Cable Confessions

Cable Confessions

Those of you who have been reading my column for a while and who still remember important things like the words to the theme song from the Mary Tyler Moore Show, may recall my family’s battle with cable. The battle was entirely on our side--Cable TV had no clue of the war that we were waging. For years we were happily one of the few cable hold-outs in the world. We figured that we already wasted too much time watching TV so why encourage the habit with better programming? And we were doing just fine until FIOS came along.

Once Verizon installed fiber optic cables on our street they offered us their version of Pandora’s box, called the FIOS package. Quite simply we would be paying less for their bundled, phone, internet and cable system than we were currently paying for just our phone and internet. It was an offer we couldn’t refuse.

Our new cable capabilities didn’t affect Steve because except for the occasional sports program he rarely watched TV but I was a sitting duck. My self control is non-existent when faced with potato chips, fresh bread and a beloved sitcom. Add to that the fact that I’m a person who has to finish anything they’ve started be it a book or a movie no matter how bad, and you have a recipe for an instant couch potato. Many is the time Steve has come into a room, looked at what I was watching and asked, “Why in the world are you watching that??” and my only answer is, “I have to know how it ends.”

I held out for a while. But then one day I came home from work exhausted and cautiously picked up the remote. I hesitated for a moment knowing what I was letting myself in for, then pushed the red button. What I really hate about cable TV is that no matter what time of day or night it is, if you keep pushing those damn buttons you will inevitably find something that will suck you in like a vacuum cleaner. Something will appeal to your potato brain and you will sit there like a deer in the headlights unable to look away.

And here is where the confession part comes in. Readers, if you want to retain any respect for me I suggest that you stop reading now. Because what I am about to reveal will shock you to the core. Of all the possible crap that I could have become addicted to, and despite my bonafide card-carrying membership in the Masterpiece Theater club, (or Misery Theater as Steve calls it) it’s the reality show genre that has hooked me. Yes, I am a reality show addict and I’m not proud of it. So sue me.

The programs that I can’t seem to stop watching belong to the self-improvement/ fashion category. The first one, America’s Next Top Model, I can blame on my daughter, Lisa, my enabler and co-watcher. A few years ago, after she had just graduated from Wesleyan, she found out via her alma mater grapevine that one of the women that had lived in her dorm was a finalist on the program. Neither one of us had ever heard of the show before but we thought it would be fun to see someone we actually knew on TV. So we found out when it was on and made a date to watch it together.

Originally created by super model, Tyra Banks, the show can now be seen in over a hundred and fifty countries by crazy people with nothing better to do, like me. Tyra Banks and her fashionista co-horts choose about 20 women from thousands of applicants, throw them into a gorgeous house for a couple of months and eliminate them one by one through modeling competitions. The last one standing becomes, you guessed it, America’s next top model. The upside of this show is Tyra Banks and her assistants who have a quirky sense of humor, and the gorgeous fashions. And if she is to be believed, Tyra is interested in fostering strong women who can break out of the typical cliché model mode. The downside is the incessant squabbling of these impossibly beautiful women who seem to have little more in their heads than the goal of becoming camera mannequins. So after all these weeks why am I still watching this drivel? Mine is not to reason why—I blame exhaustion and bad taste.

The other show that has me hooked is an import from Great Britain, How to Look Good Naked. In this show, the host chooses women with poor self body images (that would be most of us!) and spends six weeks convincing them that they’re gorgeous and all they need to prove it to themselves is an appropriate wardrobe. I love the premise. The show pictures women of every shape and size, teaches them what to wear to make the most of what they’ve got, and sends them out in the cruel, cruel world feeling like the supermodels that inhabit Tyra’s world. I desperately want to go shopping with the host.

So now you know my shameful secret--Cinderella reality shows. But before you laugh at my foibles, what are you watching when you think no one is looking? Somehow I don’t think it’s Death of a Salesman.

Clean Sweep

Clean Sweep

Our good friends Mike and Mary are coming for a visit in a couple of weeks and suddenly the house is filthy. Okay so maybe it’s just looks that way to me. Realistically I know that Mike and Mary could care less if I polish up my dust bunnies—this is merely insanity on my part. What I’d really like to do is pull off a few minor improvements, like painting the house, replacing the carpeting and furniture and re-doing the kitchen and bathrooms, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. So I’ve settled on the cleaning crazies.

Yesterday I started with the fridge. I scrubbed the shelves, shined the chrome, and blasted everything else with toxic chemicals. Afterwards I enjoyed the glow. Until I noticed how dirty the stove seemed in comparison.

Out came the steel wool and elbow grease. I’ve always hated this stove. When I bought it I thought that it looked wonderfully easy to clean. The oven whispered in my ear that it was self cleaning and that a mere lick of a sponge would take care of the rest. Unfortunately I ignored the evil snickering coming from the burners and laid down my credit card. It wasn’t until the appliance was delivered that I discovered what a major pain it was to clean--it had nooks and crannies that a blowtorch couldn’t reach. Mariel is the only one who actually enjoys tackling it when she’s in for a visit. Afterwards I don’t let anyone cook anything on it for at least a week.

Stove done, I thought that I deserved a rest until I noticed that the dishwasher looked dirtier than the dishes it was supposed to clean. And then the cabinets, the backsplash, the floor—everything looked like it should be immediately condemned. Maybe we could just move to a hotel for the week-end so Mike and Mary need never see this disaster that is my house. When I announced my brilliant idea to Steve, he just looked at me with the look that he reserves for all hopeless idiots that cross his path, and told me that somehow he didn’t think that our friends would notice anything but us.

It’s funny because when we visited them last summer, Mike and Mary were in the midst of renovating their house and apologizing for the mess, but all I could see was their welcoming smiles. Of course that doesn’t help me now since we stayed in their newly renovated, drop dead gorgeous guest room, and their accommodations here will be comparatively Spartan, though I think I can spring for a brand new bar of soap.

We live in a split ranch. The downstairs is a complete apartment which served as the perfect place for my parents to stay when they visited. Over the years it has also been wonderful to be able to extend invitations to friends to stay over whenever they wished. Because of that I’ve always kept the bedroom blissfully empty, fending off my family’s efforts to turn it into a storage room. That has held true since we moved in twenty years ago, but now it’s occupied by my husband. Steve is excitedly working on his own business and the downstairs bedroom has been transformed into his office. It’s perfect for him but not so perfect for guests. But he has promised me that he will quickly turn it back into a bedroom for our friends’ visit.

So after cleaning myself into a frenzy in the house, I moved on to the garage, because of course Mike and Mary will be spending so much time there! (I am truly nuts!) Out came the broom. I swept viciously while keeping up a constant grumbling about how dusty it was, how many spider webs there were, and how no one ever sweeps in here but me. I lifted the broom to move a bench then proceeded to get it stuck on something when I put it down again. I looked down to see that the broom was now firmly secured to what I realized was a sticky mouse trap that Steve had put down a few months ago. I tugged and pulled to no avail.

Without thinking, I decided to try and secure the trap to the floor so that I could get some leverage, and without thinking I used my foot. Now, of course my shoe was stuck. I began pulling like a mad woman at both the broom and my foot, simultaneously cursing and laughing to myself at the ridiculous predicament that I had gotten myself into. I believe I was channeling Lucy Ricardo. I hopped over to the garage door and began yelling for Steve, who came out, took one look at me and collapsed laughing.

“Okay, Okay I know I look ridiculous, just get me out of this!”
“Why didn’t you just take your shoe off?” he managed to sputter still holding his sides.

I looked at him, looked down and realized that perhaps, just perhaps I had been doing a bit too much cleaning. It’s really not good for your brain or your soul. So after Steve got me unstuck I went upstairs, poured myself a glass of wine, put my feet up and decided that Mike and Mary would love us even if our mouse traps were dusty. After all, that’s why we love them.

Clipped Wings

Clipped Wings

My oldest daughter, Lisa, has been working as a summer camp counselor at the Blackstone Community Center where I manage my GED school. We’re tag team runners—when I left for the summer I handed off the baton to her. It wasn’t an easy adjustment for her. Being a counselor for eight-twelve year olds can be taxing and her e-mails to me at the beginning of the summer reflected that. But over the weeks she has grown gracefully into the role and now she’s talking about going back next summer.

Last week I headed into the city to have lunch with her at that famous chi-chi South End eatery—the Blackstone school cafeteria. After hearing Lisa’s horror stories about her group I’m not sure what I expected to see. Anything but the sweet little faces that looked at me so curiously wondering who this strange lady was who was lunching with their “Miss Lisa”. When Lisa told them that I was her mom, their jaws dropped open, “Really??!” they chorused not understanding the fact that counselors have moms.

“I don’t know,” she said to me. “They’re being really good today. I’m not sure what’s going on.” But then she remembered why they were being so angelic. That Friday they were going on their favorite field trip: an afternoon at a roller skating rink.

“It’s great having something to hold over their heads,” Lisa said. “If they act up I simply threaten them with not going to the rink and they stop instantly.” She was looking forward to the trip because she was sure that the kids would be having too much fun to get into trouble. I thought that one of the reasons that there wouldn’t be any problems is that most of the kids would have their hands full just staying upright. I know, because I’ve had the same problem.

Not when I was roller skating in my neighborhood though. All of us who grew up on the Brooklyn streets were born with our skates on. You started with aluminum training skates until you could get around without falling and then you traded up to ball bearing skates, or “ball bearings” as we called them. They weighed a ton. I remember putting them on for the first time and wondering how I was going to even lift my feet off the ground let alone skate around the block.

Our skates were worn over our sneakers and their length and width were adjusted with a skate key. Everyone wore their key on a lanyard around their neck. They were indispensable and we wore them as badges of honor. I can still remember the concentration involved in getting the fit just right. Too loose and the skates would fly off your feet taking you with them, too tight and you couldn’t maneuver as well. But after buckling the leather straps just right and painstakingly adjusting the rest, you could fly the city streets. And that’s exactly what it felt like—flying. Those were freedoms that a kid could appreciate—speed, recklessness, daring.

Years later when Steve and I were first married we were walking along the Charles River path with the joggers, bikers and baby carriages, when I saw someone zoom by me on roller skates. Suddenly I was eight again, longing for the feeling of racing through the streets on wheels. We found a store that rented skates and I was ecstatic. When the store owner asked us if we wanted to rent them for the entire day Steve thought it might be best if we started with half. I reluctantly agreed.

The owner fitted us and then explained the basics of turning and stopping, but I had no patience for him—after all I was a pro, I didn’t need his lessons. I just wanted to get out there, even though these shoe-skates felt different than my old ball bearings. But I was sure that I would be fine once I hit the streets. I eagerly stepped out the door and if it hadn’t been for Steve I would have immediately been sitting on my rear. Sure that it was only a fluke I started out again, only to almost fall on my face---again. What was going on here? Something was obviously wrong with these skates.

For the next hour, my childhood went down in flames. No matter what I tried I was always on the verge of falling. I had absolutely no control of those skates. I heard myself screaming, “Out of my way, out-of-control skater coming through!” to every kid, biker, jogger and baby carriage that I came upon, and on a Saturday along the Charles there were plenty of them. I was like Moses parting the sea. To my further humiliation Steve was doing just fine, so it was obviously not the skates but me.

Finally, almost in tears, I gave up.

“Enough! I want to take these skates back!” I yelled at Steve.

So back we went, the guy at the store asking us if everything was okay since we were back so soon. I just glared at him and gathered my battered pride as I huffed out of the store. Steve put his arm around me trying to console me for the loss of a childhood pleasure. I just sat there sadly realizing that I would have to find another way to fly.

Israeli Ramblings

Israeli Ramblings

Since leaving my Israeli home thirty three years ago I’ve always felt that I could return to live there whenever I chose. But in all my years of traveling there, this was the first summer that I suddenly felt that I couldn’t. It was a strange feeling and even stranger the moment I felt it. For years, even as life tossed out its usual detours, I had clung to the idea that I could always come back. But this year something had changed.

Returning was so comfortingly familiar, slipping into the well worn shoes of the sights, sounds and smells of my Middle Eastern home. And of course seeing mom again after the long months of separation was, as always, an oasis. After all the years every corner of mom’s apartment was home. Even the heat was part of the return ritual.

The beginning of the week wasn’t too bad. The days were bearable and the evenings comfortably cool for sleeping. Everyone told me how lucky I was to have missed the heat wave. I had to laugh. All of June, July, August and September is a heat wave, the soaring temperatures differing perhaps in a degree or two. But even a degree can make a difference as I was soon to remember, when the temperature began to climb along with the humidity and my crankiness.

It always scares me how susceptible I am to the weather, especially heat. I fell asleep hot and woke up hot looking forward to the moment when we would turn on the air conditioner. I drank cold water all day, inhaled ice and sometimes, when mom wasn’t looking, I would stick my head in the freezer.

But heat or no heat, you can’t sit in the house all day so mom and I would venture out in the morning to run errands and at night to try and catch a breeze somewhere. We met friends at blessedly air conditioned restaurants and tried strolling along the marina. I noticed that despite the 95 degree temperatures the women wore tight jeans. Their only concession to the heat was tank tops and sunglasses. I looked at them trying to figure out how they didn’t simply melt into a puddle of moisture on the sidewalk.

One morning I walked to the beach to gaze at the ocean then strolled along the main street checking to see which stores were still there and which had closed. I decided to pay my yearly call to the local department store, HaMashbir, to see if I could find a shirt. I usually don’t buy clothing in Israel because the prices are so outrageously high but I’d forgotten to pack a white blouse.

HaMashbir was having a sale so I headed to the women’s department hopeful that I might find something. I actually found a sleeveless t-shirt for forty Israeli shekels, about ten U.S. dollars, so I tried it on. Seeing that it fit, I asked a salesperson the price and she assured me that it was indeed just forty shekels. Then I checked the sale sign that was posted and it too boasted the same price. Feeling victorious I went to claim my prize.

The cashier asked me if I had a Hamashbir card and I told her that I didn’t. She looked at me as if I had two heads.
“Well would you like to apply for one?” she asked.
“No thank you,” I answered, “I don’t live in the country.”
“That has nothing to do with it, you can still get one!” she insisted.
Once again I refused then watched her ring up the shirt for eighty shekels.
“Wait a minute,” I told her, “That shirt is on sale.”
“Only if you have a card,” she retaliated. “It will only take a minute to get one right here.”

Oh for heavens sake. I gave in and said sure, whatever, then listened in astonishment as she told me that the card would cost me fifty shekels.

“Fifty shekels!!!! For a card?!”
“Of course,” she answered. “And it’s good for a whole year.”
“But I don’t live in the country so I wouldn’t be able to use the card!” I fairly screamed.
“So?” she countered. “But you’ll only be spending 40 shekels on the shirt.”
“But I wouldn’t be spending 40 shekels I would be spending 90 shekels on something that isn’t even worth it!”

By then, a crowd had gathered at the counter, everyone looking at me as if I were nuts. They understood the clerk’s logic perfectly well, so why couldn’t I? The icing on the cake was when the clerk asked me if I spoke any other language so that she could better explain this to me even though up until that point we had been conversing perfectly well in Hebrew.

It was at that moment, after telling her what she could do with the shirt and the card, that I realized that I could never live in Israel again. I could no longer understand the everyday logic that drove everyone. I felt like an American square peg in an Israeli round hole. My anger disappeared leaving me sad and nostalgic. In all the years that I had lived away I had grown away. And from now on I would be more tourist than citizen. And there wasn’t anything that I could do about it.