Category Archives: Life Lessons

serious discussions on a range of topics

Life Lessons, Writers and Writing

A Room of One’s Own

The four of us met several years ago in a “Writing a Non-Fiction Book” class.  We shared a great respect for each other’s work and the tenacity to keep at the writing.  So when the class ended, it was a no-brainer that we should form a writing group.  We began meeting bi-monthly at a funky café in Harvard Square.

Our group is the literary equivalent of having a “gym buddy.”  When you don’t feel like going to the gym, you force yourself because she’s counting on you.  And so, the writing group keeps us all on track.

We are diverse women; the writing is our common thread.  We lead very different lives, with demanding work schedules, multiple family responsibilities, and community commitments.  Add to that the everyday tasks of cooking and laundry, and how much time is left for writing?  For me it always comes down to this: sleep or write.  Which would explain my consumption of caffeine and the circles under my eyes.

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In the spirit of Virginia Woolfe’s essay “A Room of One’s Own,” we recently planned an intensive weekend of writing.  We drove to Vermont, holed up in a carriage house that overlooked the Green Mountains, and we wrote.  No household chores, no television, no distractions.  Each of us structured our time a bit differently, but the bottom line was writing and receiving feedback in real time.  Alright, I’ll admit it – there was a small side trip to the Eileen Fisher outlet store located a few miles away.  But I promise, it was a very productive weekend.

Living communally reminded me of my college days.  These amazing, supportive women have made a crucial impact on my life.  We left Vermont with a deep sense of accomplishment.  Next time – and there will be a next time – we’ll go to the ocean.

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

Inked

When I was a kid, it seemed like the only people with tattoos were guys who’d been in the military or who rode motorcycles.  Getting tattooed is painful and it proved these guys were strong, tough, cool.  In other words – badass.

Once in a great while, I’d see a woman with a tattoo but it was usually a dainty little red rose on her ankle or shoulder.  Still, I never considered doing it myself.  For one thing, I didn’t feel strongly enough about anything to have it branded into my skin.  Then there was the pain factor.   And a badass?  Definitely not me.

But getting tattooed has become so commonplace that it hardly seems the act of courage or rebellion it once was.  These days, it’s more about artistic expression and individualism. That being said, getting tattooed remains a painful endeavor and, you have to be gutsy to let that needle go at your skin.

Full disclosure here: I got inked.

Like far too many women, first I was cut.  Next, pumped full of poison.  Then came the tatts, and finally they nuked me.  I guess that makes me a badass after all.

pink-ribbonYou see, my tatts are radiation markers.  I am a breast cancer survivor with four small permanent black dots on my chest.  But I’m also a hockey enthusiast, a devoted Boston Bruins fan, so I choose to think of my tatts as small hockey pucks.  Four little pucks in honor of the greatest hockey player that ever was: Number Four – Bobby Orr!

It’s October.  Hockey season started last week and my Bruins are back on the ice.  It’s also Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Have you scheduled your mammogram?red poppy

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Life Lessons

To Sleep, Perchance

alarm-clockInsomnia.  I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.  There’s nothing so hopeless as being awake at two or three in the morning.  You get up and walk around the room and that doesn’t help.  So you get back in bed and try to be still and breathe evenly, and that doesn’t help.  You turn the clock toward the wall so you can’t see how late it is.  You don’t read because it will stimulate your brain.  You don’t eat because it will stimulate your body.  It’s times like this you wish you knew how to knit.

Your scalp is itchy.  The bottoms of your feet are itchy.  Your whole body is itchy.  You think about everything that’s gone wrong.  You think about all the things you should be doing.  You are doomed to think and think and think.

Did you send that important email before you left work?

You didn’t make the kids’ lunch for school tomorrow.

It’s fall now, you need to get the windows washed…

Then the room begins to brighten.  The sun is coming up.  You get out of bed, go over to the window and open the blinds.  You made it through the night.  Maybe it wasn’t so bad.  Maybe you will be so tired later, because you’ve been up for nearly 24 hours straight, that by the end of the day you will collapse in a heap in your bed.  You will sleep and it will be deep and sound and satisfying.  This is what you think until night comes again.

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

To Be A Princess

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I keep hearing “just because you don’t have a prince doesn’t mean you’re not a princess.”  Although several people have taken credit for this saying, it’s the cutest three- and five-year-old sisters who’ve helped me figure out the whole princess thing.

What is it about the princess narrative anyway?  Is it the notion of being rescued?  When my office mate brought her two young boys to the LEGOLAND Discovery Center, she was appalled that one of the activities was all about ‘saving the princess.’  “The princess,” she insisted, “can save herself!”

While there have always been princesses who fall into a deep sleep, or lose their glass slipper, in recent years, we’ve seen a whole new crop of them.  This new breed may be self-reliant and reflect greater diversity, yet their end game still seems to be marriage.  Which brings me to the handsome prince.  Of course the princess wants to marry him.  He’s a great catch – not to mention major eye candy.

But there’s a time before the prince enters the picture.  As I watch my friend’s two tiny daughters get all caught up in the princess craze, I can tell you, they’re not thinking about any prince.  For them, it’s all about the girly, glittery princess costumes.  They just want to wear the pretty dresses.  That’s all it takes to make them feel special.  They twirl around in their princess dresses and show me that you don’t need a prince to be a princess.

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Best of Boston, Life Lessons

September in Boston

Emerson Union“They’re baaaack…”   At summer’s end, nearly a quarter-of-a-million college students descend upon Boston.  They arrive in SUV’s and with U-Hauls that get double and triple parked along the city streets.  It’s a chaotic and familiar scene that jars my memory, transports me back to a September when I was a student.

My classes took place in a cluster of century-old brownstones that was Emerson College.  The Back Bay streets I walked were lined with gas street lamps, and every statue and church marked a piece of history.  There was no quad, no field house, no bookstore, nothing even remotely resembling a traditional campus – this was an urban campus.

The city was filled with a new kind of student – their oxford shirts and Shetland sweaters were packed away in their parents’ attics.  These young men and women were costumed in vivid colors, leather jackets, tight black trousers, walking boots, male and female alike wearing haircuts as short as their fathers had worn thirty years before.  They liked to gather in front of the Mass Communications Building and smoke clove cigarettes.  Their energy was palpable and it made me feel as if I were in the midst of a bizarre 1980’s new-wave cartoon with loud, clashing colors.

The Emerson Library windows overlooked the Charles River.  The water was calm but I could imagine the prep school trained crew teams from the Cambridge side of the river out in the early morning, their movements synchronized, their breath coming in steamy huffs.  I never got up early enough to actually go down to the Esplanade to watch them.  I would’ve felt out of place there.

It was an odd mix of scenery, of philosophy, of fashion.  At first I didn’t know exactly where I fit into the picture.  But this was where I belonged.  I found my niche.  My peeps.  My voice.  And although I knew it was not possible, that September, I wished that for once, time could stand still.

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Life Lessons

Hidden Talents

Watching the Olympics, I marvel at the athletes – their skill and dedication, their years of sacrifice.  These elite athletes are a special breed and their kind of talent cannot be denied.

By comparison, the rest of us might seem ordinary, but we all have our hidden talents.

When I stopped by my brother’s place the other day, I was immediately drawn to a new piece of art hanging on the wall in his entryway.  This black and white photograph of a subway platform was urban and gritty, but it possessed an ethereal quality that I loved.

Porter Square T Staion

When I gushed about how wonderful it was, my brother didn’t say a word.  He just gave me the nod.  It’s a subtle mannerism of his.  He smiles and then gently nods his head twice.

“It’s one of my shots,” he finally admitted.

So I examined the photo more closely, noting the contrast of light and dark, the movement of the train – he’d successfully captured a moment and created a mood.  My brother, the chemical engineer, had been dabbling at photography for a couple of years, but I never realized how good he was until I saw this example of his work.

As I walked home that night, I thought about the corporate communication coach I know whose real talent is dancing the Tango.  She has such a passion for Tango that she travels to Argentina regularly just to dance.  I was reminded of my cousin, a retired teacher, who makes beautiful stained glass.  With patient and steady hands, she’s adept at cutting the glass, grinding the edges, foiling it, soldering it until she’s created a Tiffany styled lamp, wall sconce, or decorative mirror.

We all have some hidden talent that we likely take for granted.  We consider it a hobby.  But it’s often much more than that.  And it’s rewarding when that talent gets acknowledged.

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Life Lessons

Table for One

dinner for one

You’re on your own.  It’s late, you’re out, and you haven’t eaten dinner.  You’re starvin’ like Marvin.  What do you do?

A- Go home and eat a bowl of cereal, which is fine for breakfast but…remember you are very, very hungry.

B- Get take-out which will become cold and considerably less appealing by the time you sit down to eat it.

C- Resort to the fast food drive-thru window where you’ll be handed a paper bag full of calories, but lacking in nutrition.

D- Choose a respectable restaurant and have a proper meal.

My choice is D.  I want a place setting, a menu, and some good food.  Besides, dining alone is nothing to be ashamed of.  Sure, it requires a certain confidence.  But experience has taught me that this skill can be acquired.

In my twenties, I ate alone at the burger joints and coffee shops where nearly everyone eats alone.  Anything beyond that was outside my comfort zone.  By thirty, I’d mastered the art of reading a book or magazine while dining alone in upscale eateries.  Nowadays, a smart phone and earbuds provide company at a table for one.  But I no longer need props when eating out alone.

Recently, I went to one of my favorite restaurants on an uncharacteristically slow night.  There were only a handful of people at the bar, and several tables remained empty.  As I sat at the bar waiting for my meal to arrive, I chatted with the bartender, another single woman like myself.

What was her take on a table for one?  Eating alone is not an urban phenomenon – the suburbanites do it too.  Many more women eat alone than do men.  She observed that men appear more self-conscious about being without a partner.  From her vantage point behind the bar, she could tell that most people don’t even notice when someone is dining alone.  It’s just not a big deal.  Finally, she admitted that she enjoys eating alone because she finds it relaxing.  I had to agree.red poppy

 

 

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Life Lessons

My Dad – the Ad Man

The Ad Man 001Back in the day, my father was a G-rated version of Don Draper – one of the original “ad men” of the 1960’s.  For most of his career, he worked in the advertising department at NBC.  As a child, I didn’t understand what he did, but I surmised it was important because he worked in Rockefeller Center and had a view of the skating rink from his office windows.

Years later, I understood just what his job entailed.  His department was responsible for all the print advertising for the network.  The graphic artists and copywriters created ads and he produced them, by working closely with engravers and typesetters.  He then bought space in the various newspapers and magazines that would run the ads.  Faced with the pressure of constant deadlines, he often schmoozed and negotiated with the printers, all the while cajoling the artists to get them to turn their work in on time.  My father worked long hours.  And he suffered from migraines.

My father’s immigrant father owned a small, independent, neighborhood fruit and vegetable store in Queens, New York.  My grandfather spent his life lifting and carrying crates.  Despite how tired my father must have been from his long work week at NBC, he sometimes helped out at the family store on Saturdays, and I doubt he and my grandfather ever talked to each other about work.  I’m not sure if my grandfather understood the power of the media or saw the work my father did as meaningful.

When my father retired, he traded in his suit and briefcase for a set of golf clubs.  These days, he goes out to breakfast with the ROMEOS (Retired Old Men Eating Out), wearing the Life is Good baseball cap I gave him a few years ago.  He thought the slogan was a reference to his retirement.  But it was also meant to acknowledge how hard he worked to give our family a good life.

Dad

 

Thank you, Dad.  Happy Father’s Day.

 

 

 

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Life Lessons

Breakfast with NYC’s Bravest

The mood in the hotel restaurant was subdued, save for the witty banter taking place at the bar, where I sat with four men to my left, and four more to my right.  You see, a friend was visiting Beantown with “some of the guys” for the Yankees-Red Sox game and we met for breakfast.

I watched in amazement as they devoured large plates of hearty breakfast fare and washed it all down with Bloody Marys and black coffee.  In between talk of sports and politics, and poking fun at the guy who got carried away with his Fitbit, I caught a rare glimpse into the stuff of male friendships.

“How long have you guys been together?” I asked.  “Eight years.”  “Eleven years.”  “Thirteen years,” they were all chiming in.  One of them patted my friend’s shoulder declaring, “I’d do anything for this guy…”  Their ages ranged from barely-thirty to mid-fifties, but these were no ordinary men and theirs were no ordinary friendships.  Because they were firefighters.  New York City’s Bravest.  I’d heard about the brotherhood of firefighters, but I’d never seen it up close before.

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When the bartender presented the bill, one of the guys called out, “Credit card roulette!” and took off his baseball cap, then pointing to me, clarified, “But she’s not in it.”  Each of them took a credit card from his wallet and placed it in the hat.  The fellow next to me explained the rules.  A stranger – always a woman, preferably a hot woman – would be asked to pick the credit cards, one by one, and call out the names.  The final credit card would be used to cover the entire bill.  This is so NOT how women divide a check, I thought.

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As we said good bye, I thought about their selflessness and their character, the extraordinary work they do, and the bond they share.  I was in awe of them.  NYC’s Bravest – thank you for your service, and thanks for breakfast.red poppy

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Girl Talk, Life Lessons

The WWE

No, I am not referring to World Wrestling Entertainment.  I’m talking about my girls, aka: the Women Who Eat.  The WWE, for short.  The four of us have been friends for about a hundred years – collectively speaking, that is – and were named by a long-forgotten boyfriend one night during a raucous and lavish dinner.

“I love these women!” he gushed.  “They eat.”

Truer words were never spoken…  We’ve gone to Tea at The Ritz.  Eaten Fenway Franks standing up.  We’ve been to Morton’s for steaks, and the North End for pasta.  We’ve sipped Malbec, toasted with Kir Royales, and indulged in a margarita or two.  PMS’ed on obscenely expensive and highly caloric cupcakes.  We’ve had breakfast for dinner, brought in take-out, and cooked for each other.

But who we are, and who we are to each other, goes way beyond our shared healthy appetite.  During our collective hundred years of friendship, we’ve celebrated weddings and babies, hosted showers, housewarming parties, and milestone birthdays.  No topic is off limits and the laughter is infectious whenever the WWE get together.

Over the years, there have been some dark times spent in hospital waiting rooms.  We’ve lifted each other up through illness, prayed for each other as well as for ailing parents.  Too many times, we’ve comforted each other through heartbreaking losses.

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Our lives are complicated and we can’t get together as often as we’d like.  But we do our best.  Just last week, as the weather turned pleasantly warm, a flurry of late-afternoon emails and texts were exchanged.  We not only wanted to dine outdoors, we wanted to be near the ocean. The waitress was overburdened and the food was a long time coming.  But we didn’t mind.  Because the view of the harbor was breathtaking.  And we were together.

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