Decisions, Decisions....

“Deciding what not to do is as important as deciding what to do.”

---Steve Jobs

 

 

Decisions, decisions, decisions. We all have to make decisions every day. Most are easy, right? Pizza or Chinese? Burgers or dogs? Red or white? Wait, those are all food-related. I guess that’s where my mind is lately. Can you blame me? I’m job hunting, so there are no crucial work problems to solve, my daughter is all set with her plans, school’s over, and her ducks are all in a row.  Shopping is a no-go, so no worries about which pair of kicking red shoes I need, because the answer to that is “none.” What’s left but figuring out the next meal? Of course, that will likely lead to me having to decide, “Rice cakes, or salad?” for the next six months.

 

Leaving aside the mundane decisions, it is becoming a time when so many of us are facing tough choices. Back in March, when the world went slightly off its axis, sending us all into a toilet paper and hand sanitizer frenzy, there weren’t that many options. Schools were closed, masks were required everywhere, and restaurants were shuttered. The choices then were mostly about which streaming service to binge on and how many cookies constituted a poor choice. My answer to the cookie question? A sleeve of cookies is too many, but one section of the Milanos is just about perfect.

 

Lately, though, everyone I know is facing decisions that are far more complex. From childcare, summer camp, and college plans to jobs, home offices, and finances, the sheer tonnage of what we have to decide could stun a herd of wildebeest. Back in the Spring, it was about getting through each day, each week, each press conference on the latest numbers. Now that we’ve moved into other phases, the options are way muddier, and I know it’s not just me that’s staring into the future like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.

 

The biggest and scariest decision most of my friends are facing is the back to school issue. I’ve never been so grateful not to have young children. School ended so abruptly in the Spring and having to re-tool and begin remote learning has been a monumental challenge for everyone I know with school-aged kids. At first, it’s all crisis mode decisions, where you just do what you have to, because it’s all there is. Now, there are so many factors to consider. The safety of teachers and staff as well as students, the logistics of buildings and classrooms, airflow, PPE, distance learning, hybrid models, lions and tigers, and bears, oh my! Yes, children need to be educated; we can all agree on that. The rest however is a mess. To those dealing with it, whether from the parent side, or the educator side, my heart is with you. Also, someone said to me recently, “Not every parent is a teacher, but most teachers are parents.” How can we even weigh all the options? What might be the right choice on the job, could the wrong choice for family members.

 

It’s not just about teachers and parents, though. We’re all facing huge challenges that involve finances, health, careers, and so much more. That’s when a particularly wise friend said to me, “Right now, the best anyone can do is to pick the option that sucks less for you and your family, because there are no easy solutions.” They were right. So many of us are looking to the government, to our neighbors, to the scientists and other professionals, and guess what? There’s no consensus there either. One side makes a case for XYZ, but oh, here’s another side that says it can’t possibly be that it has to be ABC. The stakes are high too, and that makes it all the more difficult. I’m usually a person that says, “Pick a lane, for Pete’s sake!” but right now, it’s like the old arcade game of Frogger, and we’re all hopping from lane to lane, hoping not to get run over.

 

There is one decision I have made, and it wasn’t even that hard. Unless someone is truly dangerous or breaking the law, I will not fault their decisions. No one ever knows what’s happening in someone else’s life, so evaluating their choices as they relate to our own circumstances is useless. If someone chooses not to send their kid to school in the fall, or to get a new job, or go back to the old one, I’m going to try and trust that their decision was not easy, not made lightly, and I’m going to support them, with no criticism, no anger, no judgment. That’s the goal anyway. I’m sure that privately I will roll my eyes so hard I see my brain; that’s normal for me though, and normal is what I need right now. Everyone is carrying a load others can’t possibly understand. Let’s lay off second-guessing anyone else. Take care; we are more than halfway done with this year. Just keep going.

You do You? Not Always....

“You do you.”

--Unknown, unattributed

 I keep hearing this quote lately. Whether it’s masks, or quarantine, or eating in a restaurant, it’s all, “You do you!” You know what? I have had it with this. Faithful readers of this column (all three of you) can look back and see that I have, much to everyone’s surprise, been Miss Good Vibes Only during this pandemic. This week, I’m so done with that. 

Graphic from The Atlantic

I get it; it’s bad out there. I lost my job. No worries, there’s always waitressing and substitute teaching, right? Oh…wait…never mind. But hey, I’m not the only one. It’s not just about me. There are nurses, doctors, EMTs (hello, my daughter is one) out there keeping people alive, I have no reason to complain. I will find a writing gig at some point, I am just grateful not to be hacking up a lung, you know? Ask around though, and you’ll find that a common reason people are ticked off is that they had to go a few months without a haircut. Really? Picture me right now, channeling my inner Marisa Tomei from “My Cousin Vinny” and hollering, sarcastically, “OMG, what (blanking) nightmare!”

Most of us have never navigated a pandemic. First it was stay home, and if you have to go out, wear a mask, stay six feet apart, don’t touch anyone else, or even your own face. Then it got tougher and became a mission. Hoard the wipes, buy all the Lysol, stock up on bleach! More of that “you do you” mentality, right? We all want to keep our loved ones safe, but it’s gone beyond that to something that is, quite frankly, ugly. G-D forbid you whip through the dozens of mega rolls of Charmin you managed to snag back in March, right? You have to keep going, you need more of everything! The world is going to end if you don’t get another roll, another dozen eggs, three more loaves of bread, and a gallon jug of hand sanitizer.

You do you is straight up selfish at this point. So many are just refusing to look outside their own bubble of oblivion and recognize that someone else might need a hand. People are struggling, but it’s OK, you do you; that person you whipped in front of in Market Basket might have needed that last bag of rice, or that last sack of flour. Hey, no worries, right? You were just doing you.

Stop it, it’s gross.

I’m no infectious disease expert, but the science (remember science?) says that masks can reduce risk not just for ourselves, but for others. See how that works? I wear a mask because it might help someone else. Doesn’t make me a hero, just like singing in the shower doesn’t make me Beyoncé, but still, I’m happy to do it. Because…others. If you interpret “you do you” as a reason to not wear a mask, or not wash your hands, or not social distance, then you’re not doing you, because, newsflash, public health is not just about you. The word public means all of us. You are risking the health of your neighbors, you are standing up for selfishness, and you’re making it harder for everyone else to get through this sh….poop show. I’m so sick of it, my head is going to fly off.

OK, deep breath. Yes, this is a rant, and I too am being crappy. It’s just really hard to see people disrespecting others over…well…everything. Even those that have always been revered and respected are getting tossed under the bus. We all love teachers, right? It’s all apples and appreciation, until we think about school starting up and then we say, “Teachers need to get back to class, the economy is gonna tank, if they’re too scared, they shouldn’t be teachers.” 

Seriously? Yes, we all want school to open, but how many people have to die or risk grave illness to make it happen? Could we spare a moment for the people that are literally educating, caring for, and protecting the next generation? Can we please look out for them and respect the work they’ve done this year, under unimaginable circumstances? You think supply lists were bad when they asked for a box of Kleenex and some pencils? How many cans of Lysol do you have stashed away? How many masks, gloves, and wipes? How many are you willing to part with? Or perhaps you could just tell them, “Hey! These are mine. You do you!”

There is a lot we can each do for other people. We can wear the mask and shut the hell up about it, for Christ's sake. We can wait in line, six feet apart, and shut up about that too. We can stop driving like jerks, flipping people the bird because we are ticked off (I admit, this one is hard for me too, I get it.) We can stop calling the police on teenagers, shaming them over dog poop and social distancing. The cops are too busy for you, Karen, put the phone down.

Try this. Buy a teacher some of the good wipes. Drop off a Dunks gift card at the police station. Say thank you to the checker at Crosby’s, not because they bagged your groceries, but because they showed up. Stop doing you and do someone else. Wait… that didn’t come out right. Whatever, just pull your head out of wherever it is and look around. No, we cannot live in fear. But we can live in compassion. We can live in careful caution. We can live in a world where we help others, where we look outside ourselves and reach out to lend a hand. We can do anything, with good sense, with science, and with the help of friends, neighbors, and even strangers. We can do this, but we have to do it right. See if there’s something that needs doing and doesn’t involve your own needs. Be kind, be helpful, lend a hand. Thank you.

Being a Five Year Old

“Play is the highest form of research”

--Albert Einstein

 Now that we have plodded through a couple of phases of COVID re-openings, fifty-seven days of June, and a dozen or so senior parades, and socially distant graduations, it’s a proper summer.  Family corn hole games on the lawn, beach buckets, and BBQs are back again. As the pandemic progresses, every week brings some new item that's in short supply and high demand. Toilet paper, jigsaw puzzles, home gym equipment and so much else. Right now, kiddy pools are sold out almost everywhere. At my house, the TP is all stocked up, puzzles are lined up for the next bunch of rainy days, and I find myself turning to toys. Little kid toys. It’s like I’m five years old again.

Mr. Potato Head, Play-Doh, and Matchbox cars have all made an appearance in the last few weeks. The other night, when two friends came over for some backyard distantly social snacks, we pulled out craft kits and made plastic mermaid sun catchers, with stained glass gel paints.

Perhaps one good thing that could come from this pandemic is the return to the fun parts of our younger years. When my high school senior lost her last season of track, her senior awards night, her prom, and her job, refuge was found in coloring books and board games. Most people I know with Class of 2020 kids have said that watching them lose so many milestones, brought back their own memories of sweating it out on a football field in a polyester cap and gown, staying out until dawn on prom night, and having that last team dinner. I got to experience all of those events, but my daughter didn’t, and that is a real loss. When I graduated, the world was my oyster. I had college to look forward to, new people, travel, and so much more. I was going places. The Class of 2020? Quarantine and Zoom classes. Face masks and empty classrooms. Canceled plans and almost constant worry that their world will never be the same.  Is it any wonder that turning to the playthings of childhood would be a comfort?

Playtime doesn’t keep anyone safe, it usually doesn’t bring in a paycheck, but sometimes you just have to head for the toy box. Think about it. If you’re five years old, and the world isn’t teetering on its axis, one chest x-ray away from a corona-pocalypse, what makes you happy? Toys and food, most likely. Scraped a knee? Have a Freeze Pop. Having a bad day? Go play dollies and racecars. I’m way older than five, and confession time: I built a pug out of Legos this week and spent a few happy hours playing with Silly Sand. Also, they still make Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, in the tubes with the little straws. It still burns your lungs out, and it’s still wicked fun.

When my kids were little, I was the terrible mother that hated crafts. I never wanted to do activities with a whole bunch of little pieces that needed to be assembled. Paper chains, pipe cleaner caterpillars, and paint by number kits were all necessary evils, stashed away for snow days. When there was a five-year-old at my kitchen table, it was about fighting off the spread of glitter glue and crushed Oreos. These days it’s all about fighting off dread, fear, an invisible and insidious virus, a few creditors, and an Internet full of lies, damn lies, and statistics that I should shut off, but never quite manage to do. Maybe there is something to be said for putting away the adult worries, the job hunting, the Netflix binges, and sitting down to play with something.

Then I found it, this week’s little bit of happy fun time. I was in Marshall’s, a place I hadn’t been since February. Finally, I could return the blouse that didn’t go with the jeans that are now a wee bit too tight. On a clearance shelf was a tiny plastic space ship, a small bit of fake grass, and a magnetic cow. When you press on the little alien inside the UFO, the lights blink, the toy whistles, and then you wave it over the cow until the magnet activates and sucks Elsie right up. It even lets out a long “Mooooo” as she is whisked off to outer space. Does it get any better than that? I giggled like, well, a five-year-old with a fresh tube of glitter glue.

I have no answers about COVID-19. I cannot solve the racial issues that are everywhere, and just as illness-inducing as the virus. I can’t holler anymore at the news on TV; I’m going to barf up a vocal cord. What I can do, however, is take the time to pick up a stupid toy now and then and do some serious playing around. It won’t solve any of the big issues, but it will provide a few light moments. We all need more of those. Stay safe and play nice, OK?

Were Those The Days?

“Nostalgia. It’s delicate but potent…It takes us to a place where we ache to go again.” – Don Draper, Mad Men, AMC TV

Mad Men was the best show I’ve watched since The West Wing, and that is saying something, because I am a huge Wing Nut, and can quote whole episodes in their entirety. I am a child of the Mad Men era. My mother was a stay at home mom, as were all the moms on our street. They hung out laundry, did dishes, made weird Jell-O mold salads for church suppers, and were often found counting up Green Stamps and lighting up a Lucky Strike. My mother raised my brother and me in those few years after the fabulous 50s, but before the social uprising of the 1970s. My childhood was all about Saturday morning cartoons, toys with lead paint, dresses for girls, pants for boys, and all the expectations that went with those distinctions.

I still live on the street where I grew up. When we moved here, there were more than a dozen children the same age as we were. We roamed the streets like feral animals, prowling around the playground, hitting the beach, riding bikes, and going on adventures in the woods along the train tracks. Neighborhood schools meant the kids that lived near you, were usually in school with you, and I’m lucky to still have so many friends from that time.

While you don’t have to have been brought up the same way to be friends with someone, it’s true that birds of a feather do tend to flock together. The other night, while sitting in my back yard having socially distant drinks and snacks with two childhood chums, it kind of hit me. There we were, three fully grown, extremely capable women, a few kids between us, decades of careers and shenanigans behind us, and who knows what ahead of us. We are all the product of being raised in Irish Catholic homes, so we all had similar memories of Easter dresses, with matching hats and gloves, meatless Fridays, church every week, and the same two choices for every meal…eat it or starve. Yet, here we are, so very different from the women that raised us.

We are modern women, but we came from women that, while amazing, did not have the opportunities and experiences that we enjoy. We own houses, condos, cars, all on our own. We don’t have to ask a husband, or a father or a brother for permission to do anything. When we want something, we go after it. Now, our mothers were not shrinking violets; Mary, Ruth, and the other Mary were incredibly strong, unbelievably wise, and truly the best examples of parenting anyone could imagine. However, they came of age in such a different environment.

How can women who were not allowed to open a bank account on their own, or have a mortgage in their name, raise confident women that, not to brag, are pretty much running the world? So many women who married and raised families in the 60s were told what to wear and how to act. They were funneled into “pink-collar jobs” and working wasn’t about career advancement but rather a nice way to spend some time while finding a husband. They were denied so much of what my friends and I take for granted, and yet, they still pulled it off. They produced fabulous children that are literally changing the world for the better, and they did it while dusting, baking, and hanging cloth diapers on clotheslines.

We look back with nostalgia on those years. We go through photo albums of faded Polaroids, and we smile at the silver Christmas trees, the avocado green kitchens, and the shag carpeting. Do we really want to go back though? Of course, I’d give anything to have my mother, Mrs. H. and Ruthie here today, because there is so much I never got to ask them, but there’s no way I could be a 60s housewife. Looking back on a period of time and fondly remembering people and places is one thing, but I would have failed miserably at being a mother in the Mad Men era. Being raised by one, however, has been a very good thing.