The Divamom Life Love Shopping and Food Blog

Shameful Shameless Self-Promotion

My friend Jessica, a/k/a "the High Tech Hottie" is one of the best connectors I know; she's the one who taught me - a boomer - all about social networking so that when many people my age didn't know what Facebook was - I had a page (despite the protests of my son who was grateful that we had different last names). Now of course, it's been taken over by people of my generation - but the point is - it's all because of Jessica. Ditto for Plaxo, LinkedIn and anything else involving social networking and or technology. And - in addition to her many other accomplishments - Jessica has recently been invited to do a whole "tour" on social networking and could likely write a book about it - and might actually ask me to help - since she enjoys promoting my writing. Why then does she rarely write about her accomplishments in her status updates, instead posting pictures of her cat or writing about craving a Publix cake? The answer? Jessica understands that there's a thin line between self-confidence and shameless self promotion.

Fasten your seatbelts - it's time for a rant.

I love people. Everyone needs to be alone sometimes, but I’m most definitely an extrovert and a connector. The sort of person who meets someone at the Laundromat and is invited to her home to learn how to make Swedish bread. (This actually happened to me in the early 90s, when I was living in Hoboken and met a woman from Stockholm who was speaking in Swedish which reminded me of my grandmother and a friendship developed). Definitely someone to whom networking is a no-brainer. Except that since I was laid off – even though I’m still very much out there – I’ve noticed that many who I thought were my friends actually were only associating with me because of what they thought I could give them in the role that I played for my company. In other words – they weren’t my friends – and when I branched out on my own, and decided to develop my own company, I became “competition” and it was no longer beneficial for them to call me – or even answer my calls.

That was sad to me; not because I missed them – but because they didn’t and don’t understand that the universe is infinite – not finite; that there’s plenty of pie for everyone – and no one will go hungry. That everyone can be successful and that the depression or recession or whatever they’re calling it these days is fleeting – just as everything else is…and in crisis there is opportunity.

This is turning into what my friend Tom would call and “airy fairy” rant – so let me get back on point: self-praise stinks. At least too much of it does.

Lots of us who are trained marketers or salespeople casually say “pardon my shameless self promotion” almost anecdotally as we then go into a self-laudatory rant about our latest project or honor – however incidental it might be without the puffing. Having been raised by a mother who not only didn’t brag about her own kids – but for fear of appearing conceited – contradicted those who did – it’s hard for me to fall naturally into the self-plugging mode.

If someone said “Oh, your daughter is lovely,” she might say “yeah, but she needs to lose a few pounds and I hate her hair that way.”

If they said “Your daughter is such a pleasure to have at our home,” she’d counter with “Well – you don’t live with her.”

All of this, I’m sure sounds more like fodder for a conversation with a team of therapists, and perhaps it is; it is, of course, essential to appreciate one’s self-worth and have healthy self-esteem and “complete confidence” as my dear friend Sheenah would say. But sometimes, even as a trained marketer who has taught others how to do an elevator pitch, I find the words hard to get out and find it even harder to listen to the unending babbling brook of others whose stream of conversation always leads back to their latest accomplishment, however slight it might be.

I tried to capture some of that “brio” by telling an acquaintance about a project I’m working on as a ghost writer (note: as a ghost writer, one’s job is to be heard and not seen, so I have to keep most things on the QT and write the promotional blogs for my clients).

But – one day I was going to use this as my status update on Facebook:
“I was just asked to write a bio for an up and coming actress for a local publication,” I wrote.

Truth was? My neighbor asked me to write something about her daughter for the Playbill for her 6th grade production of Alice in Wonderland.

So – I couldn’t do it. I had to stop. I wrote about making meatloaf or posted a Joni Mitchell video. Or something silly and nonsensical. Nothing that would make me sound like the pompous hoards I loathed…

But since I didn’t want to cut my nose off to spite my face - to be constructive – and give myself a “not to do” list – here’s my take on what shameless self promotion (a/k/a career fabulism) involves:

Shameless self-promoters are riveted on mentioning their project or business ad nauseum, as a social climber might bring up the names of famous celebrities with whom they hang

A shameless self-promoter will sometimes only tangentially acknowledge that a dialog is going on – although trained to appear as though they are actively listening – they gloss over the input added by – guess what – again mentioning the advantages of what they are promoting;

Any topic is converted into a sales pitch; and – most importantly -

The goal of shameless self-promoters is to forward their own agenda; friends are chosen on the basis of how they can help on the way up – with no consideration of the age-old cliché “you will meet the same people on your way up as you do on your way down.”

I don't mind eating lunch alone - which surprisingly doesn't happen that often - because sprinkled in the relentless climbers, I have some famous friends who choose to dine with me because they enjoy my company - and not because of the company for which I work - and not because I have anything to offer them except trenchant repartee, a few laughs and friendship - but I won't tell you who they are...that would be name-dropping!

Happy Tuesday, all!

Say it with Pancakes

This morning I decided to make Dylan banana buttermilk pancakes because he sometimes skips breakfast and since I’m home a lot more these days, I find myself shifting into sit-com mom mode more often. Rather than eat too many carbs (or anything else) myself, I sublimate the urge by feeding everyone and anyone who happens to be in the area. Just ask my friends. At any given hour, I’ll spontaneously break into muffin baking mode. This has been a theme in my life; people come into it thin and leave fat. In high school, my hockey player boyfriend no longer fit into his uniform after a season of my constant barrage of cookies.

Thirty-odd years later…not much has changed…even my pets are plump…my cat Dominick has a stomach so big that it looks like he swallowed a bowling ball…Deva, in true Pavlovian fashion, salivates every time she sees me walk anywhere near the kitchen, and Mika and Theresa have lost their kittenish figures as well. As for Dylan? He tries to avoid it – but I cook for him more than I ever have before. Last night, it was chicken cutlet (nothing exotic – but he ate a pound and a half of them). Last week – Shepherd’s pie…and his friends come over regularly for after-school cookies and milk.

“Are you inviting the boys over for cookies and milk?” I asked as he was leaving for school one day.

“Mom,” he said, “what is this, Pee Wee’s playhouse?”

All of this kitchen activity on behalf of Dylan worries me somewhat…specifically:

1. Will his eventual wife hate me for spoiling him? If she doesn’t say “are you ready for your lightly-toasted English muffin or do you want to take your shower first” will he say “My mom used to do it for me”?

2. Am I using food as a replacement for love? Will this eventually make him as fat as Dominick? and

3. Will all of my cooking derail Dylan’s alleged dream of going to culinary school? At least he says he wants to go…

I’ll never forget the first time I saw the original “Shockumentary” Mondo Cane…among the more unsettling vignettes was seeing geese be force-fed to enlarge their livers to facilitate the eventual production of pate de foie gras (“fatty liver” in French). A horrific, barbaric process to be sure – banned in many locations – protested by animal rights’ activists…and yet I wonder – is my preparation of pancakes on a school day tantamount to giving Dylan the message that “nothing says lovin’ like something from the oven”?

Last summer, during one of those rare times when he felt like “sharing” stories of his life with me (and didn’t say “don’t worry about it mom” when I peppered him with questions) - Dylan asked me what he should do about a girl he liked - and it kind of jarred me. Of course I wanted to be supportive – but had no idea what to say or do.
“Let me make you grilled cheese,” I said, jumping out of the line of fire and back into the frying pan.

Googling for Kugel

When my friend “who is like a daughter to me” Jessica Levin was turning 30, I offered my home for the party, as I live in Northern New Jersey which is halfway between New York (where several of Jessica’s friends and relatives live) and Central Jersey (where Jessica lives). Her relatives gratefully accepted and her grandmother, Nana Corbin, generously offered to help me with the cooking – which actually meant that she would get her husband (Boris) to cook and then complain about how tired she was afterwards. (I learned this secret – a variation of making reservations for dinner – when Jessica and her sisters explained it to me).

“My nana will call you,” Jessica said, “and offer to make food – but my grandfather will actually make it…but the last time I asked for kugel, he gave me frozen kugel that he bought somewhere and pretended he made it.”

This was getting more complicated by the minute, and became even more so when I finally got the call from Nana.

I’ll never forget the conversation – which was actually a 3-way call, even though only two of us were technically on the phone – Nana, me and Mr. Nana Corbin (Boris in the Background who gave a running commentary on everything Nana said, which I would have heard even without a headset).

Here’s roughly what it sounded like:

Nana C: Vicki? It’s Jessica’s grandmother – Nana Corbin – but you can call me Nana. Oh – you’re such a nice person to have the party in your house. Please – let me know what I can do…is there anything you want me to make?

Boris (in the background): See if she wants stuffed cabbaged.

Nana C: “Vicki – do you want me to make stuffed cabbage?

Me: Sure – that would be great…

Nana C (interrupting): Oh – that’s good – but I make mine unstuffed…

Boris in background (BIB): Tell her we make it unstuffed.

Nana C: I told her! Do you like it unstuffed?

Me: I’m sure it will be fine –

Nana C (interrupting): What about meatballs? I make nice meatballs…

BIB: Ask her if she wants meatballs.

Nana C (to BIB): I’m asking her now…Vicki do you want me to make meatballs?

Me: Well, actually, I’m half Swedish and half Italian – so usually make meatballs echoing each of my ethnicities…

Nana C: Oh, ok, no meatballs

BIB: No meatballs? Why doesn’t she want meatballs?

Nana C: She makes meatballs. She’s Italian.

BIB: She’s Italian? Does she want lasagna?

Nana C (to BIB): She makes meatballs. I don’t know about the lasagna.

Nana C (to me): Sweetie, do you want lasagna?

Me: No thanks – the stuffed cabbage will be fine.

Nana C: Ok, so you want the stuffed cabbage

BIB: Tell her it’s unstuffed cabbage

Nana C (to BIB): I told her!

Nana C (to me): You know it’s unstuffed…that’s how I make it…

Me: That’s great; anything you want to make is fine with me…

Nana C: There’s nothing else you need? Nothing?

BIB: Ask her if there’s anything else she needs

Nana C (to BIB): I asked her! She doesn’t want anything else…

Me: Well – actually – it would be great if you would make some kugel…I think Jessica loves it and I have no clue how to make it – I’m a shiksa

BIB (in a psychic frenzy): Ask her if she wants kugel.

Nana C (to BIB): She already asked me for kugel

Nana C (to me): Darling, do you want some kugel?

Me: Yes – I would love it if you would make kugel…

Nana C: Do you like it with or without raisins?

BIB (to Nana C): Ask her if she likes it with or without raisins.

Me: I love raisins.

Nana: Jessica hates it with raisins.

BIB (to Nana C): Jessica hates raisins in her kugel.

Nana C (to BIB): I know – I just told her…

Nana C (to me): Jessica doesn’t like it with raisins…

Me: Oh then – make it without – it’s her birthday…she should have it the way she likes it…

Nana C: But she can take them out – it’s no big deal…

BIB: She can take them out – it’s no big deal.

Nana C: Is there anything else you need, dear?

BIB: Ask her if there’s anything else she needs.

Nana C: I just asked her that!

Nana C (to me): Is there anything else you need, dear?

Me: You really don’t have to do this…

Nana C (to me): But I want to …please tell me if you need anything else at all…
(At this point, I paused to hear what BIB had to say. After 10 seconds of silence, I spoke again)

Me: Maybe if you want to make a brisket?

Nana C (to BIB): She wants a brisket.

BIB: Brisket?

Nana C (to BIB): Brisket.

Me: You don’t have to…

BIB: Brisket?

Nana C (to BIB): That’s what she said – she wants brisket…

Nana C (to me): You really don’t have to serve so much food….no one eats anymore…

BIB: She doesn’t need brisket – they won’t eat it…no one eats anymore…

After all of that I was, as you can imagine, exhausted. So I stopped arguing and said "You're right - no one eats...you know Jessica better than I do - so just make what you'd like to make and I'll serve it."

Nana C: Ok darling - I'll bring the unstuffed cabbage and the kugel...

Before BIB could interject, I said my grateful goodbyes and hung up, knowing that if nothing else, the food at the party would be covered and no one would go hungry (especially since "no one eats anymore").

Of course, the fact that the kugel had raisins in it when Jessica hates raisins caused what has become known as the Corbin Family Kugel Controversy, an un-holiday which occurs several times a year at Corbin Family gatherings.

"Can you believe my nana made the kugel with raisins?," Jessica's little sister Tiffany said, "Jessica hates raisins in her kugel."

I paused - waiting to hear BIB say something (even though he was two rooms away at the time). He didn't, however, either because he didn't hear what Tiffany said, or because his mouth was full of the meatballs I had ordered from the Italian deli at my corner. I would have rolled them myself, but took a leaf from Nana's recipe tree.

And if some of you are now craving kugel, here's a recipe for dairy kugel that I "borrowed" from someone. I've never actually made it - but either did Nana C, and if you make this one, Jessica Levin might Twitter about you since there are no raisins in it.

Enjoy!

• 4 cups uncooked egg noodles
• 1/4 cup butter or margarine, melted
• 5 eggs
• 2 cups small curd cottage cheese
• 2 cups sour cream
• 2 cups milk
• 1 (8 ounce) package cream cheese, softened
• 1 1/4 cups sugar, divided
• 1 teaspoon vanilla extract
• 1/8 teaspoon salt
• 1 tablespoon ground cinnamon

Cook noodles according to package directions; drain. Toss with butter; set aside. in a large mixing bowl, beat the eggs for 8-10 minutes. Beat in cottage cheese, sour cream, milk, cream cheese, 1 cup sugar, vanilla and salt. Stir in noodles.

Transfer to a greased 13-in. x 9-in. x 2-in. baking dish. Combine the cinnamon and remaining sugar; sprinkle over noodle mixture. Bake, uncovered, at 350 degrees F for 55-60 minutes or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Let stand for 10 minutes before serving.

Barbie: Don't Hate Her Because She's Beautiful

Barbie’s 50th birthday filled me with nostalgia. I remember exactly when I got my first Barbie. Of course, since I was very young when she was “born” – I first learned of her when my older sister’s best friend Judy got one. Judy was an only child and always got anything new that was on the market way before anyone else did. I still remember seeing her princess phone and thinking “Wow, maybe she is really a princess.” Apparently her mother had a habit of sneaking things to her before breaking it to her dad – because one day she led us to her attic room and said, soto voce, “I have to show you something.” And she went into her closet and revealed – gasp! – Barbie. My sister was pissed and I was awed. At the dinner table that night, the campaign began.
“Can we get Barbies?” she asked. “Judy has a Barbie.”
My parents, however, enthusiastic Democrats were engaged in a lively discussion about the upcoming election…and finally my mom said “OK – if Kennedy wins the election, you girls can both get Barbie dolls.”
This was in mid-September, so of course it made me far more aware of the election than I would have otherwise been, and because all I could think of was the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, I didn’t balk one bit when my mother dragged us to Roosevelt Field Shopping Center (way before it was a mall) to see Kennedy on the campaign trail.
And of course, when he won the election – my parents – in a rare display of affection – hugged! Ten seconds later, the chant began.
“When can we get Barbie?” The optimism of the new era reigned supreme, so we actually went to the local toy store the next night! I got a blonde Barbie and my sister chose brunette because it reminded her of the new first lady.
Ah Barbie. A latter-day Isadora Duncan…a precursor of a Stepford Wife…has ever a plastic temptress been in the center of more controversy? She’s been accused of everything from cheating on Ken with GI Joe to influencing body images leading young girls to anorexia. Of course, no one really gives her props for the courage she exhibited staying with a man for 43 years who clearly had gender-confusion issues; while she was endowed with breasts that were so large she later needed a reduction to stand upright…Ken was…well…all I’ll say is Mattel wasn’t as generous with his …parts.
So, despite the controversy and all that’s been said about her – I agree with her fans who point out that she’s a wonderful role model for young girls; she has a career – she’s not dependent on a man to support her (in any way – see the discussion of Ken, supra) – she has a lot of friends – and she’s always perky. Don’t hate her because she’s beautiful…

Snow White's Appraisers

Years ago, I was in the lounge at Hofstra Law School between classes where a particularly glib and witty classmate was doing the NY Times crossword puzzle in ink. I thought he was brilliant, not only because he made Law Review – but because I never attempted any crossword puzzle in ink – was always insecure about what I wrote and needed to have an eraser handy just in case. So imagine my delight when he motioned for me to come to his table.

“Can you think of a 7-letter word for ‘Snow White’s Appraisers?” he asked.

“Mirrors,” I said immediately, with no hesitation whatsoever.

For ten seconds, I thought “Wow – maybe I’m as glib as he is and don’t realize it…” then immediately shifted into insecure mode – “Oh – it’s only because I’m so conscious of how I look all the time…”

I’d love to say that some 30 years later, things have changed and I walk out of the house confidently, not worrying about whether my lipstick is crooked or if something I’m wearing is unflattering or unstylish…and most days I don’t much worry; once one realizes that one will never be America’s Top Model, any day that you don’t look or feel hideous is somewhat of a bonus.

At any rate, vanity of course rears its ugly head regularly, particularly when it’s triggered by those who are so vain they will probably think this blog is about them.
Example: the other night at dinner, my son asked me how a family friend (whom I’ve know since the 70s and who I’ll affectionately call “Uncle Jerkov” since we’re on the outs at the moment) was doing and I said “He’s all a twitter because he met Kat Von D at a book signing and had a picture taken with her.”

“Wow,” Dylan replied, “She IS hot.” (For those of you who are not familiar with who Kat Von D is she is a tattoo artist and TV personality, best known for her work as a featured tattoo artist on Miami Ink).

“That’s what he said,” I told him, “he likes that look.”

“But she’s a young girl,” he said, “it’s a little weird that he’s saying it…he’s old.”
I started at him and tried not to laugh. Didn’t want to say “When you’re his age, you’ll likely be looking at girls her age.” Because maybe some of my values actually rubbed off on him. Or at least values I’d like to think I have – which I probably do – as to me a person’s wit and brain always matter more than their outside appearance. Not every woman, for example, had a crush on Maury Povich (ok – it was folly- but it was before the focus of his show was on paternity suits so cut me some slack). And while Cougars are apparently on the up rise – I for one don’t feel that I would have enough in common with the lawn boy to even enjoy…let’s say having him “trim the hedges” (let euphemism reign).

At any rate, when Dylan said that – I started thinking about things Uncle Jerkov had said to me – not always about me – but in general – and how mirrors seemed to be the enemy of almost every woman I knew – not to mention the men.

And as much as I don’t like to fall into the trap – I always do. Consider what happened to me the other day for example:

I went to the office of the realtor who is handling the sale of my home to drop an envelope off on her desk. She wasn’t in – but another broker came over to me and said “Hi, you’re from Coldwell Banker, right? I’m Joe Broker.”

“No,” I said, “I’m not a realtor – I’m dropping off something for Joon…”
“Oh wow,” he said, “you look exactly like a broker from Coldwell Banker…I can’t remember her name…but I thought you were her…”

“Well,” I said, “I’m not…but she better be a babe!”

He thought I was trying to be funny – which maybe I was – but whenever anyone says “you remind me so much of my cousin or friend or anyone – I immediately obsess over what that person might look like.

In some cases, I’m thrilled and in others – not so much.

And sometimes compliments come out of comments that people mean as insults.
Example: a business acquaintance with whom I had lunch asked me if I was “on the market” for a new boyfriend (yet) and before I could answer – she said “No obligation – but I know someone who is around your age who you might like…he’s divorced…”
I cut her off. Not because I’m not looking to meet men (which I’m not – but that’s not why I interrupted her) – but because I needed to know what she meant.

“Hold on,” I said, “how old do you think I am? What do you mean ‘around my age’?”
“Well – you’re in your 40s right? He’s about 45…”

At that point, I was ready to leap across the table and kiss her on the lips. (No – I’m not gay and I’ve never kissed a girl – but I was so happy that she thought I was in my 40s when I’m actually 54 – that I didn’t even wonder if she needed new contact lenses or was being polite).

At that moment, I realized just how vain I really was.

“Thanks,” I said, “but I’m in my 50s…and I’m not the cougar type.”

Of course, I picked up the tab for lunch that day.

But then of course I was dragged back into the reality of things when Uncle Jerkov gave me unsolicited advice on what I could use that’s “Better than Botox” (which is when I stopped speaking to him, the jerk).

However – he was likely speaking from his own insecurities and trying to pass on a helpful tip that he would appreciate having gotten himself…similar to when I told the High Tech Hottie that I was going to submit her name to “What Not to Wear” – my intention being that it would be great for her consultation business to be featured on a major television program – and she could get a new wardrobe in the process.

“You make me feel like I look like a slob all the time,” she said.

Of course that wasn’t my intention…but if they accept her for the show – do you think I’ll still be getting a holiday card from her?

As for Uncle Jerkov – he’s likely at the tanning salon now and not reading this blog, and will then go to the gym where he can glare at 20-somethings as he does his workout because, as he said, it “inspires him” apparently more than his 55-year-old wife or his frenemies from college…

Not me though…as soon as this blog is finished, I’m watching Maury...he's such a hottie...

A Name By Any Other Rose

When my son was about six or so, after his dad and I had separated, he went to visit his dad's family for a weekend and came back asking me "Why does Nani call my dad 'Butch' and why do the cousins all him 'Uncle Butch'?"

I braced myself to answer. First, I thanked God that he asked me this question without the judge and jury composed of my ex-in-laws who were the Brooklyn-Italian-Lithuanian version of "the Waltons." For some reason, the matriarch (my ex-mother-in-law, who my son fondly calls "Nani") continued to call her brood (five kids!) by all of their infantile nicknames well into their 40s. I realize it's common - but there's something jarring about a 45 year old woman being called "Dodie" and a 55 year old man being called "Butchy." I won't even tell you the other ones. I know - families do it - and mine was dysfunctional and it's probably cute and endearing in some circles - and I can't blame my mother-in-law (although I'd like to) for carrying on the tradition - her cousins were known to her children, afterall, as "Aunt Chubby" (she must have been really popular with the boys!), "Aunt Chicky" (she was very unpopular with the other Aunts, MILF that she was), and one of the Uncles was "Uncle Junior" (because his real name was Alfred and his brother's name was Albert - so they didn't want to get them confused by calling them both "Al.") Needless to say, when my ex-husband and I first saw "The Sopranos" and realized that Tony's favorite Uncle was also named "Uncle Junior" - affectionately called "Uncle Joon" - we looked at each other with a glance that said "Let's pack for Canada now." (But we never did, and the rest is history).

Not to digress - when Dylan (a/k/a "Zimmerman" in the blogosphere) asked me about the nickname, I didn't tell him the truth - that it shocked me when I first heard his dad called "Butch" as well. It was long after we met (when I hired him as an evening word processor because I thought the staff needed some tortured playwrights other than me, the tortured poet posing as an office manager) and just after we started dating. We were really into each other. I remember the evening well; he had invited me to the bowels of New York (before Times Square was the "New" Times Square, when walking to 43rd and 10th was known as "deathwish"). A staged reading of one of his plays was going to take place. I had never been to a staged reading, and was so looking forward to hearing his word read aloud by professional actors. I somehow made it to the 10th floor of a poorly ventilated building to the assigned room where I saw what I thought were two vagrants sleeping outside the door. Turning away because I thought I was in the wrong place, one of them said "Oh - are you here for the reading? It's in there."

My son's father (whose name I'll omit because he'll lawyer up and try to sue me if I don't - or at least send me a 5-page email telling me I exhibited poor taste) was there, busy directing the "actors" (a motley crew, one of whom I swore I saw the night before on "America's Most Wanted") so a college friend of his approached me. "You must be Vicki," he said, "I'm Michael. Butch and I roomed together in college. He's doing really well you know. Did you know that he got an NEA grant last year and didn't tell anyone for six months?"

I was somewhat confused.

"Who is Butch?," I asked.

"The playwright," he said, looking at me like I was nuts.

"Butch?," I said again.

"OH," Michael said, "you probably didn't know that was his nickname. I grew up in the same town he did...that's what we called him...I realize it's kind of something you'd call a ..."

"DON'T SAY IT," I stopped him, "please. I know where this is going."

Since I was already into him - I pushed the nickname out of my mind, and we went on to fall in love, get married, and have a baby.

Of course, the rest is history; we later separated and divorced...there were way too many problems...I won't bore anyone with the details (at least not in this blog).

But in retrospect, I wonder if there was any correlation between the fact that we started spending more and more time with his family after Zimmerman was born...and hearing him called "Butch" by "ReRe" and "Dodie" and the others had any impact on the demise of our relationship...

Ridiculous, I know...but a name by any other rose might not smell as sweet, n'est-ce pas?

Surrendering ...But Not Giving Oneself Away

Yesterday, I went to the home I once shared with my ex-husband to finish packing things up and arranging artifacts for storage, donation or sale. It wasn't particuarly traumatic for either of us; I brought a friend to help me pack, a bunch of boxes and old newspapers, and bagels (starve a cold, feed a divorce?). I moved out last fall, and of course didn't take all of the items stored in the basement or attic, many of which predated my marriage to him, as the house was mine before it was his. We had some good times there, and then when things didn't work - we mutually decided to move on. And we're still on good terms; I brought him meatballs a few times and he moved my car when he realized it was in a "tow away" zone. To me, it seems civilized - to others - apparently not so much.

"Isn't it terrible to go there, doesn't it make you sad?," one cheery acquaintance (a woman I ran into at the drycleaner) asked. The Korean owner looked at me with a sense of hope - "you go back home?," she asked, with a certain amount of hope in her voice (note: I think she misses getting his clothes since he's willing to dump everything into the washing machine without sorting and I have almost everything drycleaned, for fear of stretching or fading since Woolite is not all it's cracked up to be). "No," I said, "I moved out. He's moving to Virginia. I'll tell him to stop by to say his good-byes if you like." "Thursday ok?," she responded. "Yes," I said, "that's when the moving and storage company is coming." She became instantly confused, and I took her momentary puzzlement as a golden opportunity to escape without further interrogation from her. But the aforementioned acquaintance hammered away.

"You must be SO SAD," she said, "I remember your wedding...it was so much fun."

"Yes," I said, leaving out the part when "he" drank so much that he passed out and I needed to have his friends carry him up the stairs and try to hide his state from my son who was ten at the time and whose father would have called "the authorities" on me for marrying someone inclined to inebriation.

"We're FINE," I said, through clenched teeth, since I have often said it.

Then I rushed off into the sunset and wondered, yet again, "why must people BORROW TROUBLE - or LEND it to me?"

But this is not a rant on how people try to create drama where none exists; that was a few blogs ago. This one is about change.

This morning's inspirational quote, you see, was from Gail Sheehy: "If we don't change, we don't grow, we are not really living...growth demands a certain surrender of security."

Obviously, I can't speak for anyone else - and maybe not even for myself - since my reactions to things sometimes surprise even me. But I do know that life is ever-moving, ever-progressing, like a river and it's true what "they say" about going with the flow...or surrendering and not giving yourself away...

The fact that I'm quoting Cheap Trick song lyrics as my mantra of the day likely speaks volumes, but if it keeps me laughing, I'll take it.

Virtual Realities

The term “career fabulist” has been bandied about often lately – because frankly – in this competitive job market – people have a sense of desperation – not only those seeking jobs but those seeking to hire candidates…they want their biggest “bang” for the buck…added value…they want to hire one person to do the job of seventeen and want “proven results” – based of course on one’s ability to market oneself. However – I think that’s a slippery slope – and frankly want to know - when did “real” go out the window?

If you go on a job interview, and a prospective employer asks “what are your weaknesses” and you answer “I’m a workaholic and I want to work 17 hour days but need to take a few hours off to sleep now and then” – chances are you’re not being real. Or if you are – try Red Bull (it works wonders).

(There’s a point to this, I promise).

As someone who has recently been thrust into the job market – as many have – I have been deluged with helpful advice (solicited and UN) regarding, inter alia, resume construction and “what to say” to whom to strategically convince someone to hire me. “Be very careful what you write on Face book and other social networking sites,” one person warned, “you don’t want odd ball comments to haunt you.”

I considered this particular comment carefully – and my first thought was to expunge and sanitize everything I wrote on Facebook – Linked In – Twitter – and become as neutral as possible…let the “credentials” show and hide (or at least eclipse) the personality that anyone might perceive as “different”…

“Oh no,” I thought, “I’d better take off comments like ‘I’m a victim of the existential vacuum while dusting the house’ from my status updates…that would be a terrible thing for a prospective employer to read…they might think that I’m quirky and creative…and no one wants that!”

But then a few questions came to mind – first: if everyone is lying about who they are – how does anyone know who they are really hiring, and – if that’s who I am – why would I want to work for an organization – no matter how lucrative the position might sound – where the people doing the hiring wanted someone who didn’t have my sense of humor and irony? I would be able to do the job (based on training) – but I wouldn’t have the same amount of zeal and passion and enthusiasm about it that I would if someone who hired me “liked me – and really really liked me” (thank you, Sally Field).

And – how “remarkable” would it be – and how purple a cow would I be (to shamelessly steal from Seth Godin) if my status updates said “I just got off a conference call on RSS feeds” (or whatever) – which every other marketer/business developer/networker has on his or her status update?

One’s resume speaks for itself – and most people of course lie on those as well. Hell – that’s a lesson I learned in college – how to “spin things.” “Answered telephones” became “interfaced with clients.” A guy I know who loaded trucks for a paper company spun it into “inventory control for major manufacturer.” You get the idea. Anyone who wants to know my “credentials” can read it on my resume. And if they Google me and find that on my Facebook updates I wrote a note about something of a more personal nature – to me – it shows that I can write – and if they are hiring me as a writer – that might be valuable information. And frankly – if I can write an epic about an incident in the supermarket and get emails from people telling me I should write a book – that speaks volumes – far more than any self-aggrandizing note I could write about how “awesome” it was that one organization or another invited me in to do a presentation on “leveraging interfacing of social networking strategies for optimum growth”…

Or is it just me?

In Whose Eyes?

Social networking sites, like Facebook, to which admittedly I am addicted, give us all a false sense of intimacy with each other. "Athena is getting ready for a run!," someone might right. And forever, Athena will be memorialized in our minds as an athlete irrespective of whether or not immediately after posting her status, she ran to the couch to eat a sleeve of cookies.

I tend to post the story of my life through music, which sometimes either dramatizes the comedy or vice versa. What I find most interesting is that friends sometimes think I'm writing about them when I'm not - and vice versa - through music or otherwise.

Example: a few weeks back, a male friend posted pictures of Manatees.

"Oh NICE," I said, "you have to keep telling me I have a big butt, right? Well - size 8 isn't that big - so shut up."

"Are you nuts?," he wrote, "I love Manatees...besides...your butt is more like a Volkswagon than any mammal I know."

I think I was mollified - can't remember - but immediately thereafter posted "Bloody M___..." (nevermind - it's a Martha Wainwright song - google it).

Lately, I've been posting songs that signal the nostalgic feelings I have about the "British Invasion" and yesterday posted a note saying that my big fantasy is to have someone stand outside my window with a boom box like Cusack did for Ione Skye in "Say Anything." (That was, afterall, one of the most romantic moments in film - I think it even made it to a VH1 Special).

A political commentator wrote "Peter Gabriel I assume?" which got me thinking...what would someone be playing outside my window?

"No, Aqualung of course," I quipped. But the true answer is of course whatever their heart told them to play.

So, in fleshing out the fantasy, a touch of paranoia creeped in.

"OMG," I thought, "if someone stands on my lawn with a boom box and plays anything that is not what I think is romantic - of course I can't tell them - I can't say anything about the scene in say anything..."

But it would be like getting a Gumby when someone asks you to "go steady." There's something to be said for lack of originality I suppose; it can be so comforting at times.

What a Difference a Perm Makes

Anyone who knows me knows why I got married the first time; it was motivated by a bad perm - plain and simple. At least that's what put the final nail in the coffin for me - and led me to a marriage which was destined to end from the beginning.

Some background: I was a free spirit for many years - and never thought about "settling down." The first time I spoke words to that effect was in 8th grade, when my "boyfriend" Thomas Skoblicki asked me to "go steady." I remember how thrilled I was (at first) and how adorable it seemed when my friends said things like "If you marry him - your name will be Vicki Skoblicki." Then, a few weeks later, when I was across town visiting my best friend in the world (Lucy) - he was waiting on my front lawn, on his bicycle, with his arms folded.

"Where were you?," he asked.

At that moment, I knew it was not the right situation for me.

"I'm too young to settle down," I said, "I want to break up."

Since I was a lousy gold digger even then - and since he had given me a Gumby (instead of an ID bracelet or a ring to wear on a chain around my neck - as the tradition was back in the day) - as I remember - I gave it back to him, and he rode his bicycle past my house a few more times and then moved onto someone else.

And actually, I did too - for about a week. A boy named Robert who I thought was adorable and who would come to visit me under the pretense of being at the town pool (because his mother didn't want him to have a girlfriend).

Our joyous subterfuge soon ended one night when my father asked my mother who the kid was who was standing on the side of the house hosing himself down with our sprinkler. Once he knew what was going on, he shooed Robert away and that was the end of that.

Fast forwarding to when I was in my 20s, most of my friends got married (the first time) in 1977 or 1978 (and I got to wear hideous chiffon dresses several times). But I had no interest in what I called a world of "Tupperware and Velveeta Cheese" because I was in law school, dammit, and I wanted to "make a difference."

Then of course, my late 20s came and I started having that sense of "clock ticking panic" but my taste didn't lend itself to long-term commitments with "suitable" companions. I "fell in love" with a guy who fought in fake jousting tournaments (but in real life was a partially-employed cab driver) - and with (one of the many) patron saints of emotional availability that were in my orbit...and pretty soon my mother started to say things like "Oh well, I guess you'll NEVER get married now...and it's your fault - it's because you always like those wackos."

"There was nothing wrong with Wolfgar!," I said, in defense of the aforementioned warrior, "He was just somewhat unmotivated."

"He was a FREAK," my brother supplied.

So - I knew it was time to "settle down." However - for reasons that are still not clear to me (since I never had substance abuse problems of any kind) - I had chopped off my long blonde hair, permed it, and dyed it a hideous shade of reddish roan. I looked like Bozo's cousin, without the elan. At that point - I knew that if I didn't get married soon, I would be alone forever - so - I pledged to myself (not to mention to my mother) that I would marry "the next normal guy I met."

Unfortunately, a few days later, I went on a rare blind date with such a person and despite the fact that we had nothing in common whatsoever, he asked me to marry him within three months.

Of course I said yes - and had a big wedding with a big ugly white dress and my poofy hair and six poofy bridesmaids.

And then gradually, my hair morphed back to the way it was before - and our marriage faded from lukewarm to stone cold...

This of course makes me sound completely superficial and like a tremendous flake, so let me tell you another story which will better illustrate our inherent differences.

My first husband, who I'll call "George" (since that was his name) was Italian - but Italian from Michigan, not New York or the surrounding area. So he didn't have a meatball till he was 27. He was also a self-made man, and was very careful with his pennies (literally). We lived very close to LaGuardia airport, yet when we went on one of our "extravagant" bargain vacations (to visit his family) - he insisted that we take a bus there rather than spring for a $5.00 cab ride.

All of this of course was forseeable. The day before our wedding, we went to finalize details with the limo company and the owner told us the price and said "Of course, grauities are not included...and we recommend 20%."

This was apparently the last straw for George - who was already pissed that we were having "real food" instead of a 6 foot sub - and that I hadn't made my own wedding dress out of a parachute that his Uncle Naldi brought back from the Spanish American War. (I'm exaggerating, but not much).

So he blasted the limo company and said "I'm not paying a tip" - and said to me "Someone can drive you to the church or you can walk - it's only a few blocks away."

I was, of course, a nervous wreck. I knew I'd never be able to fit my big poofy dress or my fluffy bridesmaids - not to mention by big perm - into a small car. Plus - I wanted to make an entrance. It was my first wedding, dammit!

But, somehow, the limo showed up - and everyone I knew who heard of the altercation the day before (including me) dug deep to tip the driver behind George's back.

My sister, who was my maid of honor, apparently didn't know this. Because in the limo, as we were riding to the church, she said "Matty (her husband) slipped the driver an extra $20 because he was afraid he'd be stiffed."

"Everyone did," I said, "and I can't believe I'm not even married and already I'm lying to my husband about money."

"Don't be silly," she said, "all women do that. I sometimes buy new clothes and have them cleaned right away so that when Matty sees them and asks if they're new - I can say 'don't you ever notice what I'm wearing? I just got this back from the drycleaner!"

And my other bridesmaids all chimed in and told their tales of financial subterfuge.

Of course, it all made me sad. There I was, a former feminist, with a bad perm, in a limo with a driver who probably made more money in one day than I would for the next year, marrying a man from whom I had to hide my extravagant ways or risk his wrath."

"Damn," I thought, "I should have kept the Gumby."