The Perfect Gift

To:  Mom

From:  Kristie

Re:  xmas ideas for gram

Any ideas on what to get Gram for Christmas?  I know her place is smaller now so she doesn’t have room for any more stuff.  Thanks K

To:  Kristie

From:  Mom

Re:  NO IDEAS

Hi Kris,

I got Gram 2 pair of incontinence panties for Christmas. Jeanne said she needed them, as somehow her laundry gets lost. I’m not sure how that happens when everything is labeled with her name…but s**t happens. In case you want the site it’s Amazon.com CareActive Women’s Reusable Incontinence Panty, X-large in Health & Personal Care.  Love, Mom

To:  Mom

From:  Kristie

Re:  kidding??

I hope you are joking. Please don't give her that for Xmas.  If I got that for Xmas I would euthanize myself. Get her some nice chocolate or a gift certificate to a restaurant that she likes and you can take her when you visit.  Love, Kristie

To:  Mom

From:  Kristie

Re:  P.S.

I will NEVER get you incontinence panties for Xmas. Love, me

This is a real email conversation between my mother and me a couple of Christmas seasons ago.  This little gem has been stowed away in my inbox for almost two years because I promised not to use it in my blog.   Apparently, my mother was going through a tough time, and my stepfather, realizing this was ripe for my blog fodder assured me that I should NOT use this as blog material or it would push my mother over the edge (see old blog about the 30+ year old face cloth that didn't go over so well with Mom).  Reluctantly I agreed to put it on the back burner.

However, I came across this email the other day and started laughing out loud by myself. I then called my mom and I got her laughing about it too, so I’m in the clear.

So I must preface this by saying that I love my grandmother and mother beyond measure.  They have both served as great role models in my life and hopefully they can appreciate the humor in this situation as I have.  Also, shopping for one’s grandmother, at 96 years of age is always a difficult task.  At that point in life, she has way too many things and is generally trying to give away what is left, so finding the appropriate gift can be daunting for sure. 

That being said, there are so many things that are wrong with this short exchange, let’s conduct a brief analysis.

First and foremost, the words incontinence and panties don’t go in the same sentence together, or on the same packaging.  If you are incontinent, you should not be wearing “panties”.  I don’t think you could even substitute knickers in this sentence.  I can't picture Bridget Jones saying “this is the perfect occasion for some seriously incontinent knickers” as she preps for a romantic interlude in the nursing home. 

I believe the term my mother (and apparently the marketing department) was trying to avoid is “adult diaper”, which is understandable.  None of us is looking forward to the time when we need to wear these, but at 96, there are worse things going on I’m sure.  The image that is conjured up by incontinent and panties is just not pleasant, whereas adult diapers pretty much sums up the situation perfectly.

Second:  I can appreciate my mother’s frugality and the challenge of finding a gift for a nonagenarian, but it isn’t like my grandmother is getting mountains of gifts for xmas.  Get her something fun, unnecessary, and maybe even risky – like a nip size bottle of whiskey to hide in her wheelchair.  When we were teenagers and my mother had clearly reached the end of her rope with the whole xmas façade but my brother and I still wanted the Santa experience, she would wrap up toiletries and put them in our stockings.  Deodorant, soap, razors – anything to fill the stocking with things we would use.  My father used to get her some appliance or other for xmas and I vowed this would never happen to me.  Christmas should be special, not a trip to Rite Aid. Kids -- I don’t care how old or incontinent I am, put the adult diapers in my closet when you visit, do not wrap them up and put them under the tree.  I beg of you.  Keep a little mystery and magic in the holiday; don’t remind me of my ailing physicality during the Yuletide.  

Third: I also love that she ponders the disappearance of my grandmother’s previous pairs of presumably used incontinent panties on a regular basis.  And to add insult to injury, then says s**t happens!  Was this a subconscious pun?  Maybe my mom should have been a stand up comic, she really is quite funny.

Finally, the fact that she assumes that I too, might want to send my grandmother the panties and provides me with very specific instructions on how to find them.  As if opening one package of incontinent panties on xmas wasn’t enough, my grandmother needs two packages?   I mean, what do you say when you open a gift like that?   

My grandmother is also one of the most frugal people I know, but I think even she would prefer the gift of a dry derriere to be something she experiences on a regular basis with some semblance of modesty, and not a special holiday treat for all to see!    

Happy Holidays and good luck finding the perfect gift for everyone in your family! 

College Admission Crazies

For those of you in the midst of this institutional quagmire, hopefully you can relate.  And for the rest, who are possibly anticipating the blissful experience, read it and weep for the future.

I wish I could say this has been a great journey, full of learning experiences, personal development and increased knowledge.   I would categorize it more like a really long road trip, with bad snacks, shitty gas mileage, and lots of traffic.  And you’re just in the car driving, sometimes madly, other times with trepidation, and you don’t really know where you might end up.  It could be Chicago, Vermont, Rhode Island, or Massachusetts (if you are lucky).  When you look at the traffic report you receive conflicting information from different apps.  When should you turn?  Did you go the wrong way?

Enough with the driving metaphor… I think you get it.

I don’t claim to have any insight into the admissions process and most people don’t which is what makes it all the more frustrating.  In a world where we are used to having immediate gratification and access to information at all times, being in a state of ambiguity is novel and nerve racking to say the least.   The student controls the information he provides, the story he tells, the “catch” he comes up with, and hopes for the best.    Then comes the 4-5 month waiting game while his inventory of carefully cultivated, amazing personal attributes is passed around like a hot potato among a group of admissions officers, until one of them plucks his application out of relative obscurity and gives creed to his abilities. 

Or not.

Back in the day, we had to think and long and hard about where to apply because we had to manually complete each application.  10 schools?  Yikes, my hand might be broken by then.  With the onset of the online common application in 1998, you type all of the information in one time, online and submit it to as many institutions as you can afford (at $75/each this is not insignificant but when anticipating a yearly bill of $60K, $75 seems like pocket change).  This has resulted in colleges increasing their applications steadily to over twice the amount they’ve had in the past.  This is a great source of revenue and colleges market to any and everyone to apply.  At the Harvard information session, the counselor deceptively brags, “anyone can go to Harvard”.    Many colleges boast over 30,000 applications for 2,000 spots.  Let’s say on the upside the college has 10 admissions officers working for 5 months to read each one.  That is 30 applications per person per day, every day.   The attached graph shows how applications have grown at one institution of higher learning, while the number of accepted and matriculated students remains around the same.  Consequently, the acceptance rate has been cut in half for many colleges and universities, making it important to stand out as much as possible.

Two years ago, the buzzword was “passion”.  Make sure your kid has devoted himself to one thing passionately throughout high school.  The college doesn’t want to see a bunch of random stuff on a resume just to fill the page, admissions wants to see dedication and commitment.  I’m 48 years old and I still haven’t identified my passion.  Why should someone be forced to focus on one thing, especially when he/she is a teenager?  This is the time to explore, try new things, and make mistakes  - not achieve perfection in one sport, or creative pursuit.  When else in your life will you be able to take a pottery class, play on the volleyball team, or try out for the school play? 

This year the recommendation was as follows: be a good student, be a great athlete, and be interesting.   And if you aren’t a great athlete, you need to double down on the interesting part.  If you are a great athlete, and I mean the best kid on your team or in your individual pursuit, you will probably get recruited (topic for a whole other blog).  Which makes the road trip slightly less stressful because at least a coach is guiding you along – kind of like a police escort through the traffic.   But if you are just a decent athlete, you have to volunteer your ass off, work at a paying job, be on student council, and create a charity event that somehow garners national media coverage.  And don’t forget to maintain a 4.0 GPA and take as many AP classes as inhumanly possible (even though most colleges will not give you credit for them).  Easy peasy.   Many of these applicants have done more in their 18 years than I’ve done in my whole life!  But then again, I guess I’m not very interesting…

My initial philosophy with my first child (obviously the guinea pig in this situation) was to not mention college selection until Junior Year of high school.  Let him enjoy his youth, play multiple sports if possible, and not be stressed while still maintaining some level of academic prowess.   Being on the brink of the application deadline, I’m not sure this was the right path.   

We consistently oscillate between reviewing long lists of “to-do” items such as studying for the SAT subject tests, and backing off, pouring a vodka and consoling ourselves by acknowledging that he will be fine wherever he ends up.  The education is all the same, and for the most part, the $60K/year price tag is the same.  It does seem a tad suspicious that all of the schools have congregated around this number.  Out of state university, private college, large or small --$60K is the magic number.  Can you say price fixing??? 

At the end of the day, I must revert to an article by Michelle Gillman called “Harvard Schmarvard”, which summed up the crazy competitive nature of the admission game.  Forget about ACT scores, GPA’s and the endless list of extracurricular activities and ask yourself the following questions:

         Does your child have a compassionate soul?

            Does your child have a healthy dose of intellectual curiosity?

            Is your child resourceful and independent?

            Is your child happy with who she is?

            Can your child creatively problem-solve?

            Is your child passionate about anything?

            Can your child sit with himself and enjoy his own company?

Ah, he will be fine.  As long as he gets a 750 on the SAT Physics Subject test, finishes his honors English paper, and…..

PERI....Everything

PERI-menopause:  the period in a woman’s life shortly before the occurrence of menopause.   The average age of a woman who experiences menopause is 51.  Perimenopause can take place up to 10 years before that.  Since when is 10 years a short amount of time?  10 years is a decade.  Half the time a child lives at home, part of a career.  While my perimenopausal symptoms are not majorly life altering, they are more than mildly annoying.  They are nagging reminders that my body is aging, inside as well as out. 

PERI-vision: The time in a person’s life shortly before the reluctant adoption of bi-focals.  Even more maddening than the hormonal issues that are out of my control is the fact that my vision has completely gone to hell.  I have worn contacts to see far since my early 20’s.  No problem.  I could still read, work, and go about my day in the usual fashion while wearing contacts.  Since I started using my near vision more frequently (computer work, etc), when I am wearing my contacts, I now need reading glasses for office work, reading phone texts, menus, etc.  When I’m not wearing my contacts, I can see up to 3 feet in front of me flawlessly, but beyond that, life is a big blur.   I am in a bewildering vision purgatory where one piece of equipment no longer suffices.   Every day tasks have become laden with choosing the right looking glass for the occasion, and I never seem to have enough or the right one.   Instead of glamorous designer sunglasses gracing the crown of my head, I have glorified magnifying glasses propped on the end of my nose.  I swear that George Costanza was right when he told Jerry Seinfeld that he could improve his vision by squinting.  When I squint I really CAN read my phone, but then I need more botox.  Not a win-win.

PERI -parenting:  The time in a person’s life shortly before her child leaves home for college.   Your child feels like they don’t need a parent and often looks at you as if you don’t exist, but in reality they need you more than ever.   You are there to cook meals and otherwise serve as a domestic (unpaid) slave, but also to act at various times as a therapist, coach, tutor, confidant, chauffer, nutritionist, healthy lifestyle advocate (i.e. sex education specialist), role model, drill sergeant, translator (what your father meant to say was…), verbal punching bag, curfew enforcer, and bleary eyed worry wart.  The child that you nurtured from infancy and cooed over their every achievement has now become an awkward young adult that eats more than an elephant, wears more clothes than Barbie and Ken put together, and is involved in more activities than you are (or ever were).  You can’t control everything they do, but they still live with you, eat your food and drive your vehicle.   Their hormonal status medically places them in the “insane” category, but you have to let them go out on their own and make decisions that are sometimes bad and offer experiences for “personal growth”.   And you must do this sober, in case, God forbid you need to retrieve them from one of these personal growth incidents in the middle of the night.

Peri – Lift:  The time in a woman’s life where she contemplates having several parts of her body and face lifted surgically, but shortly before she actually goes under the knife.  Things are falling and starting to pucker i.e. eyelids, boobs, butts, knees, and jowls.  Fillers and Botox don’t last as long as they used to.  Peels and other treatments are getting expensive and less effective.  The Crepe Erase product, marketed by Jane Seymour, begins to look appealing.   The piggy banks are filling up with savings for THAT DAY, when I disappear for 2 weeks and return looking well rested and rejuvenated.

PERI– lunacy:  The time in a women’s life where all of this PERI-activity makes her feel as though she is on the brink of insanity, but not quite.  Because if you make it through the PERI parts, there is a sort of calm, aged paradise that awaits:

1.     Menopause finally arrives!  No more hot flashes or night sweats.  Hoorah!   Feminine hygiene products can be replaced with massive quantities of KY. 

2.     Your vision is completely compromised and you give in to wearing bifocals ALL the time.   However, when you and your significant other take off your bifocals for conjugal, KY filled activities, neither of you can see anything and are able to fantasize that you are 25 again!

3.     The kids are gone, supporting themselves and you are free to travel, write a novel, and invest in plastic surgery without judgment.  You will be completely lifted in body and spirit!   

4.     Enjoy this time because there are always PERI- situations lurking around the corner such as PERI grandparent, PERI caregiver, PERI – loss of bladder control, PERI erectile dysfunction, etc.   

The Psychology of a House Showing

Here I sit, deflated, like a child’s discarded balloon animal 3 days after the birthday party.  Just hours ago I was revved up on adrenaline moving a mile a minute mopping and dusting while contemplating what I would do with the dwindling profit from the potential sale of our home.   A family trip to Europe, sessions with the chiropractor to finally get my back in good health; I might even splurge on that new crown for my molar.  But alas, it is just another showing with no offer.  This one was particularly brutal as the time I spent preparing for the showing (aka performance/presentation!) was about 20 times longer than the time the clients actually spent in my home (a mere 15 minutes).    Actually – forget the earlier animal balloon analogy – picture a rotund lavender balloon floating happily higher and higher in the air and then some shithead with a blowdart gun attacks me and with a sudden POP, I flutter back down to the earth, a small heap of rubber garbage.  Yes, that is a much better description of how I feel right now.

I have bought and sold my share of living spaces during my nearly (choke) 20 years of marriage.  Two condos in Boston, a house in the Massachusetts suburbs, a ski house in Deer Valley, another condo in Old Town Park City, and finally our dream home in the vast meadows of lower PC.  As it turns out, our dream peaked early, but our wallets couldn’t sustain the long-term effects of the economic downturn.  It also turns out that dream homes require a good deal of maintenance and attention, not to mention ongoing support funds.  In real estate, as we all know, timing is everything and for 15 years our timing was damn good, the last five – not so much.  Anyway – this latest real estate endeavor has brought with it a rather long DOM (days on market) due to the recession and the mammoth size of our home – just around 2 years (give or take a few months during the off season).

While I am usually not a type A personality, the disorder must lay dormant in my system until we put our house on the market, and then it liberates itself with a vengeance. There have been a few instances where all the stars align and I have a “showing” on the actual day that the cleaning lady has been to my house.  This only happens twice a month, so I know statistics are not on my side, but I always hope for the best.  Most of the time, I AM the cleaning lady and I have to perform at record speed.  My work ethic and moral code kick in and I believe if I expect someone to pay top dollar for my home, my house should look spectacular.  Perfect.  Unlived in.  The ultimate lifestyle oxymoron – how do you make a house where you live every day, appear as if you don’t live there?  Unless you are Samantha from Bewitched, trying to maintain the “unlived in” look creates a fair amount of insanity.  Some days, I truly feel like committing myself to the asylum – I imagine that it is quite clean there and people could drop in for an impromptu showing at almost any time.  My therapist (a long time ago when I could afford therapy) told me to throw some dirty clothes on the floor before my next house showing – “just do it!” she yelled enthusiastically.  I couldn’t do it.  I failed.  What if they loved everything about my house and they didn’t buy it because they thought I was a slob?  How could I live with myself?

The natural enemies of the house showing are: kids, dogs, and the Everything Bagel.  Regardless of my constant nagging, the kids leave their stuff (affectionately called “shit” more often than not) everywhere.   Homework, clothes, pencils, glasses, food wrappers, water bottles, Wii remotes, electronic devices and their cords.  After 4 pm, it looks like the teenage sprawl has taken over my family room.  They enter the mudroom and an endless mound of goods drop from them as they make their way into our habitat – shoes, coats, backpacks, hats.  Once they hit the kitchen, their appetite -which as been unnaturally sequestered during the school day - comes completely unleashed while they open cupboards and fridges in search of the quickest high carb treat they can shove in their mouth.  In minutes, the floors and counters that were spotless and shiny are cluttered with crumbs and debris. 

The dog: Four happy dog feet are the equivalent of a nuclear bomb going off on your floors.  The dog comes in from her morning constitutional (which I agree is a moment worth celebrating no matter your species) and she can literally deposit hundreds of footprints within seconds while displaying her enthusiasm in seeing me as well as her jubilation over her recent evacuation. 

And then, there is the Everything Bagel – which at this moment, no longer has a place in my domicile.  Since I have virtually no control over my other two enemies, I can at least ban the seeded bagel beast from my kitchen.  I remove the bagel as carefully as I can from the packaging, seeds and spices fly everywhere.  I deftly hoist the bagel into the toaster, more seeds and the occasional flake of dried garlic spew forth.  After applying cream cheese to the carb-laden villain, I can’t even watch the disaster that ensues as my kids try to consume the bagel.  Seeds go from mouth to counter in slow motion, then onto the floor, where the dog tromps over with her wet feet to eat the crumbs.  The whole scenario sends me into an unrecoverable fit.

The phone rings.  I see that it is my realtor and my heart stops.  I know that whatever I had planned for the next four hours is about to get nixed.  I feign cheeriness as I agree to a showing later that day.  Everything gets put on hold as I attempt to erase the existence of my family and pet from our home.  I race home and de-clutter, make beds, clean bathrooms, vacuum, dust, mop and light a candle so it smells like I’ve been casually baking a spice cake instead of cleaning toilets.   I clear my shower of product – from the usual 12 shampoos and conditioners (see earlier blog) down to a more reasonable 2. I play subtle spa-type music in each room to evoke a feeling of peace and calm for the potential buyer (as opposed to the frenzy that preceded his arrival).  I arrange flowers, and get rid of personal photos.  Everything is perfectly staged for success.  I, on the other hand, am a wreck.  During the 4-6 hour cleaning process (depending on the level of depravity that has taken place in my house) my mind constantly oscillates, “This is it, this is the one.  I’m positive we are going to sell the house.  I’m going to research flights to Italy and potential rentals tonight…… and then this is such a waste of my time, we are never going to sell this house, why am I working so hard.”  And on it goes….

I hastily depart my residence with my dog and her four assault weapons in tow, I’m usually sweating, the floors still wet behind me.  (During a showing last year, I left her in the yard and she was playing with a potential buyer’s offspring when she inadvertently ripped the little girl’s skirt off by mistake, so now the dog has to go.  Needless to say, no offer on that showing either).  The dog and I lumber around town in the car while I try to catch my breath and calm down. As I begin to again ponder the various scenarios that might result from all my labor, the realtor calls again, “They liked it, but….”   POP! There goes that damn blow dart gun again.