Triumph!

So I find watching my children grow up that they have an interesting personality trait each: Peter Parker is the dawdler from hell--the last one ready and the longest in the bathroom; Bruce Wayne is anxious to be wherever we're going at least two hours ahead of time and gets so antsy about it that he will actually get himself places on his own to avoid waiting for the family, if there's any possible way for him to do so; Clark Kent tends to get places precisely on time.

So what?  Well, two things . . . one is that these traits align precisely with their births.  Clark was on time. I went into labor with her on her due date and she was born the next morning.  Bruce was early.  Peter was late and had to be induced (albeit by a midwife so using all herbal approaches).  But then, nurture not to be ignored, Clark and I treat punctuality in the same manner--wanting to be right on time for everything we do and hating to keep people waiting, but always equipped with a book and/or iPod to occupy our brains in the meantime.  Peter and her father, Sandman, are professionally sluggish about getting out the door and arriving on time.  I don't know where Bruce gets it.

Years ago I asked my mother in a fit of pique over Sandman's habits, what caused this lateness thing.  Sandman and I were newly wed and heading to his parents' for a holiday, if I remember correctly.  We had packed up the borrowed car (we didn't have one of our own at the time) and I was ready to leave.  We didn't have, as I recall, any children with us--one being with her biological father and the other two being imaginary at this point.  We were an hour or more late already for departing as we had planned.  I came back into our apartment to scream hysterically at my sweet laggard and found that he was carefully rearranging the cookbooks in the kitchen on the shelf.  Why?  I don't know.  So I asked Mom, the therapist, what was up with that and she said, "it's a control issue."  "That makes no sense," I responded.  But I think it is true.  It is an attention-getting device and a control thing that they both use--Peter and Sandman.

So Bruce's coping mechanism is brilliant--often he takes the bus to DC when we drive and meets us there.  I, on the other hand, have taken on the habits of 1) not scheduling anything at our destination tightly to an idealized arrival time; 2) meeting Sandman and/or Peter rather than traveling with them; 3) lying to them about when we are due somewhere (although this has to be played very carefully); and most practically, 4) playing Snood on my computer until they are actually completely out the door and yelling at me that I'm holding them up.

Snood is a dangerous thing, for those of you not familiar with it.  It is an extremely habit-forming game, involving a lovely combination of skill and luck and cuteness and shooting things without a time element which I find a problem playing at home where interruptions are fairly constant and only predictable in their unpredictability.  I hate losing a game because I'm distracted for three seconds.  (Okay, you snood-heads, yes, there is a time element to the highest level, but not any of the others, I know.)

So Snood suits me very nicely.  It tracks the top ten high scores on a number of different skill levels and allows one to type in one's name or a well-chosen pseudonym or a snarky message to one's competitors as one bumps them off the top ten list.  When I sit down to play, an hour or two can easily fly by without my noticing.  When I first got the game some years back, I played essentially continuously for an entire summer without realizing it.  Eight weeks of Snood.  I'm pretty good at it and I find it very therapeutic.

Although we have little else at which we compete, Sandman and I are brutal about Snood.  But these days, I really only play it rarely, and usually while waiting for him or Peter to get ready to go somewhere with me.  That precise situation arose the other day, where Peter had asked me for a ride and I was waiting for her to get ready to go to there.  I sat down at the computer, booted up my Snood, and tackled the laid back "Medium" level to which I rarely bother sinking.  Medium is the only level remaining where Sandman holds the high score of the top ten.  I've got him on "Child," "Easy," "Hard," "Evil," "Puzzle," "Journey."  But I've nearly given up on Medium.  It's too easy to hold my interest.  And yet, this day, I thought, "She'll be ready soon so I really only have time for the one round of something fairly . . . medium."

And this day, the universe smiled upon me.  The heavens ope'd wide and choirs of cherubim fluttered about.  Ta-da!  I own that Sandman!  Mammacita is #1!

Personal Climate Change

The weather has been unseasonably warm in the New York City metropolitan region this year.  We had one big storm back in October, one small storm, and several "flurries," as they like to call it, that didn't require shoveling or much of anything in response.  Pretty, but no impact.  It's actually so warm that, although I've been wearing my ski jacket, I haven't needed to zip it up at any point before sundown in weeks.  Some days I've had to carry it over my arm, rather than wear it at all, particularly on public transit.

I have mixed feelings about this condition--I like snow and winter and being cozy and cooking soup and stews and chilis, all of which have been feeling inappropriate somehow.  But nobody likes to freeze, and the wind around here can be bitter.  Bitter I don't miss.

So I find myself toasting (with my DDP, of course) global warming or climate change or whatever I'm supposed to call it, and Al Gore, and the polar bears who will be looking for a nice two bedroom in the neighborhood with good air conditioning if things continue on this path.  And satisfying my need for snow by looking at the storm pictures on weather.com.

But I'm not here to write about weather really.  I'm hear to write about the metaphor.  Weather is omnipresent and out of my control, as is my life.  I can't escape it.  I can't fix it.  I can't change it.  I might as well find something about it that I like.  Embrace the weather.  Embrace my life.  But I haven't been able to lately.

I have become something of a personal meteorologist (if we might continue the metaphor) however.  I've observed my personal weather and tried to dress appropriately for it, so to speak.  Like my daily routine of looking at weather.com so that I put on the right jacket or coat and make sure my gloves are in my pockets or aren't, I'm trying to check in with my "self" and see what I should be wearing today.

I try to make sure that I have stuff in my giant purse from hell that will sustain me through the day--my iPod (charged and updated with podcasts that I like), a novel (right now I'm reading The Hunger Games a week or so behind my youngest, Peter Parker and at the behest of Clark Kent), a can of DDP or two, a little cash if I can, an MTA card.  That kind of stuff.

I try to make sure that I have things to do, places to go, people to see, or some specific goals of job-hunting or socializing, designed to improve "the weather."  This past week I've been helping Sandman with his latest high school musical production for which he does amazing work at a quarter the appropriate pay taking up twice the amount of time I feel I can spare him.  I offered to lend a hand on a purely voluntary basis with lighting and stepped into an interesting hurricane (weather again) of good stuff in the eye of the hurricane--a great director, really nice kids, and some good gear--and really crappy stuff--a lot of burned out lamps, mysteriously "dead" instruments and circuits, and an overall lack of formal knowledge on the part of anyone involved in how things are supposed to be done so a lot of things done . . . let's say "interestingly."

But the fifteen or so hours I've put in there have yielded the most interesting and pleasurable of weather effects: I've felt rested and energized the entire time I've been working there and in a better mood otherwise; I've laughed at jokes and played with the pets; I've even applied for some more jobs, a task for which I had temporarily run out of steam the week before.

And maybe I've even lost some of my bitterness.  Bitter I don't miss.

So the warmth in the atmosphere has penetrated my bones for the moment.  Thought you should know.

Science

I have recently read a headline or heard a headline somewhere (CNN? NPR? Huff Post? NYTimes?) that indicated that drinking more than two "sodas" per day causes respiratory issues like asthma and stuff.  They didn't specify whether it was the carbonation or the corn sweeteners or the calories so I don't know if it is all about me and my Diet Dr. Pepper addiction.  DDP has no corn syrup or even sugar (unless you are taking on the new manly DDP, "Dr. Pepper TEN" and its 10 calories worth of real sugar).  But all versions are certainly carbonated.  Absolutely.

Of course I almost missed the lead on that story because I was obsessively considering the regional implication of the study referring to the stuff as "soda" and not "pop" or any of the other regional approaches to naming the common beverage.  

After spending a summer in Waltham, Massachusetts when I was nine or ten years old, while my step-dad attended a conference at Brandeis, and discovering that they called long sandwiches, "grinders," even though I grew up calling them "subs" and my Philadelphia cousins called them "hoagies" and Lord knows what other strange variations could be found in my travels, I have developed an eternal fascination with those kinds of regional variations related to food.  

In Pittsburgh a cheesesteak is a hamburger topped with cheese, french fries, and cole slaw on slabs of Italian bread.  In Philadelphia, it's chopped minute steak and Cheese Whiz mixed with peppers, onions, and possibly even pizza sauce on a long roll.  Both in Pennsylvania, that's hardly room to call it a regional distinction.  

I know that we could talk for days about the dramatic regional differences in barbecue from around the country, to say nothing of chili.  And how folks from Pittsburgh decided to call bologna, "jumbo" is completely beyond me, but still of interest.

On the other hand, I'm trying to be more healthy, and all of those foods are out of dietary appropriateness.   One of the keys to calorie control throughout my adult life has been to save myself from drinking anything that involves any calories whatsoever, by having my beloved DDP (or the emergency backup Diet Coke), or iced black tea with artificial sweetener as my beverage of choice.  They both have caffeine, which I feel I need, although seem to be able to do without in lots of emergencies that may arise--fasting, running out at home, whatever.  I even gave it up altogether at one point for five months to make a point that I could, but ew, I hated doing without that little pleasure in my otherwise disappointing existence.  So I have some most days.  And I have respiratory issues.  Don't tell me I have to give up DDP again.  That would be so so so so sad.

One of my favorite short-lived television shows, Kitchen Confidential (combining two of my favorite things--food and actors on whom I have crushes), has an episode where an older chef, aptly played by John Larroquette, offers the philosophical approach to the main character, based on Anthony Bourdain and played by Bradley Cooper, that he would rather die happy having eaten amazing meals, than live a healthy and stoic life.  

So that's what I'm thinking about.  Slim down drinking cucumber, kale, lemon, and green apple juice and eating egg whites for thirty days every so often.  And live forever.  Enjoy pasta with a cheese plate, and fresh raspberries with chocolate whipped cream, and a nice limoncello.  And die with a smile on my face.

Why?

The current mystery in my life is why it was so important to me that the Giants win the Super Bowl this year.  I'm no more or less attached to them than I've always been--a huge fan, yes, and since my childhood, yes, and also rooting for the Jets, which I know many New Yorkers find odd, yes, yes.  But having been born in New York City but lived elsewhere much of my life, one of the few ways I had to remain attached to The City, regardless of my whereabouts, was to be a Jets AND Giants fan.  Since being a tot, although I like the Mets and hate the Yankees, I have been a fan of both of the football teams that call New York (and New Jersey) their own.  I've also grown to have a secondary affection for the Steelers, the Redskins, and in times when the scene in New York was especially grim, I have been known to root for the Patriots and the 49ers too.  But my primary loyalties--the Jets and the Giants.

And also there's something about Eli Manning that I adore.  He's like a puppy . . . a little awkward, and a little shy, and a little sensitive.  I still can see his face a few years back when he would fail to make a pass or a play would misfire--not even an important play, just any play--and he would fall apart emotionally and it would be all over his face.  He's grown up now in that he no longer falls apart emotionally, as far as I can see.  Quite the opposite.  He seems as radically in command, especially behind in the fourth quarter, regardless of the size of the stage, as he used to seem miserable.

But still, I don't live or die by the success or failure of my teams.  I support them.  I follow them.  But I don't freak out either way.  This year somehow is different.  Maybe it's that failure seems inevitable and omnipresent in my life.  Since I can't succeed, I desperately need someone else to do so.  So I put the pressure I can't live with, on Eli Manning's broad shoulders.  Good call, as it turned out.

I usually will joke that my favorite kind of football game is a very close game that turns out at the last minute to have the good guys win.  My second favorite is a blowout where the good guys win.  Third, I'm okay, ultimately, with a game where the bad guys lose (have I mentioned my lifetime distaste for Oakland, Miami, and Dallas?).  And finally, I don't even mind a very close game regardless of the outcome.  The Super Bowl is rarely the first kind of game.  It's rarely close.  It's rarely my favorite teams.  But this time, it was both.  I really appreciate that.  Thanks Eli.