A Little Schmaltz Never Hurt Anyone

Now that it's become all the rage to dismiss greeting cards as passe and declare certain holidays like Valentine's Day and Mother's Day "Hallmark Holidays," I think it's time someone stand up in defense of the greeting card tradition, if not the overreaching greeting card industry. Ok, ok, I'll do it.



Two favorites from my birthday this year.



With a smidgen of shame, I will confess that I can spend an absurd amount of time in a card store. Always could. I read, I laugh, I cry, I finger the pretty paper or marvel at the pop-ups. The addition of sound was a delight. I like the idea of finding "just the right card" and imagining the kick the lucky recipient will get out of it. In the same vein, I love receiving "just the right card" and have held onto many over the years that have touched a chord with me. I think part of the fun comes from being a word oriented person and part from having a thing about anything that smacks of stationary (it's hard to tear myself away from a decent office supply store, too). My Irish twin sister has the same propensities and because of this, we can quote past cards to each other and will often buy more than one card for each other for the same occasion because we just can't choose. I have "card friends" for whom the right card is essential and non-card friends who couldn't care less.

A doctored up card--sad.

Funny cards, cards that are snarky, ones with first-rate cartooning, funny photos from the past--those are often the best. Animal shots can be good, too, but are often ruined by the words. And sometimes the sentimental ones are so on target it's uncanny. That being said, I will admit that in recent years, it has been more difficult to find truly funny or dead on sentimental cards. If I find a particularly good one, I might get several to send to different people. Yesterday, I searched in vain for the perfect card for the boy's 14th birthday (TODAY). It was grim. I wanted a joint one from the Mayor and me. There were three choices--two were religious, one was stilted and artificial. So I had to resort to pluralizing a mediocre card intended for one parent to give. Very disappointing. A friend's mother was turning 80 a few months ago and the pickings were also slim (although there were two 90 year old cards on hand and even a 100).

The very worst thing about cards today is the price. It jars me to turn over a small piece of what is essentially thick paper with a few words printed on it and see that it costs $3, $4 or even $5. It's not right. I'll pay it, if it is perfect for the occasion or the person for whom I am intending it. But if I nose around for a half-hour and still have to settle, I will go to the cheapos that say essentially nothing, but don't break the bank. And that is a sorry state of affairs.

It is fair to say that grandparent's day, boss's day, secretary's day and various other johnny-come-latelies to the holiday scene are occasions invented and ginned up by the card and gift industry. But Valentine's Day has been celebrated for centuries in some form or another and who can argue with the sense and appropriateness of Mother's and Father's Days. Nothing against grandparents, bosses or secretaries, but their "days" are not the same. People are right to view them with a somewhat cynical eye, but maligning greeting cards as a whole because of the manipulativeness of the industry is a bit of the tossing of the baby with the bathwater.

Homemade cards--I treasure them all.

More recent favorites.

Look! Up in the Sky!

The noble house finch

One of the more life-affirming interests I have taken up in my quest to actually get a life, is birding--the pastime previously known as birdwatching. When I long ago closed the mental books on birds, sometime around 1974, I could positively identify sparrows, blue jays, cardinals, sea gulls, ducks and pigeons with no more specificity than that. My father taught us what we knew when we were kids, but I seldom gave wild birds a thought as an adult, except to note their occasional contributions to my windshield. And for most of my life that was enough. Then one day as the boy and I were walking at a local park, an enormous bird whizzed by us (not on us, thanks goodness) at eye level.  Its round, golden eye seemed to look directly into mine as its wings, spanning about 6 feet, flapped and fluttered my hair as it passed. 'What the hell was that,' I thought. And moreover, I wondered how I can live so close to such a magnificent animal and not even know what it is. It was a bird awakening.

Turns out that spectacular bird was a Great Blue Heron. And because of Mr. Great Blue, I signed up for an introductory birding class. I demanded a decent pair of binoculars for Mother's Day. I bought books, started a journal and set up a birdie smorgasbord in my backyard so that I didn't have to trek out to a local park alone at dawn after my class ended. (Sometimes I still go, but it is scary to be the only person in the park, so I only go when I have a birding buddy, ie. almost never.)



My photo of an oriole on my deck.



Now amazing birds that I have managed never to notice before appear to be responding to my new interest in their lives. Could it possibly be that the nuthatches, goldfinches, chickadees, woodpeckers and orioles always stopped by my yard in the spring? If so, how could I have overlooked them. It is like that weird phenomenon where you learn a new word and suddenly you read and hear it everywhere. It seems it is just a matter of tuning in to their existance and the whole aviary world opens up to you. Now if I walk outside and hear a lot of squawking jays and screaming squirrels, I know to look around for that hawk that occasionally circles the neighborhood. When I feed the birds, I have to remember to spread some seeds on the ground for the mourning doves that can't use the feeders. In the winter, I keep an eye peeled for the dark-eyed juncos that seem to magically appear with the first snow. It came as a surprise to me that the brown-headed cowbird is notorious for laying its eggs in the nests of other birds so that others can go to the trouble of raising their young. Knowing these things delights me and makes me feel more connected to the natural world.

With birds, there is quite a bit to learn. For example I was only vaguely aware that many birds will look different in the spring from the way they look in the fall. Juvenile birds might not really resemble the adults of their species for a long time. So with any species of bird, you have the male, the female, the seasonal plumages and the age to take into consideration before making a determination of what bird has stopped by. The American Birding Association's list of North American birds includes 930 species. What with the various looks, behaviors and calls to take in, birding is a hobby that can keep you going for a long time.

The undesirable brown-headed cowbird stares at me from my fence.



Personally, I do not plan to become an expert. I don't want to get neurotic about this. It is enough for me to keep my journal, photograph the birds that come to the feeders and look for unusual birds when I'm out and when I'm on vacation. I can't wait to go on my next trip to the Caribbean or somewhere closer to the equator. I've already alerted the Mayor and the boy to the fact that my camera is no longer sufficient for taking photos of birds and have suggested that an upgrade would make an ideal Mother's Day gift this year.

I don't know if you can experience a bird awakening second hand, but I hope it is possible. It would make me happy to share this particular delight with others. To get you in the mood and see if it might possily take hold, I've included a link to the Eagle Cam at Duke Farm in Hillsborough, NJ. Click every day to observe a pair of eagles incubate, hatch and raise their eaglets in real time from now until they fledge in June. Happy Birding!

http://www.dukefarms.org/Education/Eagle-Cam/

Sweat Sisters

When we were little savages roaming the streets and yards of our Jersey City neighborhood, one of our number suggested we become "blood brothers." Where he got this concept, I have no clue. Probably TV. Anyway, we all thought this was a great idea. The brave among us proceeded to prick their fingers on thorns and whatnot. I was allowed to use an existing cut on my shin. Nobody cared that most of the "brothers" were actually girls and no one suggested that we change the title to include blood sisters. If for no other reason, there was no catchy alliteration going on with the phrase "blood sisters." For a time, I'd guess approximately four days, we all formed a club and it was good.

Fast forward thirty-eight years and I find myself a reluctant member of another alliteratively pleasing, yet far less satisfying club. I am a member of the Sweat Sisters. Nothing drove this point home to me more than an encounter I had the other night at a party. I was talking with two women who I like, but do not know well. They are both friends of a friend. I never see either of them, except at the home of our mutual friend every once in awhile. Somehow, possibly because we were all drinking wine and feeling flush and uncomfortable, we got on the subject of peri-menopausal temperature changes. Up until then, my conversations with either of these women were limited to polite inquiries about their children and small talk. But suddenly, this unexpected three-way exchange blasted off like a rocket to the moon! Stories of the kind of sweat never before experienced in our lives washed over us and we became animated. We ventured beyond simple perspiration, into weight gain and then on to mood swings. We were rolling. I never realized either one of them could be so funny, so candid and so right on target. Inevitably, this run-away train of validation tore right on into the bedroom. Our nightly battles with sheets and blankets were laid bare. Our need for having skin exposed no matter how cold the room revealed. An abiding love of ceiling fans in the dead of winter was acknowledged. And, of course, the complete cluelessness of our partners when it comes to understanding the inconvenience of their mere presence in bed was lamented. It was heady and fabulous to be understood. The experience could only have been surpassed if it had culminated in a group hot flash--a personal summer gone viral.

Alas, the conversation eventually died off. We moved on to mingle with other people. But even if we never discuss it again, I'll never forget that meeting of minds, bodies and souls. I friended them on Facebook, but we're still basically strangers to each other. The only difference now is that we are Sweat Sisters. If only it lasted for a mere four days.

Just Sayin'

The minute I allow a bit of current lingo to enter my vocabulary, written or spoken, the boy hastens to inform me that no one says that anymore. This is nearly always false information designed to prevent me from embarrassing him. Example. The other day, after a random LOL on Facebook he raised the issue. So I quick texted our daughter--10 years older than the boy, but still young and in the know about these things. Surprised and miffed that he'd attack an expression she still uses, she dismissed him as "crazy," and  gave me the green light on LOL. Perhaps what the boy fears is that I'll become a loltard, which urbandictionary.com defines as "a lamer who over uses LOL and its derivatives after almost every comment, which are almost exclusively non-humorous." This is not the case. I tend to be stinting with my LOLs, never use the derivatives and often opt for the more traditional hahaha.

The girl calling the boy crazy provides the perfect segue to the now popular expression insane or would if insane still retained its original meaning. Instead, insane has morphed into something along the lines of what was once groovy and has since been awesome, excellent, rad, righteous, cool, sick, badass, fresh and fly. One of my favorite recent compliments came indirectly from the boy's drum teacher (a young and undeniably cool individual). He described my iPod collection as insane. The boy came home and said, "Mom, John said your iPod is insane." Though he said it with a sort of grudging admiration, I was immediately insecure. "Is that good or bad?" I asked. The eye roll. "It's good, Mom, it's good." Whew.

Cool, which I have used to describe John, appears to be one slangy word that spans generations. You hear it uttered all the time, comfortably and correctly by nearly everyone in any age group. Anyone can use it and it sounds ok. And it always means the same thing, as wikipedia puts it, possessing a certain favorable aesthetic. Of course, you will have your lamers who can't leave well enough alone and insist upon expanding cool to cool beans, rendering themselves instantly uncool or totally lame. Saying cool beans is what's known these days as a fail. The Mayor and I, however, are not permitted to utter the word fail in this context.We've been read the riot act. The boy won't even say it himself. Apparently its use is reserved for the lamest of the lame. Who knew?

Hot, which, as the traditional opposite of cool should logically be a bad thing is actually, in many ways, better than cool. It is perfectly possible to be so cool that you are also hot. I have no personal experience with this phenomenon, but can readily see how it might happen. Unfortunately, I never wore enough black to be cool until I became middle-aged and overweight, factors which, in and of themselves, seem to have eliminated my potential as either cool or hot. Hey, at least I'm not a loltard.

Yesterday's man, as in "hey man, what's up?" has been usurped by dude, bro and now brah. Dude is more nuanced than man ever was and is often used as a form of address, an expression of shock or even disapproval. Instinctively, I know that I'm not a person who should be saying dude, so I don't say it. Similarly, but more because I just hate it, I don't use the expression stoked --an alternative to my generation's excited, psyched, or pumped. People who use the word stoked, always seem to pronounce it with that 80s valley girl accent. Thus, to my ear, those who say it tend to sound like idiots.

On the other hand, one has to respect both the brevity and versatility of today's seriously. All by itself, it replaces a number of multi-word expressions like you've got to be kidding, are you for real, no way, and oh, come on. The trick with seriously is to first say it interrogatively and then follow up by saying it declaratively. Exaggerated facial expressions are important in the delivery of seriously--you need a look that gets across one of the aforementioned multi-word expressions or if you prefer a simple WTF. Sometimes I use seriously myself. That, or it's closely related and identically delivered really. What does the boy think of this? IDK. And what's more, IDC.

It's Here!!

Voila! The moment has arrived. My $2000 free portrait for your viewing pleasure. We don't look exactly like ourselves, which for me is a blessing. The boy looks eerily older and a little off. By and large, I am happy. If you're wondering what I'm talking about, see Prize of Shame, below.

Just Brilliant

Two TV interviews over the weekend have brought mind a theme that I have mulled, off and on, for years now. First was Friday night's ABC interview with self-described "brilliant" actor Charlie Sheen. Second was last night's 60 Minutes interview with "brilliant" author Christopher Hitchins. As the quotation marks indicate, I take issue with the wanton throwing about of the term brilliant. Charlie Sheen's freak show and ravings have dwarfed any contributions he ever made to the field of acting (using the term loosely when you are being paid a fortune to play a milder version of yourself on a sitcom). Christopher Hitchins, who is clearly a lot better educated and probably IQ smarter than most of us, is apparently not smart enough to avoid falling into the trap of overestimating the value of his intelligence. He is not smart enough to avoid being arrogant. Plus, he supported the Iraq war.

People describe others as brilliant all the time--even people that are clearly bad actors (not in the performing sense). When I taught elementary school, I had a student whose parents insisted he was rude, disruptive and under-achieving mainly because he was so much more intelligent than all the other kids. He was just so bored that all he could do was act out. And, he was bright. IQ-wise, he was equally as bright as another kid in the same class who did all his work, got on well with others and for whom I devised advanced work that he could do just for fun. Now, THAT was pretty smart. As young as he was, I could tell he was going places. The other one was headed for failure and juvenile detention.  In the same vein, I've known more than a few women who praise of the intelligence of men who treat them badly. For the life of me, I cannot see anti-social as smart or a by-product of smart. To me, behaving like an ass is reflective of stupidity and using intelligence as an excuse for that is providing them a cop out. I recognize that what is happening here is divergent definitions of intelligence: raw IQ smarts verses social intelligence. Many people separate the two. I do not.

I contend that you cannot validly be described as brilliant if you cannot navigate your way our of a paper bag when it comes to functioning reasonably, responsibly, fairly and ethically with other people. Of course, valuing social intelligence over intellectual intelligence has been proved to have its downsides, too--reference the appeal to many (never me) of George W. Bush. But to be called truly brilliant in my books you need both. Behaving in ways that defeat your own goals, no matter the reasons, is simply not smart. And if you can't see your way clear to self-correction, you are not that smart. You might be exceptionally good at some things, but I won't give you the gold star.

Functioning intelligently in the world requires seeing the big picture, getting out of your own way, getting over yourself, recognizing the value of others, improving yourself, continually learning and living life with purpose. I think this is why I have trouble with the cults of acclaimed actors, artists, thinkers and writers--those perceived as elite. People think the statement, "oh, but he's brilliant," can override a multitude of flaws. I do not. Doesn't mean I don't appreciate their contributions, their moments of innovate thinking, acting, writing--brilliance, even. But truly bright people are thoughtful, measured, self-aware and ready for improvement every day, not just in flashes. They are the people around you who have it together--either having avoided pitfalls in life altogether or having learned from mistakes. They are the ones you like to be with because they know how to be in company. In short, I think how well you conduct your life, how much real value you bring to the table, the kind of company you keep and the kind of company you are, are the strongest indicators of your intelligence.

Dogs Gone Wild

As I sit and try to concentrate on my morning computer rituals, all I hear is the constant, insistent click of paws on the kitchen floor. I avoid looking down. It isn't pretty--in fact, it's kind of disturbing. They are insane today. Karma, who is scheduled to be spayed on March 16 (a month too late, it turns out) is now in heat. Little Major, fixed though he is, is a dog on a mission. He is the humpomatic that cannot be stopped and what's more, Karma doesn't want him stopped.

In an effort to protect what's left of her virtue, I put Major in the crate. He was, after all, the driving force I thought. It's Karma's crate where she resides when I go out. I closed Major in fully expecting whining objections from him. Instead, Karma began pawing wildly at the latch in an attempt to free him! They are two dogs of but one mind.

The coupling elicits screams of horror from the boy. I am getting used to it, but I will admit that it engendered a bit of horror in me at first, too. I see these dogs, especially Major, as so removed from their natural tendencies that when instinct takes over it's a bit of a shock. Who knew he had it in him? He's had the odd love affair over the years with stuffed toys and pillows, but nothing sustained like this. The song, "Who Let the Dogs Out," takes on vivid new meaning for me.

The only plus I see in all this is that by day's end they will be worn to a frazzle. They must be exhausting themselves because it exhausts me just thinking about it, hearing it, yelling at them for it and when it absolutely can't be helped--seeing it. How long does this heat last? Maybe I could move the vet appointment up to, say, tomorrow!