The Grass Is Greener

“Knowing trees, I understand the meaning of patience. Knowing grass, I can appreciate persistence.”  Hal Borland

You know what?  The grass is greener.  In bucolic Wayne, Pennsylvania, that is.  Frankly, the grass is greener almost anywhere.  Because most grass is greener than no grass.  Because I live in a place, a wonderful place, that boasts very little of the green stuff.  

Sure, we have Central Park and I love the Park.  The fam and I have had many magical moments at Turtle Pond.  But the truth is there is a paucity of nature here in this lovely concrete jungle.  Does this matter?  According to Yale professor of psychology Paul Bloom, the answer is a resounding YES.  To kick off Earth Week, the New York Times included Bloom's fascinating article Natural Happiness in yesterday's Magazine.  In this article, Bloom proffers an admittedly self-centered argument for why we should care about nature; it makes us happier and healthier creatures.  He endorses Harvard biologist E. O. Wilson's well-known “biophilia” hypothesis, namely that "our evolutionary history has blessed us with an innate affinity for living things. We thrive in the presence of nature and suffer in its absence."

For me, this raises two immediate questions: (1) Is Bloom right?; and (2) Is this argument patent evidence of our human-centered thought?  

I do think Bloom is onto something.  Something big.  Something fundamental.  I spent the weekend amidst grass and flowers and trees and you know what? It was a good weekend. A happy one.  The girls were all smiles.  And, yes, I'm sure this had a lot to do with my In-Laws, the incomparable Grammy and Dad-Dad, and the tasty home-cooked meals, etc., but I do think the fact that we were outside for much of the time, tasting nature (not wilderness, but nature nonetheless) had a lot to do with it.  On Saturday, we visited Chanticleer Garden, the former estate of the Rosengartens, a big pharmaceutical-family which has been open to the public since 1993.  We spent the morning meandering through this utopia of flowers and foliage and fountains, and then enjoyed a yummy picnic of sandwiches from the local farmer's market.  It is not a coincidence that this oasis is called "a pleasure garden."

As much as Bloom and Wilson and the biophilia hypothesis might be true, is this argument another indicator of misguided, human-centered thinking?  Perhaps.  After all, this is Earth week and not Human Happiness week and we should care about the earth and work to protect it because it is intrinsically valuable not because it enhances our happiness quotient.  Now, all of this might be true, but if our bottom line is to preserve nature then we should collect all of the reasons, even if they are rooted in self-centered soil.  As Bloom says, "Look at it from the coldblooded standpoint of the enhancement of the happiness of our everyday lives. Real natural habitats provide significant sources of pleasure for modern humans. We intuitively grasp this, and this knowledge underlies the anxiety that we feel about nature’s loss. It might be that one day we will be able to replace the experience of nature with “Star Trek” holodecks and robotic animals. But until then, this basic fact about human pleasure is an excellent argument for keeping the real thing."

Practically speaking, what does this mean for us city-slickers?  For us Manhattan moms?  Bloom refers to author Richard Louv's disconcerting argument that modern children suffer from "nature-deficit disorder" because they have been disconnected from the myriad physical and psychic benefits that result from organic contact with nature.  Great. Just another disorder to worry about.  But, seriously, what can we do about all this?  

I'm not so sure.  But suddenly, I am very thankful for the blossoming Magnolia outside our brownstone window, for the Park in our backyard, for the pesky pigeons Toddler chases on the sidewalks, for Grammy and Dad-Dad's open arms and green grass mere hours away.

Vancouver Veritas

Tummy trembles. Brain fuzz. That discombobulating feeling that you're not quite sure what you should be doing but you should be [doing] something to keep your act together. Anxiety. Sometimes it slips away with a few deep breaths, other times you need to beat it off with a stick or some little white pills. Naturally, we want try to get as far away from anxiety as possible - which usually just results in us being anxious about being anxious. You resist and so it persists. But what if rather than pushing it away, we actually welcomed anxiety when it showed up? What if, rather than dreading the discomfort it brings, we looked at anxiety as a delivery service of inner truth and other such soul goodies? Because every time anxiety shows up, it's our psyche's way of saying, "Knock knock, I've got something to show you about yourself that you really should see."

Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard explained anxiety is a natural condition. (How liberating!) He believed that anxiety is "a cognitive emotion that reveals truths that we would prefer to hide but that we need for our greater health." And that it's a valuable to for shaping our ideal lives. Think of it this way, beneath the butterflies in your stomach, behind the clouds in your mind – is your greater truth, and it's trying to break on through.

No, these are not my words. (Hence, the lovely purple italicized font). These are the insights of deep-thinking and fiesty Danielle LaPorte, a former think-tank exec, writer, and entrepreneurial consultant.  LaPorte, a self-proclaimed "spiritual mutt" and current Vancouver resident, has a stunning and soul-stinging website called White Hot Truth that you should check out right now.  On this site, she explores subjects that affect us all: anger, anxiety, discouragement, self-realization, truth.  Sound a bit new-agey? Perhaps.  But her (often humorous) words are an addictive mixture of profound and practical.  To see the entirety of her post Your Friend, Anxiety quoted above click here. 

Some cool things about Danielle:

• She was executive director of The Arlington Institute, a Washington, DC-based think tank for future studies where she managed futurists (she worked with The Navy, The World Bank and IBM) (No, I'm not sure exactly what a futurist, but it sounds both very intriguing and very important, no?)
• She did not go to college.  So much for needing that elite education to be a success in life.
• She has dreadlocks for no particular reason. (She just likes big hair and dreads make her feel Goddess-y.)
• She is a mom and has a white hot (and uber-creative) career.
• She thinks that anxiety is not something to run from (okay, from which to run).  Rather, it should be acknowledged, harvested, explored, and utilized.  And that is basically the premise of this newborn baby Ivy League Insecurities! (can a baby have a premise? Hmmm.)

Okay, that's it for now.  Check back soon for musings about green grass and urban isolation and April being the cruelest month (all inspired by a picturesque weekend in the 'burbs).

Happy Sunday!

Not Another One

Last night, the four of us piled in the rental car and headed for Husband's parents' place in Wayne, Pennsylvania.  Our plan seemed sound: feed the kids and then hop in the car.  Then kids would sleep for the two hour ride and Husband and I would have a nice chunk of time to catch up about the week.

An hour later, we arrived at a lovely traffic jam at the Lincoln Tunnel and both kids were wide awake. Not crying.  But awake.  Toddler sang songs.  And Baby wiggled around in her seat.  The second we entered the tunnel: Bam.  Baby projectile vomited.  Four times.  Miraculously, she did not cry.  Husband and I had a wonderful conversation about whether to mop up the vomit with a diaper or my jacket.

No, I was not prepared for this.  And I should have been. Toddler has been a champion car-vomiter since she was Baby's age.  And as a frantically-nervous first-time mom, I harrassed Pediatrican about this and Pediatrician chuckled and said: "Ah, city kids. They're never in cars."  (Come on.  Don't taxis count?)

After a couple of dicey jaunts in the car today, I decided to Google motion sickness and found out that when it comes to the projectile propensity, my kids are in good company. None other than celebrity doctor Sanjay Gupta suffers from an acute version of this affliction.  He has a few highly encouraging things to say about all this: (1) Often individuals with inner ear problems or impaired vision or Diabetes have motion sickness; (2) There really is no viable therapy for this condition; and (3) There are some studies (albeit scientifically tenuous according to him) that suggest that motion sickness is genetic.

And suddenly, I had vivid memories of losing my cookies (Literally. My grandmother made them and they were peanut butter) in the backseat of a station wagon.  And I asked Husband whether he got carsick as a kid and, sure enough, he did.  

So, in the grand nature v. nurture debate, is motion sickness a matter of nature or nurture?  Are my poor kids getting sick because they have our genes or because we are rearing them in the big city?  I'm not so sure.  I just really hope: (1) that my kids do not have problems with their eyes or inner ears; and (2) that we make it back to the City tomorrow without an eruption of the adorable backseat vomit volcano.

Gummy Bears and Gumption

I survived my high-heeled walk on the wild side, but it's back to flats today. Last night, I attended the Dalton School's big 90th birthday bash/benefit at Chelsea Piers. It was a wonderful event and, frankly, reminded me exactly why I loved the school. During cocktail hour, I said hello to a few of my favorite teachers. During dinner, my beloved orchestra conductor of latter day (I played the trumpet) led the orchestra in their performance of a lovely Ode to Dalton (composed by one very talented Dalton student).

The event was sold out and Pier 60 was packed to the gills with loyal faculty and parents and alumni.  Blue and white balloons floated from the center of each table, tables blanketed in paper decorated with Daltonian doodles.  

For me, the biggest treat was Anderson Cooper.  Cooper, both a Dalton and Yale grad, spoke affectionately about his time at Dalton.  His words were self-deprecating and inspiring.  He talked about how Dalton was, and continues to be, a unique place that nurtures individuality and creativity.  He talked candidly about his foray into the world of war reporting, how his friend cooked him up a fake press pass and he just started going to wars.  He knew what he wanted to do and he did it. He had the courage, the gumption, to dream.  To dream big. And then to live that dream.  Not bad.

At the end of the evening, we were sent home with delectable bags of gummy bears and big swirly lollipops from Dylan's Candy Bar (Dylan Lauren is also fellow Dalton alum). And, on the way home, that melodic Ode echoed in my head and I chewed on a bear and thought: a school that spits out a candy maven and a CNN sweetheart is some school.  

And if last night was any indication, Dalton continues to produce dreamers and doers.  And great doodlers too.

Happy Birthday, Dalton!

Living On The Edge

My little sister and a number of my very good friends are pregnant with their first babies.  And each of them has asked me the same question: How is your life different now that you have kids?  As any parent knows, this is a ridiculous question because quite frankly the whole world changes when you have a baby.  But, that aside, two very practical things occurred to me.  Since I gave birth to my first child, (1) I never sleep past 7:30am; and (2) I never wear heels.  And these aren't minor things.  I used to sleep until 11am on weekends and less than four years ago, that very nice lady from California Closets built me a whole bunch of little cubby-like shelves for all of my heels.  Heels which I never ever wear.

Until tonight.  Tonight, I am attending the big Dalton benefit.  My beloved alma mater is turning ninety-years-old and I figured why not live on the edge and channel my High School heel-wearing self? I will let you know how it goes. And, no, sadly I will not be able to sleep past 7:30 (who are we kidding? 6:30).

You Learn Something New Every Day

Quick.  What kind of animal is depicted here?  If you know, you are smarter than I am.

This morning, Toddler convinced me to take her to Starbucks for a chocolate milk.  This is becoming a daily activity (okay, more of a tri-daily activity) and I'm not complaining because I love coffee and I love Starbucks and I drink the Pike Place Roast which is "responsibly grown" and this makes me feel very responsible.  And caffeinated.

So off we went to Starbucks.  It was supposed to be a quick trip, so that Toddler could get a bit of fresh air and I could get a little pre-writing buzz going.  But Toddler had other plans.  Our quick coffee run was followed by a quick trip to the toy store and then the pet store and then the "sticker store" and then the grocery store and then to my Mom's house.  Four hours later, I returned home with a happy Toddler and decided that it was about time for some more Pike Place.

But it was a great and spontaneous morning and I learned something.  At the pet store, Toddler and I looked at all the fish and the birds and the gerbils.  All of the tiny cages were clearly marked, but there was one larger and unmarked cage with two bunny-like things.  Toddler pointed and said, "Look, Mommy, Chinchillas!" Now I looked down at her skeptically for all I knew about chinchilla was that the Olsen twins are often snapped wearing it in eighty degree weather.  But Toddler nodded vigorously.  "Chinchillas, Mommy!" 

We went to the front of the store and I asked the man behind the counter about the creatures in the back that looked like bunnies but were not bunnies and he said they were in fact chinchillas.  And then I asked him what percentage of people knew that and he said almost no one.  And I announced proudly, pointing to the little ponytailed two year old next to me, "Well, she did!"

What is clear from this story? (1) A trip to Starbucks is never just a trip to Starbucks; (2) The animal part of the education of  our children should be left to Husband, Dora, and Diego; (3) You don't have to be in school to learn things. (For instance that a mouse costs only $1.99 and the Medium Rats are a bargain at $5.99 and that my daughter is a fan of the male orange factor canary.)

Now depending on the day or my mood or my view of the world, I am homesick for school.  For the discourse, the dialogue, the interpretation, the learning.  But on days like today, when the sun is shining and the morning coffee run turns into a mini adventure and my little girl is teaching me something I do not know, I am confident I am exactly where I should be.

I love being a mom.

How's that for a happy post? Chin chin!

Guilty As Charged

Technically, I was still on jury duty today.  But I didn't need to head downtown.  I was told that I was "on-call" and needed to be able to report to the courthouse within an hour.  Now, it takes a good forty-five minutes to get to 100 Centre Street by cab and get through security and up to that bench outside of the courtroom.  The subway proved quite a bit faster (yes, the Hubby has been right about that all along).  

Anyway, I felt rather tethered today.  I wanted to go to the gym, but worried that I would miss the all-important call on the cell and wouldn't be able to get downtown to pinch hit in time.  For similar reasons, I postponed my weekly trip to Fairway and did not put the headphones in to knock off some chapters of my manuscript.  I did, however, brave the Dora & Diego Exhibit at the Children's Museum of Manhattan. With the bad weather, it was more of a zoo (and germfest) than ever.  In any case, I clutched my BlackBerry extra-tight in case the Judge might need me.  Suddenly, I had a thought: is this really any different than any other day?  Aren't we moms and lawyers and bankers and doctors -- and all adults for that matter -- always to some degree "on-call"?  Isn't this what it means to grow up, namely that we are never quite free?  Someone always might call us and need us.  The nanny.  The boss.  The client.  The patient.  The parent.  The child.  

Well, I didn't hear from the court all day and around 4pm, I called to check in.  "There is a verdict," the soft-spoken court clerk told me.  "Your service is complete."  Now this lady wasn't going to even tell me what said verdict was, but of course I inquired.

Guilty as charged.  I felt my blood begin to boil.  

The prosecution had not proven the elements of both crimes (obstruction of justice and resisting arrest) beyond a reasonable doubt as the law requires.  The case, albeit fascinating, was in many ways a sideshow.  Four police officers testified (one of whom I may have gone to school with -- ooh, now I can look him up on Facebook and will report back) and each contradicted the next.  The defendant, an endearing fifty-year-old Central Park horticulture worker, and his menopausal wife (her "diagnosis of menopause" was a huge part of her testimony) had gotten into a domestic scuffle in their apartment in the projects and the defendant had called the cops.  When the cops came, something shady went down, but no one told a narrative that made any sense.  The defendant and his wife both testified and contradicted each other's story.  Anyway, there was no clear criminal picture here and it was the prosecution's job to paint one.  So, I left for Starbucks 99% sure this fellow would be found not guilty.

But, not so.  And tonight I realize why they might not put too many of us lawyers in the Major Leagues.  Because, if anything, I would have kept those other jurors in that tiny room until someone convinced me that my doubts -- and there were plenty -- were somehow unreasonable.  And that would have taken a long time.

And tonight I feel sad for a man whom I don't know and will never see again who is locked up somewhere in this city awaiting his sentence.  And tonight I feel sad for that man's wife whom he clearly both loves and hates. And tonight I feel sad for the granddaughters these two have raised together who sit in that small apartment 4C somewhere in East Harlem and wonder what happened to their grandpa.  

A few days ago, this lawyer of latter day was thrilled to be participating in our nation's judicial system.  Tonight, I'm happy to be home.

Mommy Got A Metrocard

Something crazy happened yesterday. I was excused from jury duty for the day and wandered aimlessly in the drizzle looking for an empty taxi. Tough feat at 5pm. And then I found one.  And one of the good van ones. Arm up. He stopped. The light was about to change, so I did that half-jog thing and made it there.  And I opened the door.  And then muttered, "Nevermind," and slammed it again.

Suddenly, I had an urge to do something I hadn't done in a long time (gasp): take the subway. Before you judge, there is a litany of reasons for this historical avoidance: (1) I am a tiny bit claustrophobic; (2) I have a healthy case of paranoia and since 9/11 I am especially fearful of mass transit in general and subways in particular; (3) I have a healthy case of paranoia and since having kids I am especially fearful of most everything (flying, skiing, toys made in China, non-organic milk); (4) I have always operated under the lovely illusion that money spent on taxi fare (and gossip magazines and Starbucks) somehow doesn't count; (5) I rarely leave the Upper West Side.

Now my internal compass has always been alarmingly askew, but with the hazy memories from my Federal Court internship after my 1L year at Columbia, I sniffed out the Chambers Street Station.  I descended down the damp concrete steps and I bought me a MetroCard.  A Single Ride. But still.

And I found the Uptown Train.  The 3.  I hopped on.  Prudently, I avoided prolonged eye contact with the bearded man in the beret who was pressed up against me and I and did something I learned to do in prenatal yoga when I was trying to perfect that tricky Tree Pose: I picked a spot on which to focus.  My spot?  A ZipCar ad that read, "Burn Rubber, Not Money" and this ad had two effects: (1) It made me feel a bit pathetic for not having a driver's license (but then I swiftly reminded myself that Barbara Walters doesn't either and she is a pretty accomplished and unpathetic person); (2) It made me thankful to live in the land of taxis and subways because I cannot drive and don't have to; and (3) It made me proud that I was not burning money on yet another cab. Confession: I did burn the money after all.  On the way to the station, I popped into my Tasti D-Lite of latter day and bought Toddler three Webkinz "friends." (Mr. Crabs and Plankton from Spongebob and Magenta from Blue's Clues in case you are interested.)

Anyway, I'm proud to say I made it all the way to 72nd Street.  Sure, I almost mangled a poor woman in the revolving spike-like door thing (anyone know what these things are called?) on the way out, but I made it.  It's a start. 

No, my Metrocard isn't good anymore.  But who knows? Maybe this Uptown Girl will live a little and buy an Unlimited Ride.  Oh, and learn to drive.

Tuning In (and Out)

Well. This afternoon was a waiting game for this faux juror. The six Major League jurors began to deliberate.  But my fellow alternate and I were kicked off the island.  (Talk about mixed metaphors.  Yikes.) I was banished to Starbucks to wait.  Ordered to remain within striking distance of the courthouse.  In the likely event one the Superior Six suffered a sudden bout of Appendicitis.

Just yesterday I bemoaned the fact that I wouldn't be able to deliberate, but today I was singing a different tune.  Why?

After the prosecution and defense finished their summations, the Judge read us the very important jury instructions.  He was loud and clear. His voice carried far and wide in the little courtroom.  Like a good girl, I sat still in my burgundy pleather chair and made commendable eye contact, even nodding at what seemed to be appropriate moments.  But there were good chunks of time where I heard nothing. Nada. Crickets.

So, sequestered at Starbucks, I decided that I was in fact thankful that it would not be up to me to make such a weighty decision about the fate of a fellow human being.  Because I was not sure I heard everything I was supposed to hear. In fact, I was sure I didn't hear things I was supposed to hear.  Things it was my civic duty to hear and understand and digest and use as a solid foundation for The Decision.  

And then I had a caffeine-fueled mini-epiphany that this was perhaps why I was picked for the Minor Leagues.  Maybe that Judge and those lawyers took one look at me and something screamed short attention span.  Was it the (only-quasi-faux) blonde hair? The artfully-torn designer jeans?  The fact that my questionnaire had so many slashes (I indicated under Profession that I was a Writer/Mom/Lawyer)? (Note: I am a loyal fan of the slash and his cousin the parethesis and up until a few moments ago, I couldn't quite remember whether the period goes before or after the closing parenthesis.  And then I hit save and looked it up. And for you fellow members of the Punctuation Police who are still with me: the period goes before the final parenthesis only if the entire sentence is encapsulated in said parentheses.) 

Phew.  

But I digress.

Yes, I'm being long-winded and self-indulgent and dramatic and all those other adjectives they warn writers not to be. For the truth is that if I were allowed in that deliberation room, we would've been given a copy of the jury instructions I tuned out.  Truth is most matters in life (like, say, the proper use of parentheses) aren't quite as serious as those lived out in the criminal courtroom.  But why do we do this?  Why do we tune things out?  Like the convoluted list of specials at the Italian restaurant? Or the flight attendant's safety details? Or the conversation with Husband about what might be wrong with the dishwasher? 

Now men often get criticized for doing the selective hearing dance and, yes, they happen to be very good at not hearing the desperate cries of a hungry newborn at 3am, but we all do this.  Almost daily.  What gives?

Maybe our brains can only accommodate so many details at once and once they reach max capacity, the ears take a breather?  Maybe we tune out things we don't need to hear?  (Why do we need to hear that they have special soft shelled crabs if we know we want the halibut?)  Maybe we tune out things that we simply do not want to hear.  (Like the fact that our plane might crash and if it does it might be over the ocean and we might need to maneuver oxygen masks and use our filthy seat cushions as flotation devices.)  

Or maybe we each have a pinch of ADD leftover from childhood? (Witness Exhibit A: This Post.)

Uh Oh

Talk about insecurity.  What have I done?

Last night (after a day spent obsessively posting arguably tiresome details about my day in the life of a Manhattan County juror), I was kind of (okay, extremely) pumped about this blog thing.  Putting myself out there? How daring! Talking about my hopes and fears and flaws? How adventuresome! And so what did I do? I drafted an email. To friends and family.  (If you are reading this now, you likely received said email).  In this email, I shared the good news about my book and asked people to check out this blog. 

And then I hit send.

Immediately, my heart began to race and suddenly I was thirsty for a towering glass of Pinot Grigio  (Don't you fret, I watched The Hills instead). I clutched my BlackBerry tight, willing it to buzz, hungry for emails from people.  From all five of you.  And thankfully there were a few instant buzzes to save me from my stress spiral.  Yes, mostly they were from that lovely Postmaster telling me there had been a mail delivery error.  And, yes, I was wildly relieved that at least those people wouldn't come here and witness this debacle-in-the-making.  But a few real emails came.  And they were nice. And I felt a little bit better.  A little bit.

Why the near-crippling anxiety?  Because I am putting myself out there.  Because I have a mild allergy to the self-promotion thing.  As my little sis said, I better get used to it if I am going to try to do the author thing.  Guess I better re-grow that thick skin I had as an associate at the law firm.  

Guess I better keep that wine fridge stocked.

Don't Read This Post

You rebel. Here you are doing what I said not to do.

I got home from jury duty at about 5:30pm and my toddler flung herself on me and I felt like I had been gone for a week (and suddenly I had immediate and intense sympathy for working moms who are gone all day long), but that is not the point of this post.  Well, toddler asked for a Cookie Monster juice box and I'm pretty lax in the nutrition department (as you will learn) so I fetched said box from the fridge.  And I handed it to her and said, "What's the rule?" and she said in her irresistibly singsong voice, "NO SQUEEZING!" which was the correct answer.  And then she took the little box and what did she do?  You guessed it.  She squeezed it.  Hard.

But, suddenly, I had sympathy for my little girl.  Why suddenly?  Because I had a couple moments today where I was explicitly told not to do something and all I wanted to do was that forbidden thing.

Moment One.  The supervisor in the Jury Room was a man named Larry and literally the nicest man in the world and he told us a cautionary tale about how we should under no circumstances use our BlackBerries in the courtroom.  He told us about an ill-mannered sports agent who dared to use his BlackBerry while he was being questioned by the judge and how this terrible man was kicked off the case and ordered to sit in the jury room for a full week.  This story had two effects on me: (uh oh - the list within the list) (1) It made me happy because it underscored just how addicted we are to our BlackBerries and my forthcoming novel BlackBerry Girl (Summer 2010) is all about our society's addiction to the Berry among other things; and (2) It made me want to use my BlackBerry in the courtroom.  Literally, while the DA was questioning a witness, I felt my sweaty palm inching into my pocket to grab my Berry.  Thankfully, I am not a toddler and was able to resist.

Moment Two (and Three and Four).  Every time the judge dismissed us jurors, he turned to us and said sternly, "Do not under any circumstances talk with your fellow jurors or anyone for that matter about this case.  Do not read any articles about this case.  Do not look up this case on the Internet.  Do not visit the scene of the crime or what you believe to be the scene of the crime." He even waved that foreboding and fatherly finger.  And what did I want to do the second I stepped outside of the courtroom?  I wanted to turn to my fellow jurors and ask what they thought about the opening statements.  And what did I want to do when I stepped outside the courthouse?  I wanted to call my husband and tell him all about the defendant.  And what did I want to do when I walked inside my house (after doling out infinite hugs and kisses to the girls of course)? I wanted to Google up a storm.  Again, thankfully, I was able to resist.

But...

Is there a lesson hidden here somewhere? Maybe if we removed that word "don't" from our vocabulary (or at least limited its use) we'd be better - or at least more efficient - parents?  Maybe if our parents or society didn't tell us not to date bad guys or drink too much wine or gossip... Well, you get the picture.  Who knew a day spent at the New York Supreme Court would have me contemplating behavioral psychology?  

Okay, off to go visit the scene of the crime :)

Lucky Number 7!

I thought it would never happen.  A mere four hours into service and I was picked for a jury! 

Well, kind of.

I am Juror 7 of 8 on a 6-person criminal jury.  What does that make me? An alternate.  This means if something happens to my fellow jurors 1-6, I get to step up to the plate and deliberate. And, if not, then I get to sit there for three days and soak up the details of the case and then they will send me home.  Which is kind of cruel.  Like being invited to a fabulous New Years party and after spending a few hours downing divine drinks and hors d'oeurves being told to go home right before ball drops.  Kind of a bummer. 

Some legal details (I think) to pass along... The DA is good-looking and soft-spoken.  The courtroom is dimly lit and depressing.  There is some very disconcerting bullet-proof glass surrounding the box. So, who else is in the box? I won't reveal names (and, yes, I do remember some of them), but we have four men and four women: one anorexic girl with rhinestone glasses and five-inch heels, one woman who is clad in head-to-toe Gucci, one woman who could easily be one of Mom's friends, an oversized older man who is two parts Donald Sutherland and one part Santa Claus, a suspiciously tan older man who looks like he plays a mean round of golf (don't know why), and a very chatty twenty-six-year-old guy (I peeked at his questionnaire) and yours truly.  And I am the only lawyer who made the cut (and there were plenty of others).  Too bad we are forbidden from taking notes during the trial for this is good stuff and this tired mommy can only retain so much...

Signing off from some random Starbucks in Soho.  Or is this Tribeca?

Back to the box for me...

The Box Trot

For those of you who were worried, I made it to Monday :)

Sunday blues, begone.  Today is a new day.  An exciting one.

Maybe I am a nerd (very likely).  Or maybe I crave an escape from my day-to-day (yup).  Or maybe I miss the law a teensy bit (not so sure about that one).  Or maybe I take civic responsibility very seriously (could be), but this morning I report for jury duty and I am giddy.  And there are a few reasons why I am irrationally stoked to be headed to the other end of this island to sit in an uncomfortable chair in a vast room full of strangers.  Here is a list.  (Humor me; lists are things both mothers and lawyers love.  They make us feel organized.)

One.  I have always wanted to be picked for a jury.  While it seems the rest of you will spew any excuse to resume your regular life, I am an odd bird, eager to be plucked by that discerning DA for a spot in the box.  Last time I did this thing? I had just taken the New York Bar Exam. This fact elicited horror in the eyes of the lawyers; I knew way too much law to be on the case.  Probably more than they did. (Don't worry, it has since escaped.  Big time.)

Two.  Being held captive in a room full of disgruntled New York strangers is a writer's dream.  Talk about material. 

Three.  Being held captive in a room full of disgruntled New York strangers is this writer's dream.  I am currently writing my second novel Ivy League Latte about a Yale Law student who finds herself pregnant before graduation.  Anyway, my protagonist Clio is called for jury duty right before she gives birth and among those sober strangers fidgeting with newspapers and their BlackBerries, whom does she encounter? Her first love.  So, what will I do while those around me fidget with their papers and their Berries?  I will write that chapter! (And keep an eye out for the ex).  Talk about multi-tasking.

And if I'm actually picked for a jury (unlikely, but a girl can dream), I won't be able to tell you about the case or the judge or the criminal, but I'm sure I will have plenty of other random things to report about the melancholy masses cooped up in a government building on a monotonous Monday morning.  

Stay tuned. 

Sundays are Sad

Sundays are sad.  Even Easter Sunday.  Especially Easter Sunday.

Why? I don't know.  I've always felt this way.  And I know I'm not alone.

When in high school, Sunday represented the last day of freedom (and by freedom, I mean reading and writing papers and studying) before another week of classes and tests and soccer games and jazz concerts and SAT prep.  When at Yale, Sundays were often depressing and disorienting, begun in that collective hangover haze that enveloped us all as we contemplated the week ahead.  At law school, it was the same thing.  Sundays came right before Mondays. And Mondays meant business.  Classes.  The Socratic Method.  Time to think about that looming final.  That career.  That future.  And during my short stint at the law firm, Sundays were not quite as sacred but equally dismal for depending on the partner or the case, we were expected to work on a Sunday.  ("This is a 24/7 job," we were told on day one).

But these days I am home with my girls.  Doing the gloriously flexible writing thing.  So why are Sundays still sad?  If I really wanted to, I could be just as lazy tomorrow as I am being today (and, no, I am not being lazy today because apparently I have forgotten how to relax).  So, who knows.  Maybe this is just a fact of life, or of my life at the very least.  My husband, ever the optimist, has never had much of a problem with Sundays.  There are plenty of people strolling the sidewalks outside, checking out the "functioning vintage toasters" at the flea market or wrestling with their slobbering Goldens or sipping their Starbucks who don't seem to have a care in the world.

This morning, my little girls participated in a wonderful Easter egg hunt in my Mom's brownstone garden.  My toddler was all smiles as she collected hard boiled eggs (including the Obama "Yes we can" egg that my sister made) and chocolates in her little pink basket.  She flashed that devilish grin as she decimated a Cadbury Cream Egg before eating breakfast.  She watched cartoons with her cousins, the three of them lined up on Mom's couch, matching sugar comas and chocolate mustaches, watching Dora bound through a colorful forest.  And when I placed her baby sister next to her, she complained, but let her stay.  And I took picture after picture of the four of them there, four Donnelley girls of the next generation, happiness plain in sugar-glazed eyes.  And this made me happy.  And we all laughed when my toddler told her sister "Do not take my hair!"

So, yes, there have been happy moments.  Really happy moments.  Even magical ones.  But I am still kind of sad.  And not Hallmark sad. Nietzsche sad.  Maybe I am extra sad today because today is in many ways a kids' holiday and I am no longer a kid.  Maybe I am extra sad because I miss Dad, my Easter Bunny, who was still with us, though suffering, last year at this time.  Maybe I am just sad out of habit. It seems I should figure this one out though.  Because I have a more than a few Sundays ahead of me.  

Maybe, just maybe, it's just a matter of embracing that thing called optimism.  Maybe it's just a matter of thinking of my babies' bright blue eyes and the joy of pre-breakfast chocolate and our promising new President and that little orange egg my daughter found in Mom's garden.  

Are any of you out there sad today too?  Can we put Sad Sundays behind us?

Yes we can.  

(I'll check back with you next Sunday, but I doubt it's quite that simple.  So much for the optimism thing.)

Jellybeans or Jesus?

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday.  And I'm down to the wire.

This morning, my two-year-old daughter and I sat in the window seat of our kitchen watching delivery men zoom by on the street below, listening to the rain pound the air conditioner. As I chugged my second cup of coffee and she munched Special K Protein straight from the box, it occurred to me that I haven't yet given her the straight story about this holiday.  

Sure, I have brought home little bags of brightly colored beans (nota beane: these are fabulous for those making a foray into the wild world of potty-training).  Thanks to my loyal friends Dora and Diego and Spongebob and Wubzy (you get the picture), I think she has vague visions of pastel eggs and bunnies and baskets.  I have given her tiny toy chicks that were almost immediately victimized by our otherwise very gentle cats (we found one poor chick drenched and drowning in the cats' water fountain; yes our cats have a self-refreshing automized water fountain - judge away).  But I have no bonnets.  No Easter dresses.  No trips to church planned.  Too bad if only for the missed photo op; I recall vividly snapshots of me and my four sisters in full Easter regalia -- poufy dresses and big hats, eyes squinting in the sun.  We looked quite Amish.  (If you are Amish and offended by this, I'm not too worried.  You are on the Internet after all.)

But what is the straight story it is my duty as parent to tell?  Because this, my friends, is how it went down: "Do you want me to tell you about Easter?" "No." "Well, today we are going to color some eggs and draw on them with crayons.  And then in the middle of the night a bunny, a big bunny, the Easter Bunny will come (raised eyebrows) and he is going to hide all those eggs and candies.  And then in the morning you will find all of these eggs and treats and put them in a basket.  Do you want to do that?" To which my toddler replied, "Yeah."  (Don't worry, I'm working on changing that to the more proper "yes.")

And for a fleeting moment, part of me thought: here begins one of those big lovely lies that my husband and I will perpetuate over the years.  And this made me happy.  I've missed Santa and the Bunny and even that enigmatic Tooth Fairy.  But part of me had a more serious thought: Easter is not about chicks and chocolate eggs.  And though I am not super religious, there is an important religious and historical story to this week, to this day.  At some point my daughter (and her little sister, but she is only six months and we will worry about the crawling part before the religious education part) needs to know that story, but when?  When are we moms (and dads) supposed to start telling these stories?  

At what point should my girls know that Easter is more about Jesus than jellybeans?

The ABC's of Insecurity

So.  Here goes.  My very first post as a rookie blogger.  And this post, like life, is one part serious and one part silly...

We humans are insecure creatures.  To pretend otherwise is foolish.  And yet that is exactly what we do.  Everyday.  We pretend that we have it all together.  We wake up and get dressed and go outside and smile.  What lingers behind those well-practiced smiles? The ABC's of insecurity.  

Anxiety.  About everything. Including being anxious. "Anxiety is the dizziness of freedom." Soren Kierkegaard

Boredom.  Admit it: if you weren't a bit bored, you wouldn't be reading this now. "Boredom: the desire for desires." Tolstoy

 

Control.  The one thing none of us has. "If everything seems under your control, you're just not going fast enough." Mario Andretti

Doubt. We make decisions.  And then we doubt them. "I doubt, therefore I think. I think therefore I am."  Descartes

Expectations. Great Ones.  Good book and story of our lives. "High expectations are the key to everything." Sam Walton.

Fear.  Of terrorism.  Failure.  Disease.  Death.  Infidelity. Mediocrity. Of being fat. "Always do what you are afraid to do." Emerson

Grief. Over losing a parent.  Or a spouse.  Or a child.  Or a friend.  Or a pet.  Or a job.  Or ourselves. "Given a choice between grief an nothing, I'd choose grief." Faulkner

Health. Vaginal or C-section?  To vaccinate or not to vaccinate?  Breast or bottle? Implants or let 'em hang?  "It is health that is real wealth, not pieces of gold and silver." Gandhi

Indecision.  About everything.  I can't even decide what things to mention. "Indecision may or may not be my problem." Jimmy Buffett

Jealousy.  Of other people's lives and jobs and husbands and apartments and nannies and diaper bags and blogs.  "To cure jealousy is to see it for what it is, a dissatisfaction with self." Joan Didion

Knowledge. I don't care where you went to college, how big your salary is, how smart you are.  About the most important things in life, we are all ignorant.  "Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance." Confucius

Loneliness.  How is it that we can't find five minutes for ourselves and yet we still have moments where we feel utterly alone? "Loneliness adds beauty to life.  It puts a special burn on sunsets and makes night air smell better." Henry Rollins.

Mortality.  We grow up.  And children are born.  And parents die.  And we can't help but contemplate our own exit. "If I am killed, I can die but once; but to live in constant dread of it is to die over and over again." Abraham Lincoln

Negativity.  Another thing I'm positive we all experience.  "All negativity is an illusion created by the limited mind to protect and defend itself." Ambika Wauters

Obligation. To our family.  To our friends.  To our society.  To our favorite Idol contestant. To ourselves.  "Remember always that you not only have the right to be an individual, you have an obligation to be one." Eleanor Roosevelt

Pessimism. I have been experimenting with a new drug: optimism.  I don't think it is working very well.  "A pessimist is one who makes difficulties of his opportunities and an optimist is one who makes opportunities of his difficulties."  Harry Truman

Questions.  The one thing each of us has in abundance.  "Judge a person by their questions, rather than their answers." Voltaire

Regrets. Tell me you have no regrets and I will call you a liar. "For the majority of us, the past is a regret, the future an experiment." Mark Twain

Self.  The biggest, baddest roadblock of them all.  "Self is the only prison that can ever bind the soul." Henry Van Dyke

Time. No, there aren't enough hours in the day, but there are twenty-four.  Make the most of them and stop bitching.  "Time is free, but it's priceless.  You can't own it, but you can use it.  You can't keep it, but you can spend it. Once you've lost it you can never get it back." Harvey MacKay

Uncertainty. Certainty is a myth, a silly old fairy tale we want desperately to believe.  "Uncertainty is the only certainty there is, and knowing how to live with insecurity is the only security." John Allen Paulos

Voice. We tell our tots to "use their words," but how often do we insist on using ours? "There is a voice inside of you/ that whispers all day long,/"I feel that this is right for me,/I know that this is wrong."/No teacher, preacher, parent friend/or wise man can decide/What's right for you -- Just listen to/the voice that speaks inside." Shel Silverstein

Worry. All of us worry. Period. "Worrying is like a rocking chair -- it gives you something to do but it doesn't get you anywhere."  Erma Bombeck

Xanax. I have absolutely nothing against prescription drugs.  Plenty of people I know swear by 'em. "At what point should I try Xanax?" Aidan Donnelley Rowley

Youth. Some of us don't have much interest in growing up.  For example, those of us who are thirty and, let's say, don't have a driver's license. So what if we want to stay kids even when we have kids?  So what if we want to pretend that we are still in college and yet are open to the idea of Botox? "You're never too old to become younger." Mae West

Zoloft.  Let me repeat for the record: I have nothing against prescription drugs.  Again, plenty of people I know swear by 'em.  Rumor has it it helps with insecurities A-Y. "Is Zoloft better than Xanax?  If so, where can I get me some?" Aidan Donnelley Rowley