Me Me Me

Caroline Kennedy has declared her interest in replacing Hillary in the Senate, and the press has gotten busy scratching its collective chin over the burning question, “Is she qualified?” Um, YEAH. She is BEYOND qualified, and I couldn’t be more thrilled that she wants to put herself out there and serve our state (which is not overflowing with inspiring political figures, to put it mildly) and haul herself to Washington to take the seat held by her Uncle Bobby. In fact, it’s the best news I’ve heard since Obama decided to run for President. Appoint her tomorrow, Governor Paterson, before she changes her mind!

All of this harrumphing over Caroline’s “qualifications” makes me laugh. She would be a fabulous and inspiring Senator. “She hasn’t proved herself.” Excuse me — who SHOULD get the seat, some hack who has traded political favors for a dozen years in some obscure town in Westchester or upstate? Some semi-corrupt member of the useless New York City Council? Here’s who should be a Senator: Someone really, really smart. Someone with a record of public service. Someone progressive and strong and independent. Someone like Caroline Kennedy.

Do I have a soft spot for Caroline because I remember her hugging her daddy in the Oval Office and riding her pony Macaroni and standing with her sweet little brother before JFK’s funeral? Yes, I do. Now think about how Caroline might have turned out after losing her father at age six. With all that money — the Kennedy money and later the Onassis divorce money — she could have become the ultimate New York socialite, hopping out of limos and concentrating on her wardrobe as she made the scene here and all over Europe. A glittering (wasted) life, fawned over in Vogue like so many other shallow, vain people with famous last names.

Caroline didn’t do that. Quietly, she went to law school, wrote a series of interesting books, administered an award for public service attached to her father’s library, raised millions of dollars for New York public schools (including a $50 million donation from Bill Gates), spoke out for great organizations like Human Rights First, and raised three kids out of the spotlight. She never cared about appearances. She hasn’t had a facelift. She is one of the most famous people in America and yet she seems to have lived a normal, productive life in spite of all the tragedies she had endured. She would be an outstanding Senator. Yes, Caroline!

I seem to have touched a nerve with my meditation on cellphones (which, as I mentioned, I seldom use or even turn on) and BlackBerries (don’t get me started…again). But what of Facebook? My adorable children have banned me from Facebook, which is perfectly fine because in my opinion, nobody over the age of… okay, I’ll be nice… 35 has any business on Facebook. And no one who is married with children. Writing on someone’s “wall”? Drawing an etch-a-sketch-style flower or kitten? “Poking” someone? These are not suitable activities for a grownup. Nor is spying on your college-age child’s online photo albums like a member of the secret police.

Now, I’m as nosy as the next person, and when granted access to Facebook by one of my children, I enjoy sitting with them and looking at drunken pictures of their high school friends. (My kids, of course, are as sober as a judge in all of their Facebook photos. HA HA.) It’s amazing, and a little alarming, what’s available on Facebook for anyone who cares to look, as Rudy Guiliani discovered when his daughter joined the “Friends of Obama” group. Okay, that was funny! And it’s nice to hear that 50 people sent my child a happy birthday message without having to buy and mail a card.

What of the “networking” possibilities inherent in Facebook and LinkedIn and MySpace and so on? Just the thought of that is tiresome. When is a “friend” actually a friend? Luckily, I am past the age of having to job-hunt or social-climb on the internet. And it’s a tad hypocritical of me to turn my nose up at Facebook and then start a blog! But so far, at least, my kids have been okay with this form of expression — and I haven’t posted any pictures here that could embarrass them.

When I think how quickly basic forms of communication have changed in the still-young 21st century, I feel like I have just emerged from a cave. Here’s where I am technologically: I spend my workdays communicating via e-mail, which doubles productivity and is wonderful for folks like me who hate wasting time on the phone. I write and edit everything on the computer, which quadruples productivity from the dark ages (um, the early 90s) when I wrote articles on yellow legal pads. (Whaaaa?!) In other words, I can do the work of three people because of computers. That’s a good thing.

But cell phones? BlackBerries? Electronic calendar thingies? Ha ha ha. I have a circa-2004 cell phone that I never turn on unless I am traveling or need to call my darling husband and inquire how late he will be at the restaurant where I am invariably waiting for him. I do not know my own cell phone number. I write my appointments in a pocket-size leatherette Manhattan Diary that has handy street maps of said borough in the back.

Meanwhile, my adorable daughter can work magic on her beloved iPhone, whizzing through e-mails and typing 70 words a minute on that tiny keypad as she texts her 500 closest friends and colleagues day and night. My adorable son uses his always-active cell phone as a de facto watch.

And my DH? I joke — actually I am dead serious — that if the BlackBerry had existed when our children were little, we would be divorced today. That BlackBerry?! OMG. To say that it is an addiction, an obsession, an object of adoration, is underestimating the power of the Berry. It is truly a way of life — and clients know this, so they don’t hesitate to keep in touch and make demands 24/7. Some people (my DH) embrace this, and happily respond to three e-mails at intermission. I don’t want to be in touch with anybody 24/7. Basically, I want to be left alone. 

Okay, my DH just came in and cheerfully called me a Luddite: “British workmen who, between 1811 and 1816, rioted and destroyed textile machinery in the belief that it would diminish employment.” Huh. I don’t think rioting would make him put down the BlackBerry. So I grit my teeth and wish them both a great day.

My standards for behavior in a theater are high. Stratrospherically high. Just ask my adorable children, who could sit in a Broadway theater without moving a muscle for more than two hours by age five. That’s the basic rule: Sit still. Sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Not according to a huge chunk of people who go to shows and concerts. I had time to think about this last night when I accompanied my darling husband to hear Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony at the Philharmonic. People tend to behave better at classical music concerts — until they fall asleep, that is, and begin to snore, as the lady next to me did. Anyway, I came up with five simple commandments that should be carved into a marble pillar and posted outside every theatrical venue:

THOU SHALT KEEP THY HANDS STILL. Don’t conduct the symphony, as the man next to the snoring woman did last night. Don’t twirl your hair. Don’t rub your face. Don’t jingle your bracelets. Don’t flip through the program. And for heavens sake, don’t crack your knuckles.

THOU SHALT NOT TOUCH PLASTIC. Oh lord, this is a big one with the tourists, who insist on holding (and therefore rustling) their Macy’s bags through a show. Or their giant bag of M&Ms. Or their Snickers wrapper. Or the random contents of a Duane-Reade bag. I have become proactive about plastic — I don’t hesitate to tell someone sitting near me, “You’re going to have to put that bag under your seat when the show starts.” And they obey!

THOU SHALT REMAIN IN THY PERSONAL SPACE. Yeah, it’s crowded. No leg room. But don’t wander, with hands or legs or belongings, into the two feet of space that is allotted to ME. Hog the armrest you share with your companion, and let me have mine. And if you’re in front of me, take your hat off.

THOU SHALT KEEP THY MOUTH SHUT DURING THE SHOW. It’s simple: You are NOT in your living room! Don’t murmur the names of the actors as they come onstage, like Bert Parks at Miss America. Don’t share your opinion of Katie Holmes’ costume while she’s uttering her first line. Don’t ask your companion, “What did he say?” (Get the hearing aid thingie.) HUSH.

THOU SHALT NOT LEAVE DURING THE CURTAIN CALL. I don’t care if you’re rushing to the catch the 10:48 to Mamaroneck. STAY until the curtain call is done. Don’t turn your back on the actors as you wander up the aisle. They did the show for you, now stay and clap until the curtain falls for the last time.

Michael Buble is a musical Rorschach test, a living inkblot of one’s taste in singers. And I am willing to stand up and say, loudly and proudly, “My name is Kathy, and I am a Michael Buble fan.” Many, many people do not share my opinion and are quite willing to tell me so, often with a snort of laughter. Guess what? I don’t care what they think. Michael Buble’s voice makes me happy happy happy. 

I’m discussing my favorite Canadian because I saw him at Madison Square Garden this weekend, my third time experiencing Mr. Bubbly (as I affectionately call him) live and in person. He was sporting his usual skinny black suit with a vaguely unattractive roosterish hairdo. (He recently broke up with pretty Miss Emily Blunt, who probably gave him better hair advice than he is currently getting.) During the show, he did his usual herky-jerky motions around the stage; Mr. Bubbly is not a dancer, but he’s so precious nobody minds. It’s the voice, people!

Oh my gosh, I love to hear this man sing, and so do several thousand other middle-aged women from the tri-state area, who swooned over Mr. B as their husbands (including my darling one) sat indulgently at their sides — payback, no doubt, for the wives sitting through an Eric Clapton songfest or some dull sports event. Secretly, many men like Michael Buble too, but it’s not macho to admit that, as Michael himself acknowledged during the show.

Now that I have worn out my three Michael Buble CDs (I am the one person in the United States who still buys CDs), I was thrilled to hear my man sing two numbers from his NEXT recording, “Stardust” (stop laughing!) and a Dean Martin song that I’m blanking on. He can recycle the Rat Pack’s greatest hits for the rest of his life as far as I’m concerned! I left MSG smiling smiling smiling, and managed not to buy a sparkly Buble T-shirt on my way out — even I have my limits.

My busy theatergoing schedule frequently messes up my football viewing, but when I can, I love to watch Eli Manning stalk up and down the line, yelling who-knows-what to his New York Giant teammates just before the ball snaps. His redheaded daddy, Archie, was a star at Ole Miss when I was in high school, though I seem to remember Auburn’s Heisman Trophy-winning star, Pat Sullivan, thumping Archie’s Rebels a time or two. 

Like everyone else, I was tsk-tsking poor, quiet Eli a year ago, yammering that he couldn’t measure up to his prematurely bald big brother Peyton, couldn’t take the pressure of playing in the big city, etc. etc. Well!! I managed to watch every game last December when Eli and the Giants awoke from their collective coma and marched to the Super Bowl. That smug Tiki Barber, who had been mean to Eli, did NOT get his hands on the Vince Lombardi trophy. Neither did hot dog Jeremy Shockey, another trash-talker. Eli didn’t need the two of you, thanks! 

Though I am a pessimist on my happiest day, when the Super Bowl game started last January, I just knew that Eli and the Giants were going to beat pretty boy Tom and his sourpuss coach, the secret videotaper. It was fate! The icing on the cake for me was reading about how Eli, the baby of the family, was super-close to his mother growing up while Archie and the two big brothers were off hither and yon. He was good to his mama!! Of course he would get his reward! After the big game, I plastered my cubicle wall at work with pictures of a smiling Eli hoisting that trophy above his head. Yes! HA!

When Eli and his future bride Abby came to our church on Easter Sunday, I practically knocked old ladies over in my haste to greet them. Like the celebrity he now is, Eli avoided eye contact and just kept walking. But Abby responded to my blubbering hello with a friendly smile. As I write this, the Giants are 11-1, but the New York press, as usual, looks for the dark side. Can Eli go all the way again now that yo-yo Plaxico has shot himself in the thigh? Why on earth NOT?!

I tend to block out news of terrorism, because (I tell myself) as a New Yorker, I really can’t dwell on it or I’d get paranoid. I mean, in today’s world, every subway ride is a tiny leap of faith. But India is on my mind, both because of last week’s inexplicable attacks and because of Slumdog Millionaire, the fantastic movie we saw this weekend. We hardly ever go to a movie theater anymore. By the time I’ve seen three pieces of theater in a week, it’s easier to stay home on Friday night and veg out with the latest mediocre Netflix release. Now that the Oscar-bait movies are here, however, we’ve gotta try to catch up. And we picked a great one to start the season.

Slumdog Millionaire is the story of a guy who grows up in the slums of Mumbai and somehow makes it onto the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? That’s all you need to know. Just go see the movie immediately. The depiction of these slums makes the worst place in America look like Park Avenue and 62nd Street. Unimaginable filth and degradation. Children roaming the streets with no parents, no food, no shoes — nothing to get them on the road to a successful life. I’m making the movie sound like the ultimate downer, but it isn’t; it’s exhilarating. Still, you look at these scenes and think: How can people be living that way on the other side of the world while I spend a rainy Sunday buying gifts at Tiffany?

It would take a philosophy professor or a theologian to answer that cosmic question, and lord knows I am neither. All I can do is try to step out of the bubble I live in and be generous in every sense of the word. Jeez, that’s trite! I should invite my adorable son, an old soul and one of the most compassionate people I know, to rewrite this paragraph.

As an anal Virgo, I am usually well along with my Christmas shopping by now. Not this year! The older the kids get, the more complicated the task becomes. I feel a pang when I see that garish Toys R Us logo and think back to the years when my darling husband and I would drive to the burbs on a Friday night and buy all of “Santa Claus” in one marathon shopping session, then treat ourselves to dinner on the way home. Invariably one “must-have” toy would be out of stock and unavailable anywhere in the tri-state area, unleashing a nationwide search for said toy. But we would always manage to find Super Van City or the latest Star Wars Lego set before Christmas Eve. Boy, I miss those days!

Now our adorable offspring are old, with verrrry expensive tastes, but I refuse to say, “Okay, here’s a wad of cash — let’s eat Christmas dinner!” Everybody needs a pile of beautifully wrapped gifts to shake, admire and look forward to opening. Maybe THIS package will be “just what I want.” But it gets harder and harder to divine what that perfect gift might be. As for my DH? Forget it! He doesn’t want anything, and after 32+ years of gifting, it’s almost impossible to come up with new and exciting ideas.

Honestly, we should just can the whole exercise and donate the money to our church or to charity. But I LOVE Christmas and want to give everybody the most special things (hoping that I will get something nice myself, of course!). Now if only I can find the time to look for this year’s treasures…

“Christmas records” — nobody calls them that anymore. Only old fogies like me still think of holiday recordings as LPs with Andy Williams or Nat King Cole sitting in the snow on the cover. When I was little, we bought a Christmas compilation record every year put out by a tire company (Firestone?) that had Steve and Eydie singing “Let It Snow” alongside Robert Goulet and Carol Lawrence singing “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” Neither of those couples stayed together, by the way, but they sure could sing a nice Christmas duet.

Anyway, the point is that Thanksgiving has arrived, which means that I get to listen to Christmas music for the next month. ONLY Christmas music. Since the Hendersons are 21st century people, my vast collection of Christmas records has been loaded onto our nifty Bose sound system, and I can scroll down to find my favorites, such as Gloria Estefan, Mariah Carey, Amy Grant, Clay Aiken (don’t laugh! it’s great!) and last year’s obsession, Mr. Josh Groban. I try to buy a new Christmas record every year. Some fall flat (sorry, James Taylor) and some become instant faves (Michael McDonald of the Doobie Brothers). I also have old-school compilations cadged from the Firestone era and newer ones put out by Starbucks and Old Navy. I am a fanatic. Classics? Messiah? Sometimes. But nothing beats a great rendition of “Silver Bells.”

After all these years of being force-fed holiday ditties for an entire month, my kids are well-versed in the Christmas oeuvre and don’t mind having “Chestnuts roasting” as background noise when they’re home. The only problem is that the Bose system memorizes your “favorites” and spits them back at you randomly for the rest of the year. You have to teach it not to revert to Christmas mode, which takes at least six months, and I feel sad every time it tries to play a holiday song for me. “Not yet,” I tell it. “We can’t start until Thanksgiving.”

It’s official: I have gotten addicted to depositing the pickings of my brain here, which became clear as I got antsier and antsier at being unable to write for five days while busy working and taking a weekend trip to the south. “Who is reading your blog?” an acquaintance asked me recently in a fake friendly tone that implied she felt no one could possibly want to. I replied, totally sincerely, “Two people that I know of — one girlfriend and my daughter’s sweet boyfriend.” (Hi Matt!) But who cares? Like the Yankees of 1998, like Dancing with the Stars, like High School Musical 3, sitting at this screen is therapy. 

So…old friends. We saw a ton of them over the weekend as my college roommate got married for the first time at 54. She looked absolutely beautiful in a strapless satin gown. Strapless! I could never pull that off, but she did it and didn’t look a day over 35. I watched in awe and envy as the newlyweds and their local friends, who belong to a ballroom dancing group in Birmingham, glided across the floor in perfect form. I love to dance but never learned moves like I saw at that reception. One man was 80 and floated as sexily as a college student. Yeah! 

When you move far away, as my darling husband and I did at 22, you lose touch with people, so it’s a little surreal to look across a restaurant table three decades later at the guy who was the fraternity flirt, the basketball star, the sweetest girl in the sorority. Beyond that, to see two girlfriends of 50 years (!) and picture myself a little girl, eating black-eyed peas and cornbread in one friend’s kitchen and watching Dark Shadows after school with the other one. One of them remembers the song we sang at age five in the “dance revue” when we wore the fetching costume pictured at the top of my blog! Holy Toledo! 

Back on the plane, headed north, we were glad to have had a nice visit with my DH’s brother and his family and to have seen a dozen close friends at six different eating locations (three within the perimeter of one mall!) in two days. So when my precious trainer said last night, “Why are you so quiet? Are you mad at me?” I smiled wearily and replied, “I am talked OUT.”