Working Mother query

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

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.

One More Thing

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

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.

Tow Pound

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

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.

#4

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

Cultivate a Secret Garden

I’d rather not say too much. After all, it is a secret. But you can plant your own secret garden — a hobby, a small indulgence, a pleasure, a journal.

Sometimes I feel my life is so public — everyone knows everything. I give so much to so many. This is my one little private thing.

A secret garden is fragile, yet mustn’t be fussed over.

You mustn’t plant it in the middle of a big open filed. It must be hidden and sheltered — a little hard to find.

There is a secret garden at Skenewood, my husband’s family house. You have to lean way out over a balcony to see it. It is close to the wall. It’s hard to prune or weed, but once you find it — wow — it’s a little miracle.

Keep your secret garden close to the chest, like a handful of aces.

Whenever I have told my friends about my seven rules for living, and I rattle them off, this is the one that prompts inquiry.

“Let’s go back to Number Four — a secret garden?”

No. Sorry. And say no more.

Surrender & Persist

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

….ask me what I am living for, in detail, and ask me what I think is keeping me from living fully for the thing I want to live for. – Thomas Merton

I am living for the kids. Sometimes I joke, “I’m just holding it together for 10 more years until the kids are grown. Then I’m going to let it all go. I’m going to drink and smoke and be promiscuous.” But I’m not really going to do that. I’m not going to wait to crash once my twins are snuggled into their freshman dorm rooms. No, I’m going to crash gently now. And not wait 10 years.

Like Sully above the Hudson River, I can see my life has real mechanical failures, so I’m going to try to bring the jet down gracefully on some makeshift runway.

I’m finding the path of least resistance now. And as I see it, the path is towards — God, it sounds corny; but here you have it — greater loving.

To take this path, I have 7 rules to live by. These rules were developed by me and my friend Lindsay Pontius after we had several glasses of champagne at the Yacht Club –sounds so deliciously decadent. It was Lindsay’s birthday and we wrote our rules on a wet napkin with a felt tip marker we’d borrowed from the waitress.

I’ve told several friends my 7 rules and one or two suggested I jot them down on something more lasting than a torn napkin. So here you have it. My 7 Rules on the path of Loving.

Until you get to them, I suggest you hold it together. Or, if you have to crash, try to take it down gently.

The path is easy. But like all worthy endeavors, it requires a mix of seizing and letting go of your own power. The path requires persistence and surrender. Persist or give up. It’s up to you.

Rule #3

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

Hoops of Steel

This rule is about remembering your priorities. And keeping those priorities always tightly close to you. My priorities are my work and my kids. I worry and wonder about them. I love them and they drive me insane.

“Grapple them (friends) to thy soul with hoops of steel.” Which means hang on tight to your friends. Some Shakespeare scholars suggest that hoops is a misspelling — the word should be hooks — as in, grappling hooks, ‘for whoever heard of grappling hoops?’ So, that reading means that Polonius advises Laertes to snag your friends with big masculine steel hooks.

But I like the rounder and more feminine image of encircling friends with hoops — rather than hooks — of steel.

Hoops are like hooped earrings or better yet, the frames of big hooped skirts.

Wear your hoops of steel. Carry them around. Put them on. Keep them on and hold tightly to them. Do not let them go.

Hold fast to your priorities — your hoops made of steel.

Rule #2

Published on by mbcoudal1 Comment

#2 Escape Through Literature

Let’s say things are tough for you for whatever reason — Say, your husband has Parkinson’s Disease and the disease is stressing you out — grab a book. Escape.

Let’s say your kids want to show you a cool new video game. “Sorry kids, can’t come now! I’m reading a book.”

Reading trumps just about anything. Sure, you look anti-social. But you also look smart.

And although reading seems anti-social, it’s not really. There is always book club — a very social and very intellectual pursuit.

Also, a great excuse. “Sorry, can’t make dinner. I’ve gotta finish my book club book.” Then the next night, “Sorry, can’t make dinner. I’ve gotta go to book club.” (Our last book was Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451. In our book club, even if you don’t read the book, you can comment on the cover art.)

Lindsay and I discussed changing this rule to Escape Through the Arts, because painting, play practice, or piano lessons also help one cope. Any participation in the arts is a great escape.

And then we thought, we should change the word ‘escape’ too because really the arts are more of a ‘going to’ than an ‘escaping from.’ But what the heck — Escape Through Literature has a nice intellectual ring. And intellectual = good.

Reading. Writing. Even pretending to read or write. People respect that. And it’s all about respect. No, wait. It’s all about love. People love that. And they’ll love you if you’re a reader or writer. At least that’s been my experience.

#1 Pile on People

Published on by mbcoudalLeave a comment

# 1 Pile on People (P.O.P.)

There is no problem that can’t be bettered by adding a lot more people to it.

If two parents are good, then three are even better still. Four or five? Excellent! After all, it does take a village to raise a child. Or fight a war. George Bush employed this concept — he called it a surge.

In my life, I have employed surge. Especially in the last few years I have piled on the people by employing housekeepers and babysitters. And it’s really worked well. (Heck, half of my facebook friends are the kids’ babysitters.)

One note: it does cost you. So, be prepared to DTE (damn the expense!) when piling the money on when you pile the people on! Or barter! Or get family members on board.

I was just chatting with Josie, former babysitter, the other night. I was dissing marriage to her. Saying Let’s face it, married couple love is way overrated. That relationship is so fetishized by, oh, I don’t know, diamond companies, candymakers, Valentine’s revelers, Catholic priests. If we are going to celebrate love, let’s expand our concept of love a wee bit.

Let’s celebrate a love of a single mother for her kids, a sister for her brother, two dear old friends, a son for his dad, an aunt for her nephew, a student for his teacher, a pastor for her flock. I dunno. I’m just sick of all the brouhaha over marriage.

My point is — it’s wrong to send love like a garden hose in just one direction. That won’t water the garden. Hook it up to a sprinkler and let love be more like a fountain — spraying in many directions and watering a wider land.

I’m digressing and I do want to tweak my P.O.P. concept.

Make it P.O.U.P. — Pile on Useful People. Because just a pile of people gets unwieldy. And given that I’m a real people pleaser, when you have to please unwieldy people, it’s a real drag. So try to see that the people in your life add, not take away.