered donuts if you wanted to.
I have some markers for what rich means. Rich is going into Citarella and throwing some Tuscan herbs into the cart without a thought even though they are 3.95 for .56 oz bringing the per pound price to $125. I don’t know if Citarella takes food stamps but I’d like to see the cashier’s face when someone hands them in. (Citarella is where I buy mesclun. It’s loose and has a good ratio of radicchio and frisée to baby beet greens, etc.)
Rich sometimes means being able to take a long hot shower any time it suits you. A long hot shower especially if the shower has a built in seat and is exclusively yours, is an activity that makes me feel financially healthy if not outright rich. Also keeping the house at 72 degrees in winter. Whenever anyone walks into my house in winter they say, “It feels good in here.” You bet it does.
Poverty level varies wildly depending on the city you live in. In New York City, you can be at the poverty level and make $100,000 a year not only because of the high rents and high food costs but because the figure messes with your good sense.
“Hey, mom, guess how much this job pays a year?”
“How much?”
“$100,000.”
“Wow, Bobby, that’s a lot.”
Bobby begins charging like an AlphaPower Battery and pretty soon his Visa bill is at $30,000 from eating out and taking trips and buying rounds of drinks and before you know it Bobby is in debt and having to call Suzy Orman’s show and ask her to approve any purchase.
There are no subsidies that dispel the psychological disgrace a father or mother might feel when the family slips into the poverty level. The Brookings Institution says that in spite of having certain amenities, poor families face severe challenges. They probably have, as the Department of Agriculture so romantically puts it “food insecurity.” That’s a phrase I would use for single males living alone but it turns out it’s a phrase the Agriculture Department has for poverty level citizens. I take back everything I’ve thought and said about the dullness of government bureaucrats. Somebody there had an existential thought:
“What shall we call it when people feel they won’t be able to buy the food they want?”
“Call it food insecurity.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Again this doesn’t mean that you don’t have the staples or that you can compete in the poverty sweepstakes with a family from Bangladesh. It only means you have free-floating anxiety about your food supply. (Many middle-class families also have free-floating anxiety about food when tomatoes are 3.29 a pound.) The Department of Agriculture says 17.2 million households were defined as “food insecure” last year.
Even if you are living at the “poverty level” you are not destitute - a word you don’t hear much about. The dictionary defines destitute as: lacking the necessities of life and the synonyms are penniless, impoverished, insolvent, on the breadline. I have not seen any statistics for people who are destitute.
The truly forgotten when it comes to the empathy spotlight is the middle-class, the breadwinners who are just barely hanging in there. These families earn too much to qualify for subsidies and earn too little to avoid constant worry. They are “future insecure.” They have to make ends meet all on their own and there is no safety net.
The conservative Heritage Foundation says living in poverty is better than many people imagine. (Possibly because none of the members has lived in poverty.) Due to housing and food subsidies, poverty doesn’t necessarily exclude having a television or two, a computer, internet service, a dishwasher or Nike sneakers. You might not be able to afford a personal trainer but you can probably get a free gym membership. Even if you’re not quite at the poverty level there are many handouts for people whose income is under a certain amount. You can receive help with your heating bill and your electric bill. You can get food stamps and could spend them on Lays salt and vinegar chips and Entenmann's powdered donuts if you wanted to.
I have some markers for what rich means. Rich is going into Citarella and throwing some Tuscan herbs into the cart without a thought even though they are 3.95 for .56 oz bringing the per pound price to $125. I don’t know if Citarella takes food stamps but I’d like to see the cashier’s face when someone hands them in. (Citarella is where I buy mesclun. It’s loose and has a good ratio of radicchio and frisée to baby beet greens, etc.)
Rich sometimes means being able to take a long hot shower any time it suits you. A long hot shower especially if the shower has a built in seat and is exclusively yours, is an activity that makes me feel financially healthy if not outright rich. Also keeping the house at 72 degrees in winter. Whenever anyone walks into my house in winter they say, “It feels good in here.” You bet it does.
Poverty level varies wildly depending on the city you live in. In New York City, you can be at the poverty level and make $100,000 a year not only because of the high rents and high food costs but because the figure messes with your good sense.
“Hey, mom, guess how much this job pays a year?”
“How much?”
“$100,000.”
“Wow, Bobby, that’s a lot.”
Bobby begins charging like an AlphaPower Battery and pretty soon his Visa bill is at $30,000 from eating out and taking trips and buying rounds of drinks and before you know it Bobby is in debt and having to call Suzy Orman’s show and ask her to approve any purchase.
There are no subsidies that dispel the psychological disgrace a father or mother might feel when the family slips into the poverty level. The Brookings Institution says that in spite of having certain amenities, poor families face severe challenges. They probably have, as the Department of Agriculture so romantically puts it “food insecurity.” That’s a phrase I would use for single males living alone but it turns out it’s a phrase the Agriculture Department has for poverty level citizens. I take back everything I’ve thought and said about the dullness of government bureaucrats. Somebody there had an existential thought:
“What shall we call it when people feel they won’t be able to buy the food they want?”
“Call it food insecurity.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
Again this doesn’t mean that you don’t have the staples or that you can compete in the poverty sweepstakes with a family from Bangladesh. It only means you have free-floating anxiety about your food supply. (Many middle-class families also have free-floating anxiety about food when tomatoes are 3.29 a pound.) The Department of Agriculture says 17.2 million households were defined as “food insecure” last year.
Even if you are living at the “poverty level” you are not destitute - a word you don’t hear much about. The dictionary defines destitute as: lacking the necessities of life and the synonyms are penniless, impoverished, insolvent, on the breadline. I have not seen any statistics for people who are destitute.
The truly forgotten when it comes to the empathy spotlight is the middle-class, the breadwinners who are just barely hanging in there. These families earn too much to qualify for subsidies and earn too little to avoid constant worry. They are “future insecure.” They have to make ends meet all on their own and there is no safety net.
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