Category: New York Stories

Drowning in Literature

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I’m gonna drown myself in a book. Not just any book. A good book. A book with a fine bouquet.

Paperback or Kindle. From a box or bottle. Bought or borrowed. It’s all good. It all works, gets me out of my own head and into a different space.

I love love love love love reading. I can read everything and anything.

I took this picture last August at my friend's summer house on Saranac Lake.

When I’m down I grab a book and I down it.

I don’t care if it’s self-help (need it!) chick lit (love it!) or trash (gimme!).

I have been feeling a little down this week — maybe it’s transitioning the kids from school to summer or a slight anxiety about Chris’s health or simply not enough sunshine.

So I start with an appetizer, the front section of The New York Times, then I move on to the main course, right now reading Franzen’s Freedom. For dessert, I might read Parker Palmer’s Let Your Life Speak (Thanks, Juliana for lending!).

I get lost in reading. I have to have something to read with me at all times — in my purse, beside my bed, in my bike basket. Something to comfort, transport, drown me.  Reading is my great escape.

And it is my Number 2 Rule — Escape Through Literature. I’m going to read a lot tonite, but first I have to finish watching the movie Chris borrowed from the library, The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers.  That’s right, I’m drowning myself in a movie based on great literature. That counts too.

Everything’s Fine

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Putting this spin on my life is exhausting. I was thinking about this as I scanned the Michael J. Fox article and looked at his photo on the cover of Good Housekeeping when getting my nails done yesterday.

Sometimes it’s not fine. Sometimes I want to go, “Bad deal. Need a do over. Not happy. Nope. Not working out here.”

I feel pressure — from Michael J. Fox? — to make the difficult seem easy and the abnormal seem normal. So what if my husband has Parkinson’s Disease? I should just grin and bear it (as Tracy Pollan seems to do. You don’t hear her saying, “It’s tough living with this dude who has Parkinson’s Disease.”)

Look, Michael J. Fox is an amazing person doing amazing stuff but not every person with Parkinson’s can perform at his level. Perhaps Fox’s nobility and engagement in life (and his more abundant resources of physical therapy and money and access?) make me and other families with Parkinson’s feel a failure. Sometimes, the disease actually kicks your butt and you are not happy and smiling and ready for the cover shot. You are not always looking up.

Occasionally someone will say to me, “I don’t know how you do it. He would drive me crazy.” And for that I say, “Thank you!” Because the people who say, “He looks great. Can’t even tell there’s anything wrong.” make me feel bad, like I shouldn’t notice his crazy behavior or at times embarrassing demeanor. And to those of you who are right now saying in your head, ‘Mary Beth, it’s worse for him.’ Yes, you’re  right. And I know that. And I’m sorry and I feel sad about that. I try for compassion on a daily, hourly, momentary basis. But this is my blog and my truth.

How positive should I be? How much is my positive attitude denial? How optimistic can any caregiver be? How encouraging should we be when faced with a disease in the family? And can we acknowledge in all honesty that times can be difficult?

And of course times can be great. And I look for and find joy. I try to follow my own rules to live by and find a deeper meaning to my life.

I do have a lot of gratitude for the people in my life, especially for my husband. That doesn’t mean that I don’t have a lot of frustration too. It’s a dance of honesty, encouragement and denial. And to all of this I say to Michael J. Fox’s smiling face on the cover of the magazine, “Everything’s fine, except when its’ not. I’m always looking up, except at times, when I look down. And life is made of moments of happiness and sadness; health and illness. It’s all part of the fabric of this life.”

Schwarzenegger, Strauss-Kahn, and Working Women

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Every day I thank God that I am not a maid or a housekeeper. People take advantage.

First, the news about Dominique Strauss-Kahn and the hotel worker — and now, Arnold Schwarzenegger and the housekeeper. WTF!!! Power corrupts and absolute power corrupts absolutely (from Machiavelli) — even into our homes and hotel rooms.

I worked at the front desk of the Vista Hotel in the World Trade Center all through college. It was no secret. My room service and housekeeping friends told me that business men made inappropriate, illegal requests just about every single day. My friends would knock on the doors to clean the bathrooms or deliver the food with a certain dread, not knowing what lay on the other side of the door.

I am so pissed — Who do men like Strauss-Kahn and Schwarzenegger think they are! The women who work in service jobs are simply women making a living — trying to feed the kids at home, maybe support a disabled spouse, and even pursue their our dreams of an education. (I can identify!) They do not deserve such treatment!

This world is so messed up. People swoon over celebrities like Schwarzenegger and flip off working women who make beds and deliver food.

Women’s service work is not valued and too often women’s income is based on non-existent tips so we don’t even feel entitled to speak out. Our innate niceness keeps us down.

Nice no more! We need justice for the working women!

Maybe the Schwartzenegger affair was consensual. I don’t know. But I do feel sorry for the women — especially the imbalance of power — if you are a woman who cleans houses and hotel rooms. They are almost always immigrants and they should not have to put up with such BS.

I wrote about this, too, a year ago: http://gettingmyessayspublished.wordpress.com/2010/07/11/the-end-of-men/ when I learned that women still make 80 cents on every dollar that a man earns.

As a society we profess to value women’s skills of team work, collaboration, and service, we really do not care about the women, especially nameless nannies and housekeepers.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/entertainment/la-times-schwarzenegger-shriver-split-up-after-he-acknowledged-fathering-child-with-staffer/2011/05/17/AFBMTW5G_story.html

How Lucky — To Work So Hard!

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My fake spouse reassured me, “It takes a long time to become an overnight success.”

We were at a call back for a Kodak commercial. I was auditioning for the part of a young mother. I didn’t get the part, but I got that awesome advice!

I had been bitching about my slow-moving talk show career to the actor who was auditioning as the father. I said, “You know I worked so hard on my cable show, Mary Beth & Friends, and honestly, I am surprised I haven’t become the new Katie Couric.”

This was years ago. I never forgot my pretend husband’s wisdom. It kept me going. Success takes time. Fake husbands (and actors) can be so smart.

But now it seems the whole world is discussing this wisdom:

Luck is out. Hard work is in.

Last night, I was listening to the Ted Talk http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xE6lWGzO_7A from David Shenk, author of The Genius in All of Us. http://geniusblog.davidshenk.com/

Here’s what I got. Genes don’t matter a hill of beans unless you work hard. There’s no such thing as born smart!

This is a difficult revelation for me – me! The daughter of a genius (okay, two geniuses)! I always felt I had a slight genetic, intellectual advantage — swimming as I was in the Mensa gene pool. But no, sorry, not so.

My working 3 jobs, auditioning for commercials, and producing and hosting my own cable show probably mattered more to my current success (ahem!) than my brainy family tree.

I was thinking about this today, when from the LinkedIn group, LinkEds & writers, Indy Quillen, emailed her introduction.

Indy said, “Many years ago, when I excitedly showed my martial arts teacher my first place trophy, he smiled and said, ‘See how lucky you are when you work hard?’ I’ve never forgotten that lesson!”

Love that!

I don’t know how to fit in my awareness of the importance of hard work to my Rules for Living.

Maybe Rule Number 3? Remember your hoops of steel (priorities) — even when you think success should occur magically and quickly. Success takes time.

And hard work is 1 of 3 parts that makes up community:  https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2011/05/07/what-is-community/

Become Your Dream Part III

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Yup, I stepped in it, more sidewalk art by De La Vega.

On Saturday afternoon, the girls and I were heading into Central Park around 96th Street with our picnic to watch H. play Little League in the North Meadow, 23 acres of fields (thanks Wikipedia). And I saw the chalk drawing beneath my feet.

“Move, girls, I want to take a picture,” I said.

“Of what? There’s nothing,” C. said, shrugging, looking around.

“Look down. See? A little guy dragging a vase.” No, that may be wrong. That might not be the image. Maybe the little guy wasn’t pulling the vase, but the vase was pushing the little guy. As if to say — art propels you, not drags you.

The other two times along with the little helicopter guy, De La Vega had written three words: Become Your Dream. And that was an apt message for me — because the first time, around New Year’s Day, I had been wondering, “What are my three words for the New Year?” And there they were, resting on a pile of trash. Become. Your. Dream. Three excellent words to guide me in 2011. https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2011/01/03/my-3-words/

And then almost exactly two months later, I saw his sidewalk art when I was coming from picking up my number for the 5K Coogan’s fun run at the New York Road Runners office. I took the words — Become your dream — as a sign. I should set goals for myself, like running a 5K, and then achieve them. https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2011/03/04/become-your-dream-part-ii/

When I saw the words on Saturday, it was almost exactly two months after seeeing them on the night I picked up my race number.

I was again committed to a goal. The next day I was going to ride in the 5 boro bike tour. I was going to pedal 50 miles, go over 5 bridges and visit every borough in one morning. http://runningaground.wordpress.com/2011/05/02/5-boro-bike-tour/ And yes, I did it.

The girls and I only stopped for a minute to notice the sidewalk art and for me to snap this picture with my phone. We walked on to meet our friends in Central Park and to watch our team, the Giants, play baseball. They lost, but not by much. There’s still time left in this season for the Giants to become their dream.

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Not Remembering 9-11

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The 10th Year Anniversary

I don’t want to relive it. I don’t want to see any of it. I’m planning to be away from the city. I’m so glad 9-11 is on a Sunday so I can get the family out of what I expect will be a relentless media frenzy. I don’t want to have a TV on. I want to walk in the woods.

The wound is still very fresh. Some time I may write about it. I may write about the beautiful morning, how I had voted that morning, saw a police officer’s face — her face as if in close up — her worried face as she listened to a report. She was in a squad car, I was crossing Broadway with the kids. I forgot it. Then walking towards Central Park with my friend, J., how I got an urgent messages my sister on my cell phone but I had to call from a pay phone because my cell suddenly didn’t work, how we walked a little ways in Central Park then saw all the business people entering Central Park from 59th Street, how we knew something was deeply wrong, all these people in business attire walking into the park, how I grabbed my daughters from daycare, how I found my son’s pre-K class at the public school – with the principal standing with everyone in the hallway holding hands and praying with the kids — telling them that we love our families, our schools, our country. How we began to walk home, saw a grey cloud in the sky, south. Too close to be the WTC, we figured it was the Empire State Building. As we walked I insisted we avoid Lincoln Center, it could be a target. How we began to see all these people on the promenade in Riverside Park walking from downtown covered in dust, business suits and hair covered in grey, all grey. How we smelled the burning in the middle of the night. How we left the city and still past Albany, I could hear sirens. Chris said there were no sirens. I heard sirens on and off the whole way up to the Adirondacks.

Someday I will write about this. But not now. I dread the 10-year commemoration of 9-11. This year, I refuse to be traumatized again with news replaying images I don’t want to see.

Other years, on the anniversary of 9-11, the city was somber, especially the first couple of years. There was quiet. Especially in the morning. One year, I was walking down my block. A construction worker was sitting on the brownstone steps. It was the time of quiet and of remembrance. Our eyes locked. We looked at each other and we shared some sadness. He nodded at me. He knew. He knew and I knew. We didn’t want to – we didn’t need to – relive the whole thing. We didn’t need to write about it. Talk about it.

This year I might be in the Adirondacks far from a TV. I might go to church or maybe I’ll go to the church of walking in the woods. The Adirondack mountains will look lovely then. A long walk will do me good – seeing the colors of the pine trees, the splotched orange, the red leaves afire. 

I know the day is months away. Here I am the first weekend of April. I don’t want to wish away my spring, summer, fall dreading that September weekend. But it calms me to know I don’t have to be in the city.

At the time I knew that time would heal me from the trauma. I take comfort in the passage of time. I don’t take comfort in anniversaries. Continue reading “Not Remembering 9-11” →

Become Your Dream Part II

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I first noticed  the words propped up with the thrown-out Christmas tree. I might have seen them around town but they didn’t click.

Just now, I noticed the words again written in chalk outside the Whitney Museum. It might be hard to make out the words from my pictures, but the words were, BECOME YOUR DREAM.

I had just picked up mine and the kids’ registration for our 5K Coogan’s run at the NY Road Runners Club on East 89th. Yes, it’s been a dream of mine to run a 5K. [The last and only time I ran a 5K (hoping to beat 41 minutes): http://runningaground.wordpress.com/2010/10/19/i-did-it/ ]

So I felt a frisson, an emotional charge, an old friend, a coincidence, an epiphany, an Aha!, a click, an all’s-right-with-the-world feeling when I saw the words again.

Of course, I snapped a couple of pics on my phone. (I think this photo is upside-down.) When I got home to the West side, I googled Become Your Dream. I learned the artist is James de la Vega  http://dynamomagazine.com/?p=1646

There are pictures and sightings of his words and the spunky Keith Haring-like helicopter all over the city, mostly on the Upper East Side. Bitchcakes (love her name!) has a nice photo and thanks the artist responsible “for this act of pure joy and positivity.”

http://www.flickr.com/photos/bitchcakes/5386588568/ Nice.

I want to thank the artist too. It was about 5:45 when I walked towards the Whitney. I thought. ‘Maybe I’ll duck in and see some art. I hope I have enough money for admission. Ah, no worries. The museum closes at 5:45.’ So I started down 5th Ave. That’s when I saw the sidewalk art next to a bit of construction in front of the museum.

Seeing the words thrilled me. It reminded me that art is on the street. Art is at my feet. Art inspires me to keep walking or to get running. To keep going. To get out of my comfort zone. I love my beautiful New York. http://mybeautifulnewyork.wordpress.com/ 

I love street art. I love the idea of it and the feel of it. I love Become Your Dream. These are my three inspiring words for 2011.

Here is my blog entry about my three words when I saw them for the first time in the garbage two months ago: https://mbcoudal.wordpress.com/2011/01/03/my-3-words/

Public School Rules

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Although this blog is dedicated to My Seven Rules for Living, I do have two other non-negotiable rules for my kids:

1. No ball playing in the house.

2. No running with sticks.

You’d think the kids would have internalized these rules, but on a weekly basis I have to remind them not to bounce balls off the walls or whip them at their siblings.

Every school, every family, and every person lives by rules. Even if you have no rules, that’s a rule.

And so it is at the public school where my son plays basketball on Saturday mornings, the rule stands that the innocent ice cream cone is not allowed. She is not welcome. Poor little ice cream cone. She shows up at school ready to learn, wearing her back pack and her sunniest smile, but no, my little friend, you are not allowed.

We have to have rules.

She could come to my house, I could homeschool the little ice cream cone. But someone would eat her. And that would be the end.

The End.

The Ephemera in My Purse

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You used to find cookies in my purse, cheap, crumbly, little chocolate chip cookies wrapped in a paper napkin.  Always ready. I never was good at packing the hand gel cleanser or even Baby Wipes when the kids were babies.

But I was always good at having a little something sweet tucked in an inner pocket of my bag. I was always ready to plop a little sweet thing into one of my darlings’ gobs – if they got hungry, restless, noisy, whiney, needy. So imagine my surprise at the office yesterday when I reached into my purse to grab a tube of  lipstick, not to find a tasty cookie but to find a boy’s sport’s cup.

I remembered how it got there. Hayden was fingering it while we were waiting for dinner of burgers at the West Side Brewery on Monday night.

“Gimme that!” I snatched it out of his hands and shoved it into my purse.

This must be one of those undocumented Mother’s Rights of Passage, when the cookie is replaced with the kids’ sports paraphanelia. At least I could eat the cookies myself. At least the kids’ stuff in purse had a purpose for me too.

Now, it’s just a reminder that the kid has an 8 am game this weekend in Central Park. And that’s really not as sweet.

Love Author and Tiffany’s

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I like  passionate people. Once I met a loving, passionate man at Tiffany’s.

When I was in college, I had tons of part time jobs. (I’ve always loved to work!) One pre-Christmas season, I worked as a page at Tiffany’s — the fabulous big store on Fifth and 57th. My job was to answer the clerk’s tapping on the counter to collect the  little capsules full of cash and send them through these fast  little tubes. Then I’d wait for the receipt and run that back to the cashier. I haven’t been in  Tiffany’s in probably 20 years but I’m doubting they still use this lovely, archaic payment system.

Any way, about this passionate person.

One day Leo Buscaglia came in to the silver department at Tiffany’s. He was with a couple of younger men. They were just browsing. He was incredibly nice to everyone. (Go figure, an inspirational speaker who spoke and wrote about  Love oozed love.)  

I knew who he was because I’d seen his specials on Channel 11, Chicago’s public television. But no one paid any attention to him. New Yorkers are notoriously blasé about their celebs. I introduced myself to Leo and said I was a fan.

“You know,” he said, “You are all so nice here, you should wear name tags so we can get to know you and thank you personally.”

“Yes,” I said. I liked the idea, because as far as anyone knew, I was just a page. No one knew my name. I thought I’d bring it up with the woman in the back room who hired me (whose name I no longer remember).

But the next time I was in the back room clocking out, the spinster-ish woman told me I must no longer wear my hair in a French Braid at Tiffany’s. “It’s just not right,” she said, implying some kind of tawdriness. I didn’t get it.

I quit after the Christmas season. I’d gotten a job as a front desk clerk at the Hilton International in the World Trade Center.

But Leo Buscaglia was the highlight of my Tiffany’s career.

I’m reminded of him when I get inspirational quotes like this one. “Death is a challenge. It tells us not to waste time… It tells us to tell each other right now that we love each other,” from Leo Buscaglia.