Examined Lives

Who you callin' a hypocrite?

Well, Gentle Reader, it's time to have what one of my former bosses called a "come to Jesus" chat with you, whereby I reveal that I have failed utterly in almost every one of the goals I've set in print here over the past year.

How have I failed?  Let me count the ways:

1.  I ate a pound of steak two days ago.  Factory-farmed, energy-depleting, full-of-animal-fat, non-organic steak, probably inhumanely slaughtered, too.

2.  I'm back on coffee. In fact, I'm up to two mugs in the a.m. Is my stomach killing me? Yes. Have I stopped? No.

3.  Remember how I made fun of my materialistic new neighbors and their matching BMWs?  Well, we're selling our station wagon, and are thinking of leasing -- that's right -- a Beamer. A wee one, but still. I like how they handle, and don't use much gas, and are presumably dependable.

4.  I never complained much about this, because I figured, hey, I work from home so I'm there with my kids, but I am doing incredibly silly, soul-sucking work. Only some of the time, but still. To boot, I often work for the same big companies I'm ranting about in other parts of this site, companies who use iffy chemicals in their products. I know I have a mortgage and have to pay that $751.38 per month for healthcare, but still. It bothers me. I do have options, but they are limited in terms of income.

I won't go into the details of how all this happened, but let's just say it's an incredibly busy time, and social, and expensive. I'm rather stunned, myself, by the backsliding. Go ahead and let me have it. I'll hand out the stones.

~BurbMom

Independence day

Happy 4th, everyone! Hope you have a great weekend with time to read and relax and hit that reset button, because we all need it. Was at the beach yesterday; it's been a long seven weeks working on my side project and trying to hold down a job and keep the family going, too, and the fatigue hit me right on the nose this week. So I was thankful that a friend insisted we stop in and see her at her condo facing the Atlantic Ocean. 

Today, we're staying in the city. Holiday weekends almost always renew my love affair with New York because it's always so civilized and gentle in my neighborhood. Parking rules are suspended so you don't get the stressed-out idlers anxious to score a spot. The stores—Zabars included!—are navigable because half the city's fled elsewhere. And the parks are beautiful this time of the year.

But honestly, the city's still wonderful the other days. Busier, yes, but still as special. But we're not prepared to drink the good stuff in because we're so busy angling for the bigger breaks and scrambling for the opportunities. We do it to ourselves, really, all this stressing out. We take on the pressures and demands and tensions of the city as if it were a requirement to living here. 

I wonder why that is? Is it because it's the type-As with stuff to prove that are drawn to New York and choose to stay here? (I've certainly know enough who have opted to leave even though they're born-and-bred New Yorkers.) Why do we think the cost of doing business in the city is living a frazzled, can't-breathe life? Who's collecting the fees?

I'm beginning to wonder if all this self-flagellation is actually necessary. I'm a city girl, yes, but is my definition of city life actually on the mark? It seems appropriate to try and free myself of the shackles of mis-defined sophistry and urbanity on Independence Day. Let the soul-searching begin ...

—CityMom

My bizarre "story of stuff"

With a handful of exceptions -- essential tech items, significant gifts, certain books, black cashmere sweaters -- I can't hang on to things. I have, for the past few years, been systematically emptying my rooms and closets (and those of my family) in a haze of donating, recycling, handing down, and what have you. People are noticing. It's become somewhat of a joke among my friends that I have no furniture, and it's a scandal to my mother, who says the condo looks like we are moving out.

Why am I like this? This neurosis, and I think I'm labelling it correctly, has been gathering steam since it clicked with me how buying anything can't possibly be green if you count the energy expended along the production cycle (If you haven't seen the official Story of Stuff, please do check it out.) So there's that. Then there's the disappointment factor; whenever I do buy something nice, it inevitably gets destroyed as it goes through the chipper of daily life. Beautiful oak tables with glass stains. A plethora of cat scratches on the piano. Barf on the Turkish silk rug. Antique clock smashed by the kitten. And so forth. Why bother? Earthly things crumble, so I'm practicing non-attachment. A few precious vases are hanging out in my underwear drawer along with what little jewelry I still own.

Last week I was sooooooooooo excited that The Dude finally allowed me to sell our set of wood Adirondack chairs, stained and peeling on the patio, because I am not the handy scrape-and-paint type, and never will be. Every time I looked at the chairs I felt a reproach, mainly from my parents, who bought me the damned things. For the last few years, my Mom regularly maintained them, but, well, that's not happening any more, either. And I hate to say it, but with my mom's illness, she hasn't noticed that I have shedded a few things she thrust upon us; piles of quilts, vintage tablecloths -- gak! 

My dad figured it out, finally.  "You don't like furniture because you hate to clean!" Uh, exactly. Is there something wrong with that?

Stuff weighs you down. Yes, we are going away - far away, to Tibet - this summer, but it's been hard figuring out how to handle the cats, and the payments on all of our stuff (house, car, insurances for more stuff).  Reading Walden this spring just pissed me off even more. The guy had it right.  We work and slave and worry to buy and take care of...stuff. Not only for stuff, but a large part of it goes for that.

You can't be truly organized if you have stuff, either. It takes far too much time. The only way to keep track of your crap is to purge regularly. Otherwise you're a slave to the C*ntainer Store, and to storage, and labelling. I regularly discuss this with friend L., who has a purge bug, too, mainly for the organizational high. We compete. We egg each other on.  It's a little sick, but we can't stop.

I think it may also be an aesthetic thing for me, though, and one which is almost impossible to practice a) when you have young children and b) live in a New Jersey condo instead of a Japanese temple or New York loft and c) don't have a ton of money.  I mean, if I could do it again, I would just dump a wad o' cash on these cool sectionals by Ligne Roset and call it a day, and try not to get upset when they get full of cat hair.

~BurbMom

R.I.P. Michael Jackson

Yes, he was freakish. But oh the talent! Michael Jackson, rest in peace. It feels like he was lost long ago when all those accusations hit the news, and maybe before with the hyperbaric sleeping chambers and breathing masks and nose jobs gone awry. But today I just want to remember the music.

--CityMom

A brave lady gone

Lots of shocking stuff in the news lately; the closeup video of the poor Iranian woman who was shot, and now this, which made me gasp out loud. Dr. Jerri Nielsen FitzGerald, the woman who doctored her own breast cancer while on assignment in the South Pole, finally succumbed to the disease.

It wasn't even the drama of that story that got me in reading what the Times quoted her as saying:

"More and more as I am here and see what life really is, I understand that it is not when or how you die but how and if you truly were ever alive,'' she wrote in an e-mail to her parents in June, 1999 from the South Pole.

And this:

''I would rather not have it. But the cancer is part of me. It's given my life color and texture. Everyone has to get something. Some people are ugly, some people are stupid. I get cancer,'" she said at a lecture in Denver.

I was talking to a friend of mine about how well my dad was coping with my mom's illness (like a champion), and she said she thought we were all put here to deal with our own stuff...along the lines of we all have our load to bear.  I said I thought we were put here just because, but that it is how we deal with the crap that comes down that defines our character, our life.

~BurbMom

Photo: National Science Foundation

Time out for a wee rant

So, my neighbor brings over her new next-door neighbor to meet us yesterday. Ordinarily, I would have been sociable, but I hid out in my office. First of all, it was dinnertime. But more importantly, I was still working, trying to finish just one task, by god.  Plus, I was wearing a nightie and drinking a glass of fume blanc. Obviously not presentable -- though the new neighbor might as well get used to it, because almost everyone in my street has seen the nightie, the frantic overworked frown, and the glass of dinner wine. 
(Neighbors, if you're reading this...any time after 5 p.m., please don't come a'callin'.)

Anyway. Seems this family has a child a year older than mine, because I heard muffled talks of a prospective playdate. Rather, I heard the woman talking, while my painfully shy children, mouths full of IKEA meatballs, apparently said nothing.

I heard:  "You guys can come over to our house! We have [unclear] Hannah Montana! You'll like that, right? And we have a Wii, and [muffled] Xbox."

Still no response from my kids, presumably due to meatballs but also potentially because they don't really give a crap, bless their hearts. The Dude laughed a bit to cover the awkward silence and says something like, "Well, they're more into DS."  "Oh, [kids name] has one of those, too!" New Neighbor replies.

Ordinarily, I would have sent my kids over, just to meet the new kid and make nice, but honestly, now I'm put off. Why try to entice kids over to your place with stuff? Why not just say, hey, you look like nice kids, and my kid would love to get to know you better? 

(Wondering here if I should mention that the new family has two monstrous matching BMW SUVs. Same color, even. Kind of plays into the impressed-by-stuff theme...but maybe they own a BMW dealership. Or got a two-for-one deal. So I won't mention it.)

Full disclosure: We have a Wii, which The Dude bought for himself. The kids don't play it except with him, but I did use it to try to entice my teenage catsitter to hang around a little, which would make my cats very, very happy while we're away.  But it's different, somehow.  Right?  To his credit, the catsitter was unimpressed.

~BurbMom

Book Talk: Ecological Intelligence

I enjoyed reading Daniel Goleman's Ecological Intelligence, which is talks about how better consumer knowledge of the ecological and biological ramifications might change the way we buy -- and hence, the world -- forever. Yes, of course. I figured this was pretty much required reading, too, for anyone with green proclivities.

As I read it, though, a nagging thought kept me from being fully immersed in the book: If only it had been published two years ago.

Golemen exhorts us all to look behind greenwashing to the true environmental costs of making and buying things, and how one virtuous aspect of a product, as in organic cotton's use of no or less-harmful pesticides, may mask another nasty aspect, as in the harmful dyes often used in "organic" products. He talks about how overconsumption got us to where we are today, environment-wise, and points to how wising up to these issues will get us on the right track.

Thing is, I think we're already hip to these issues; at least, most of us are, judging by the sophisticated questions online readers ask people like Grist's Umbra:  Biodiesel vs. hybrid?  Is it o.k. to forage in a local park for dandelions to make wine?  Paper or plastic?  And so forth. Perhaps, though, these kinds of questions come from mainly rabid eco-folk and not the general book-buying public. If so, I wish the general public had gotten wind of all this much earlier.

Seeing the hard questions in a book (greenly printed, by the way) does give them a bit more, well, heft, and Goleman's tone is thoughtful rather than snide or hysterical, which helps his case. There is some nice reporting on how companies are pushing the green envelope, and how it has benefitted their bottom line. Case in point: Wal-Mart installed generators in its truckers' cabins so driver could cool or heat themselves without having to idle their engines; the company saved $25 million a year. The book offers plentiful proof that consumers, given the information and the choice to do the right thing with ease, will do so every time. Goleman also handily explains the science behind Life Cycle Assessment, which is tracking energy use, chemical contamination and so forth from a product's birth to long, long life in a landfill.

The book devotes plenty of space to the online rating system at GoodGuide, which I applaud; the site has the most comprehensive eco rating systems to date, and even covers the latest health and recall news (we covered it months ago -- again, the online world just seems much more cutting edge, eco-wise).

Yet, two things admittedly not in the scope of this book that I just feel I need to add here to ya'll:  You can up your green quotient simply by buying less, and taking time to find that One Perfect Thing when you do buy (I'll elaborate in future posts). Second, letting companies and elected officials know where you stand, particularly on the health issues, goes a long way; hopefully there will be more outlets for two-way communication in the future each and every time we make a purchasing decision. 

I'd settle for buying every CEO a copy of this book. Change is coming, people. So lead, or get out of the way and prepare for bankruptcy.

~BurbMom

Back from the brink

I've been away for forever trying to launch a personal project, and boy is it ever rewarding and painful at the same time. Rewarding because I hadn't realized I'd been so parched for creative freedom—as in doing something for yourself and not for pay or for society's approbation (please please please like me!)—and this project is filled with that and painful because I feel guilty I'm not doing all the expected things and only the expected things: work, family, duties. 

I hadn't realized I had lost so much of who I was, that I had immersed myself in all the must-dos so completely that I hadn't allowed myself any want-to-dos. It sort of creeps up on you, especially when you're a mom: You put your kids first, always, then your husband, then your work. Or they're all number one. Follow any other script and there are enough scolds out there to keep you in line. Service to family above all else!

And all of a sudden the girl who always found time to write or garden or pray or sing or read for an hour no longer does. I hadn't realized how much that ate at the soul, and how when part of your soul is all eaten away, you feel maybe not empty—my family, after all, brings light and love to my life—but not quite full, either. You're perpetually underfed. 

So here's the deal: Nobody else will be feeding you but yourself. So what are you waiting for?

—CityMom

(Photo from listropolis.com.)

What your health care is costing me

I'm in turtle mode again, avoiding the media, because I just can't watch how the current health care reform is playing out.  It's just too painful.  And enraging.

I beg your patience while I elaborate. The Dude and I pay $751.38 each month for a health care plan that doesn't cover drugs. I don't have the option of a high-deductible health plan with a health-care savings account, because it just doesn't exist in this state. Too expensive for the insurers, one agent told me; too many sick people in the system already, draining it before the likes of me could have hopped on board.

Here's the kicker: We could reduce our premium to some $530 per month, with far more comprehensive coverage, if we were a small business. If I joined The Dude's payroll, instead of being my own little profit center.  Nice, right?  Individuals suck.  Businesses rule.  Have a nice life! 

Meanwhile, that $751.38 of after-tax money keeps flying out the door every month.  Every month. While lawmakers fiddle, special interests fawn and some folks who just like things to stay messy tell endless lies.

What if I get cancer?  Chemo, out of pocket. There's something to worry about when you can't sleep at 3 a.m. I know I do!  And this is for 3:30 a.m.: How is my Dad going to pay for the assisted living facility my Mom will eventually need -- as nearly all dementia patients eventually do?  He embodies the American Dream; from humble beginning, studied and worked hard during his life; he saved; he paid off all his damn mortgages and debts...for what?  To be bankrupted by an increasingly common condition?

And hey, we're the lucky ones. The uninsured muddle along, straggling to the emergency room if they get really sick, where the costs go...back to us. That's right; there are only so many hospitals and insurers and Medicaids out there.  When dollars get racked up somewhere, by someone, we all pay.  Hence my post title.

How did we get here? Watch that knee jerk; it's not necessarily Big Pharma that's the problem. Perhaps it's doctors who order an MRI for a stomach pain and we who go ahead and get the test. It's people like one of my babysitters, who gets an expensive endoscopy every year to monitor her acid reflux, but who refuses to give up her coffee and diet soda, which are big contributing factors to that condition, as she well knows.

Having lived in Europe and enjoyed the efficient, spotless and inexpensive health care there, suggest we turn our eyes across the pond as we hiss and claw our way toward a solution. If we ever get there. Oh, and that horrible Canadian system some are using as proof positive that national health systems don't work?  Canadians love it.

~BurbMom

Do I make like a child, or be all "I am woman?"

In mindful circles, we talk a lot about trying to live life "like a child again," with the same sense of wonderment and joy, that sense that every moment lasts forever. On the other hand, we chicks are constantly being barraged (at least, I am; if you regularly browse ladies' mags, you probably are, too) with the message that we only come into our own in our [fill in the blanks: 30s/40s/50s/wise elder years].  Yelp out loud for each time you're heard or read: 

I'm finally comfortable in my own skin.

I know who I am/what I want/my actual bra size.

I've finally found the meaning of life.

I've arrived.

Lately, though, I'm wondering if childhood had the advantage in the "knowing thyself" and "choosing," along with smooth skin, endless summers and all the rest of it. What if, in fact, we know exactly who we are, and what we want, when we are children? What if we stuck to that, through the confusing years of our 20's and early 30's?

I remember the things that made me happy as a child, and I realize now how much I miss doing so many of them. Some of the things were introduced by my parents, like the piano, but others I gravitated toward naturally as soon as I had an inkling:  Reading, acting, singing. I wasn't thrown a pu-pu platter of activities hoping that something would stick (though I was exposed to travel and culture); I instinctively knew these were the things that made me happy, because my mind was clear, uncluttered by hormones, endless activities, bill-paying, work, or alcohol.

I've seen a trend of women getting back to these youthful desires. Some are again studying high school languages, or playing sports they loved, like rowing. Others are looking toward second careers as their kids sprout wings. I suggest to us all, whether looking for work or a hobby of substance:  Look back, ladies.  It may not be the wisdom of our years that'll carry us through, but the instinct of babes. 

~BurbMom