Archives for the month of: August, 2009
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Searching for Endorphins

August 31, 2009 //
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 First Run

The first day, less than a week ago, Deirdre, the girls and I ran to the little 1888 school house. Since then, we’ve talked endlessly about just how long it is from our house to the school house. 

We started around the garage, ran past the five humongous Newfoundlands at Shami’s.

And we ran uphill to get to that road. Deirdre said, “Going up hill, take small steps.” She said,  ”Don’t worry about your upper body at all. Breath in through your nose and out through your mouth.”

Second Run

On Saturday, we ran again, just me and the girls and Hayden. We ran to the schoolhouse, lay on the grass and stared at the Adirondack mountains. We watched the clouds. I was exhausted.

I love the school house. I love the grass, the broken fence, the tree, the yellow lyme schoolhouse. I love laying or sitting in the grass. Watching the kids do gymnastics. Every which way you look, there’s beauty.  A farmer’s field, a newly paved black road.

As we lay on the grass, Hayden said, “Hey there’s Jeff Kelly.” Jeff’s a writer, a jock, and my brother in law Jeff’s best friend. He is a natural athlete and flirt, told me I looked beguiling. I hit him in the chest with the back of my hand. He laughed.

He said he thought the run from our house to the school house was 3/4 of a mile. That made us feel good. He ran backwards as he talked to us, which made me feel lik he could run circles around me, which wasn’t a good feeling because he’s at least 15 years older than me.

Third Run

Yesterday, I said, “I’m gonna go for a run,” to Chris. 

“Okay, I’ll go with you,” he said. I made an ugh noise. Like, Please don’t. But then quickly said, “Okay, but you’ll have to keep up.” 

Chris was huffing and puffing. The previous day, he’d said the school house was 1/4 of a mile. “Now, do you think it’s farther?” I asked as he ran behind me. He couldn’t get the breath to answer. (But then when we reached the beach, we had Debbie drop us in the middle of the lake and we swam back to the beach, probably over a mile.)

Today

I found a good stride.  For the first time I ran farther than the schoolhouse. Hayden ran with me. We made it to the road, Lake Shore. 

Hayden had just bought a pair of red Asics running shoes. He calls them “sexy.” He told me to take longer steps. I liked running with him. I especially liked when we hit the fields of flowers at the Stable Inn. We each took a different path as we ran through the field.

We waved at each other across the black-eyed Susans and Queen Ann’s Lace. There was a smell of pine. I felt really good. I think I found the endorphins.

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Categories Fitness, running

I wrote another rule

August 29, 2009 //
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And updated 43 things. I have to check my facebook. But I really feel discouraged. I want to get my stories published and make money. I also want to keep writing.

I could set a goal like to write 1,667 words a day because that would be 50 k a month. but that is virtually impossible.  How about 172 words a day? Because that’s what rule #5 was.

Also, how do I make this blog private since it’s mostly ruminations? And how do I increase traffic to the other blogs???

Categories Blogging

Rule #5

August 29, 2009 //
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Expect the Best; Love What You Get

Lindsay suggested this rule after working with horses. Every time she gets a new horse, she thinks, “This one will do tricks. This one will amaze and inspire. This is the one!” And every time, that horse is not exactly the ideal horse.

So it is with kids. As he first began to babble, I stared at him in his high chair, wondering, “What pearls of wisdom will he say when he can finally talk? This kid is deep, brilliant, poetic.” And when he did start talking — and I’d been waiting months, years for his genius — I got, “No!” “Mine!” “Dad!”

With people and animals, you gotta love what you get.

It’s hard at times to do that, when you expect so much. But you’ll get something and it will be surprising. And it will be good. Gail told me that as moms, we have to love the title of that book, “The Good Enough Mom.” That’s me. I’m good enough. A perfect mom would be a disaster. Same with a perfect kid. Or horse.

There’s an adage that is useful for creative people — low expectations, high results; high expectations, low results. But this rule says, high expectations and love no matter what.

Categories 1, Rules To Live By

Today I sent out

August 23, 2009 //
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Downward Dog to Yoga Journal. I have an editor’s name, Leila Easa, but I do not have her specific email. So I am just sending to queries… I am committed to sending out 30 queries in 30 days!

Categories Blogging

Downward Dog

August 23, 2009 //
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I have no idea why I love Downward Dog — or it’s official name, Adho Mukha Svanasana.

It is just such a welcome break from more difficult stretches and twists in my Iyengar practice. I have come to love Downward Facing Dog almost as much as Savasana (the Corpse) Pose — my absolute favorite.

When we return to Downward Dog, it is like my body has met an old friend, an old comfortable dog. The pose is almost as good as a lounge chair on a beach in Akumal, Mexico.

It is familiar. My feet flat on the floor, my head in line with my arms. I can find myself in that space easily. I do it well.

I also feel — and I have no proof of this — that my waist is actively shrinking when I am in Downward Dog. Something about this pose makes me feel, “Ah, this is good. I like yoga. I like my body and what it does.”

It is a healthy feeling; I am doing good. Like eating a huge, yummy spinach salad for lunch instead of a cheeseburger.

I have been entering Downward Dog since I was in Seventh grade and took yoga at the Park Ridge YMCA, which is now the Park Ridge Community Center in suburban Chicago. That was 35 years ago.

I have always loved this pose, too, because of its silly name. For the life of me, I cannot see how this pose has anything to do with a down dog. What does a down dog look like any way? Ah well, I love the alliteration of Down Dog. Just go with it.

And I love coming out of this pose because I know Child Pose is coming along somewhere soon. Yes, Child Pose is down the road from Down Dog Pose. Ah, Child Pose, another old and beloved friend.

I have a lot of stress in my life — sick husband, three school-age kids, full time job. But there is something about Down Dog that makes me feel, I am up to the tasks of this crazy life.

There are many things I cannot control in my life. Many things I do badly, many cakes I only half-bake. But not Down Dog. That, I can do. And do well. And as I enter, rest in, and exit this pose, I am at one and the same time, resting and striving. It is a good place to be.

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Categories Rules To Live By

Rethink Church

August 22, 2009 //
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The toothless watch seller on the corner of 125th and Malcolm X got out the photo of his son whom he hadn’t seen in 13 years. He parted from his wife when the boy was 12. In the photo, the handsome young man embraced a young woman on a rock.

The man was selling watches for $8 and $5. He told me he was abused and beaten as a kid, as was his mother and all of his siblings. And he said, “I’ve been in drug rehabilitation and I know all about denial. But the reason I drink is that when I lived in New Orleans, oh, it gets so hot, you need a nice cold beer.”

Drew and I watched over the man’s card table while he ran in to the Carver Bank to get change. That was one of our Random Acts of Kindness, part of today’s Rethink Church campaign. We opened doors for people at the bank. And we listened to stories, because, you know, everyone had a story.

The woman with the cigarette outside of the Starbucks wanted to know about our red jackets and hats. We told her we were part of the United Methodist church.

“The United Methodist Church? Is that Pentacostal? Because my father was a Pentacostal minister. He told God ‘If anyone of my family is going to get ill, let me have the illness.’ And he did. He got cancer and he died. My mother will die soon too, she’s just waiting for the last two out of six of us to go to church. I’m one of the two. So is that Methodist Church one I should go to? Do you have to wear a dress to church? Because I don’t have a dress.”

I told her she didn’t have to wear a dress. I don’t wear a dress to church. (But you know I don’t want to hasten her mother’s trip to heaven so I gave her the soft sell.)

We met a guy named Carlos who wanted to know where the homeless shelters were. We handed out the sheet with the shelters’ addresses. And Carlos asked us did we have a Metrocard and could we give it to him?

It was 10 in the morning. My unofficial partner was Drew Giddings. Drew was an excellent companion because he was friendly and wry and appropriately peeved when the security guard kicked us out of our most excellent location — opening doors for the disabled people going into 55 West 125th. Drew kept count. He and I performed 18 acts of random kindness in Harlem. Our next stop was Bryant Park.

Our leader was Bill Shilady, upbeat and easygoing. There were maybe 200 church people fanning out in several New York City neighborhoods today to promote tenthousanddoors.org and the Rethink Church campaign. Bill had prepped us at St. Paul and St. Andrew when we assembled at 8:30 am. One of our talking points was that church is a verb and not just a noun.

But no one really prepped us for the stories about alcoholism, death, and, yes, appropriate attire. (Maybe these are the parts of church I can rethink.)

“Nice suit!” Drew called out from the steps at 6th and 41st . The two young men stopped. One opened his briefcase and there were pattern squares and fabric samples neatly organized. Yes, the two guys were selling custom-made suits. “And our shirts are cheaper and better than the ones at Pink.” The two quite possibly did a better job of selling us their suits than we did of selling them on the United Methodist Church.

Some in our group simply dispensed the free music download cards, others really engaged with pedestrians. We tried to get the stories, maybe even make a friend.

One tall handsome guy accepted the free music card and gave me his card. “Because some day you might need a lawyer to protect you from identity theft .” I might.

In case you’re wondering, I did buy a watch from that watch seller in Harlem. The watch is keeping good time. But then I just bought it this morning. It only cost five dollars. Drew might buy one of those guys’ custom suits.

The highlight of my day? When Drew treated me to a Random Act of Kindness and bought me a spicy beef Jamaican patty at the Crispy Crust. It was so good. (I’m pretty sure all of the other Rethinkers on the bus were jealous.) I think I’ll go back for another patty someday and I’ll chat with that watch seller at the corner.

Categories Blogging

To the Editor

August 22, 2009 //
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Have you ever had your car towed? It’s a bit like entering Dante’s Inferno. I’m sending you a post on my experience from two days ago when my car was towed right outside my apartment building.

Categories Blogging

Working Mother query

August 22, 2009 //
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Teresa Palagano

Executive Editor

Working Mother

2 Park Avenue, 10th floor

New York, NY 10016-5609

Dear Teresa,

Sure, a whole lot of people know a whole lot about money. Not me. I’ve spent almost my entire adult life avoiding the topic. My run of good luck with this benevolent neglect ran out about 6 months ago when I lost what people tell me is a whole lot of money in GE stock.

Do I care? No. Not me. “Stocks Slide; I Shrug,” is my humorous, short essay on how I could care less.

I could talk to an expert about my financial straits, but why bother? I had it, I lost it.

If you are interested in reading this essay, please let me know. My humorous essays have appeared in Self Magazine, the New York Times, and other national magazines and newspapers.

I am the staff writer for a national church group. I have worked as a stand up comedian, writing teacher, and am the mother of three school-age children.

Other short essays that might be of interest: Fondle My Kindle and Spoiled Rotten Kids.

If you are interested, please contact me at MBCoudal@gmail.com or 347-415-3707.

Or even if you are not interested but would like to have lunch someday, I am available. I am on sabbatical until late October and am looking to write more magazine articles and would love a chance to chat.

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Categories Blogging

One More Thing

August 22, 2009 //
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Wow! Great issue of UMR – July 24, 2009.

Who followed me? How did you know?  Because that was obviously me you wrote about in “When Busyness Sabotages Ministry, Q&A Interview” with Mary Jacobs.

“Overdosing on overcommitment?” Yes. I call it being oversubscribed.

My mother jokes I have “One More Thing” syndrome. She coined the phrase when I’d taken her and my three kids to the Bronx Zoo one summer afternoon.

As we were leaving – hot, humid, tired, crabby – I spotted the gorilla house. “One more thing, everyone, let’s stop and see the gorillas.”

One More Thing may be amusing when you are at the zoo, but at work it’s another thing. When you have to finish glancing through your high school boyfriend’s vacation pictures before you get to the article that was due yesterday, you’re in trouble.

Facebook is perfect for one more thing.

My friend and the kid’s babysitter Dierdre and I promised each other we wouldn’t go on Facebook or on our cell phones for 24 hours which is the only reason I’m getting this letter to the editor done.

I think many Facebook users have acquired this unique form of One More Thing, or ADD.

I was having tea with a good friend I hadn’t seen in months. She was up at our country house and we were sitting at the kitchen table. I kept wanting to check Facebook. I was feeling restless, just talking. And we were talking about good, deep, juicy stufff  – our boys’ puberty, a dear friend’s death, family finances.

I had to literally tell myself, “Mary Beth, sit still. This is what life is about, sitting at the kitchen table, talking to a dear friend.  Not swapping witticisms with an internet friend.”

Because the internet friend is like a photo in your wallet. You can take it out and show it off, glance at it. You can even delete their remarks (not that I would ever do that!)

But the real friend at the kitchen table? Well, she might go off on a tangent. I can’t click her off. Any way, I should – I want to – hear what she has to say. “X (a 6th grade boy) introduced Y (another 6th grader) to internet porn.”

Oh no. I really do NOT want to hear this. But I should pay attention. Even if I would rather read about my cousin’s baby’s first trip to the pediatrician or my former student’s flight to Uganda. Yes, they are interesting.

I would like to write about this topic more. But the right here and right now beckon. I have to make breakfast. Then, if I am lucky, I may spend some time just sitting at the kitchen table, catching up.

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Categories Blogging, Publishing

Tow Pound

August 21, 2009 //
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Hell

I used to joke that the Port Authority was Dante’s 3rd Ring of Hell. No, no, I was naive. It is the NYC Auto Pound, where your car is towed when you happen to land a parking spot right across from your apartment building. That turns out to be in front of a yeshiva school that is clearly out of session. And the No Parking sign says, “No parking when school is IN session.”

But then every sap sitting here on a plastic seat sounds defensive and guilty, “Mom, I was NOT parked in the intersection,” says a young, African American businesswoman two seats down into her cell phone.

Why couldn’t I get a simple ticket? Why must I be towed? Why have I landed in this purgatory?

Purgatory

Waiting for my name to be called. It’s not hell, it’s purgatory. I wonder whether I should complain because the handyman behind me in line has just been called to pay his fine and so was the young Asian man behind him. Should I make a fuss?

No, they call me. “Mary Coudal. There is a problem. You’re not the registered owner of this car.”

I did not know that. I figured I was co-registered.

As anyone knows me knows, I heart New York. I have lived here my entired adult life — college, first marriage, temp jobs, stand up career, second marriage, kids, professional career. But, today, I will admit and I do hate to say this: New York may not be the most livable or kindest city south of the Canadian border.

Just look around. The crowd here is surly. We are in limbo. We want out. We’ve gotten into a club that we can’t wait to exit.

The 30-some people here are as diverse as a jury room — tradespeople, businesspeople, messengers, teamsters, teachers, international people. We are all trapped in a trailer in this vast warehouse at 38th and 12th Avenue

Heaven

Let me try and be positive. After all, there is beauty in our diversity. No one is belligerent. The room is air-conditioned on a 100-degree day. I have a seat. I have time to write.

I get escorted to the minivan twice now to procure either an up-to-date registration or insurance card. And guess what? I cannot find either. One is definitely my fault. See, I failed to put the registration card in the glove compartment. I’m pretty sure. But I must blame Chris for the lack of the insurance card.

I tell the overweight seated woman cop and the young copy who has escorted me to the car, “I have to be honest with you, my husband has Parkinson’s Disease and is a bit forgetful. I do not have those cards.”

The woman cop says, “Well, tell the supervisor upstairs.” So I traipse back to the cashier and throw myself on her mercy. I add for good measure that I’ve brought my marriage certificate to show that though my name is not on the registration, I am married to the registered owner of that pathetic minivan.

She whispers to the supervisor, a middle-aged man in a red tee shirt and baseball cap, and nods at me. He says, “Okay,” with a shrug.

I am given the honor of paying $185 to get my car back. I whisk the ticket off the windshield ($65). I resist the urge to phone someone as I drive out of the tow pound.

And I swear, it’s true, the young cop salutes me as I drive away.

Ah, New York. You love it, but you have to pay for a lot of parking tickets.

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Categories New York Story
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