Examined Lives

The life(style) I'd like to live

I was pondering City Mom's post about how hard it is to get a toe-hold on a decent lifestyle these days.  Let's face it -- even taking a decent vacation and owning your own home can seem woefully out of reach these days.  Perhaps that's one reason why more Americans are placing an emphasis on doing, rather than having, as The New York Times reports.

Thinking over this, I recalled two families whose lifestyles I greatly admire -- so much that it occurred to me when visiting them, "I love the way they live."  Neither involved a great deal of money.

The first family are friends who live in Seattle, whom I met while working abroad.  An extremely well-educated, -read and -traveled couple, the kind of folks with whom talking for hours is an end to itself. Calm. Funny. They were vegetarians to boot, and could make a mean cup of strong coffee with a French press, which you could drink while listening to Ira Glass on the radio of a morning.  You get the picture.  They shopped at Goodwill; their small Craftsman home had old shag carpeting and a huge compost heap.  They shopped at a co-op. Their little girl was bright and talkative, and enjoying lounging on the belly of their friendly big dog.  Mount Ranier glimmered in the distance on the rare day it didn't rain. So strong was the pull of this  lifestyle that I up and moved to Seattle to try it out for myself.  Sadly, it proved hard for a single 20-something from Manhattan to achieve. (It might work now, but The Dude is reluctant to move again.)

The other family lives down south, off of the Intercoastal in Florida. Again, hyper-intelligent and well-read and quirky. Their home is similarly modest, but is equipped with top-notch dive equipment and a big, well-used fishing boat.  Family factions take off now and then to kayak in Costa Rica or to visit friends in Hong Kong.  Pull up there, and someone will dust off a wine glass (and a seat for you) and check the lobster traps for a catch, which, if you're lucky, will reap a simply prepared, scrumptious feast. There are no formalities; folks drift in and out of the party, sometimes to nap; sometimes just to read the paper. Come as you are. Stay as long as you want.

I'm not saying I didn't deeply desire the life of a couple of my Manhattan friends, who will inherit their folks' classic six. I've often thought, while considering a well-turned-out, older couple leaving a performance at the Met, "This is how I want to spend my golden years." It just seemed like these other modest folks had no interest, or use for, profligate lifestyles. In fact, their homey surroundings just allowed their priceless values to shine more brightly. Just like my friend CityMom.

On the other hand -- both of those families did buy their homes relatively cheaply, way back when.  And their excellent educations would cost dearly now.  And the stylish couple leaving the opera?  One is probably a banker.

-BurbMom

What's it all about, Alfie?

A week ago today, I stumbled out of a screening for the movie Motherhood that threw me into a funk that lasted three days. (Granted, I was already on the precipice, and I was getting a cold, so perhaps I was vulnerable.) In it, Uma Thurman plays Eliza, a Manhattan mom who struggles to get everything she needs to do done in one day: Walk the dog, feed the kids, shuffle the car in a daily ritual known as street parking, shop for her daughter's birthday party to be held that evening, see her best friend, take her younger son to the playground, pick up the cake, decorate the apartment and, somewhere in there, make a deadline. 

To a certain extent, I felt validated watching Eliza whirl like a proverbial dervish, trying not to screw things up. That's the story of my daily life, except my deadline's not a blogging contest to get a job, it's a job that helps put food on the table. But I also felt depleted, reminded once more of everything it takes just to sustain an existence that sometimes feels woefully fragile. (Eliza and her husband aren't rich, and their home is, like the apartments of my friends and neighbors, cramped to the gills.) Aren't the movies supposed to offer an escape?

Don't get me wrong: I am grateful for my life. I live in a city that allows me to strive or hide, depending on the day. I have friends who are kind and interesting. And I have a family that keeps my heart, and days, full. But of late, when I look around at my friends, many of whom seem to be juggling as fast and as hard as me, I think: Why? What for? It just seems as if no matter how hard we work, we don't get as far anymore. 

A friend who once wrote for all the big-name women's magazines goes from one underpaying freelance copywriting gig to another to help make ends meet. She'd like a permanent job, but—and you've heard this story before—no one's hiring. And she's brilliant! Her husband has a creative job in marketing, and he makes decent money, but after taxes and rent and expenses for their three kids—what we call essentials, not dining out at Nobu—it's still a stretch. Another woman I know is an academic, her husband's in technology. But after childcare—and she doesn't get much, seeing as she's with her kids whenever she's not in the classroom—and, again, reasonable expenses, there's not much left. 

Suze Orman would say, Watch your spending. And believe me, we have. My husband and I go on a date maybe once a month; the cost of babysitters tacked onto a $12 movie ticket (apiece) plus dinner is prohibitive. (Sometimes, we just take a walk for an hour in Central Park.) We eat out only once a week, and it's usually pizza or inexpensive Chinese. We brown-bag lunches, don't own a car, and walk everywhere if we can. The last purchase I made was a coat, and only to replace the five-year-old one I had with a ripped-out lining. (My copywriter friend hasn't shopped for new clothes for a year.)

Some people I've vented to say it's because we live in the city, that the cost of living is sky-high. But they don't understand. Our work is here, and if I had to commute the cost of gas, or monthly train pass for me and my husband would pretty much get rid of the savings we'd see by moving to the burbs. Plus, our kids are in crazy-good public schools here. And is the only solution really that we move? 

I worry about my retirement, I worry about college. And I suspect BurbMom does, too. You see, this isn't a city versus suburb argument. Whether you live in an apartment building on the Upper West Side or a house in a leafy hamlet, life these days feels tenuous at best. Where are the well-paying jobs? (Not in journalism, at least, for which BurbMom and I are trained. Not in academia, as my friend is discovering.) Where's the reward for hard work and years of schooling? Where is the light at the end of the tunnel?

Here's a trailer:

—CityMom

The suburban housewife experience as interpreted by comedian Sally Brooks

Friend of mine forwarded us this YouTube video, and we almost spit out our cereal this morning from laughing too hard. All in jest, of course...

—CityMom

Surprising stats about divorce in NYC

You'd think a place like New York, teeming with actors, gazelle-like models and other beautiful temptations, would be Divorce Central. (Certainly, some speak of it as a den of iniquity; I, on the other hand, just think it's a pretty damn fascinating place in which to live.) But according to the New York Post, "New York state had one of the lowest divorce rates in the nation last year, according to new Census figures. Only New Jersey and North Dakota had rates lower than New York state's 8.4 percent divorce rate in 2008, a number that dropped even lower in Brooklyn, Queens and Staten Island."

Pretty cool, if you ask me. But yes, we still have filthier streets than your average burb. (We have more people living here, after all.) 

The city with the highest divorce rates: Nevada's 14.2 percent divorce rate was the highest in the country. (It's easy to get married there, but also to disengage, apparently.) The most divorce-friendly county? Wayne County, Ind., 19.2 percent.

It just goes to show: You can't judge a city by its glossy, shiny, Sex-and-the-City cover. 

—CityMom

And how was *your* day?

In the interests of having a sociological record, I thought I would chronicle a day in the life of one typically busy middle-class working mother, circa these days and located in a major metro area.

6:00 am - Slide out of bed. Only the thought of how quickly I'll be getting a Coffee People Jet Fuel K-Cup propels me.

6:15 am - After rejuvenating few sips, swing into action.  Feed cats, who are deviously trying to trip me until I do.  Furiously assemble lunch boxes (cheese sticks, water bottles, sliced ham, some crappy crunchy item, don't remember which). Wipe down counters, still filthy after last night's cooking. Lay out raincoats; check backpacks to make sure all items secure and ready for takeoff.

6:45 am - No time to shower.  Dampen hair and blow dry for three minutes in attempt to get that "finished look."  Results are limp and unconvincing.

7:00 am - Dab on some drugstore makeup.  (No time or money to shop for the good stuff.)  At least it's supposed to be organic. Throw on uniform:  Black pants, sweater and loafers.

7:05 am -- Wake up kids.  Kiss, kiss.  Brush hair, distribute granola bars, soothe the clingy one, shout last-minute instructions to The Dude (check and sign Reading Log.  Look for big trash bags at grocery story, as entire must now enclose their coats and backpacks -- the lice are back.  Again.)  Write out checks for school lunch tickets; tomorrow's Pizza Day. Lay out money and textbooks for Chinese class later in case I"m not back from the city in time.

7:17 am - Bolt for train to city.  Make it.

8:20 am - Squish into standing-room only second train to get to city in time to buy tea before meeting.  Somebody has bad breath.  At least I didn't waste a hair wash.

8:55 am - Take my place at big conference room table.  Check to make sure all buttons are buttoned and that I have appropriate paperwork.  I do!  Crumpled and stained by morning breakfast yogurt, but I do.

9:15 am - Please, please don't make me present our project list.  Oh, I'm not ready for this. I don't even remember what's on it. How unqualified am I??  I simply can't.  I won't. I want to sit here, quietly, and take notes, and nod.  Oh, please. Oh...whew. Oh, thank you.  What a splendid boss you are.

10:00 am - Ready to catch train home to continue the day's work from lovely basement office...but wait!  Emergency item needs editing pronto. In the office.  But first, another impromptu meeting. To go over that Project List. 

11:00 am - Bolt for train home.  Make it!

12:45 pm - Home.  First, send out flurry of e-mails resulting from morning meeting. Shove down lunch salad.  Solid couple of editing hours ensue.  Clean stinky litter box somewhere in there.

3:00 pm - Kids return, graciously chauffeured today by The Dude.  Riffle through backpacks.  Sort school paperwork piles:  To Pay, To Do, Ignore, and WTF. Hand out sliced apples and oversee homework, using whiteboard to illustrate intricacies of writing six-digit numbers.

3:30 pm - Cajole kids to sit down finish homework, already.

4:00 pm - Head out with kids to local store to purchase several birthday party gifts. Buy a Perfect Petzzz for some kid,whereby my own kid practically collapses in a fit of longing for one of the damned things. 

You have a real pet, I point out.  This thing just lays there and pretends to breathe, probably going through a couple batteries a day to go it. No matter; said child will raid her bank account for the animal.  What can I say?  It's her money.  I give up.  We buy it.  I suck at teaching them about delayed gratification and money management, I really do.  I'll worry about that another day.

5:00 pm - Dish out chicken nuggets for dinner.  I don't have any veggies left in the fridge.  I feel guilty, incredibly guilty, but at least they're the whole-wheat breaded, baked kind.  Feed cats.  Clean litter box.

5:30 pm - Prepare for magazine launch party, held locally, thank buddha.  Bathe, and try to push ragged cuticles back using sharp implements. Planned manicure did not transpire. Luckily, I did find a half-hour yesterday to visit SuperCuts (damp hair trim, no wash, 10 minutes, $14).

In preparation, have purchased dress on e-Bay in an ambitious size (J.Crew silk, black, NWT, $85).  Once pried out of its manila envelope and its resulting accordion wrinkles ironed to the best of my ability, dress is incredibly tight and pushes up my bosom practically to my ears. It will have to do. Feel like Scarlett O'Hara as The Dude zips and hooks me in, me gasping for breath. I sure won't be able to eat at the event. Fiddle dee dee! 

6:00 pm -- Design business cards, which The Dude helpfully prints using our handy-dandy Home Business Card Printing System. So they're one color and have five words...I'm a minimalist. 

6:30 pm - Reapply drugstore makeup, this time with a little five-year-old expensive eyeshadow thrown in.

6:45 pm - Issue last-minute instructions for The Dude: quiz spelling words, ensure kids do enforced daily reading.  By the way -- isn't he a great guy?  He is.

Another aside: Why do schools force kids to log or otherwise report on their reading?  Every day?  I can think of no better way to kill a love for reading than to make it homework. Anybody with me here?

6:50 pm - Console clingy child, who is crying because I won't be home to tuck her in. Her hair, wet from the bath, leaves a damp stain on the silk dress. Allow her to apply last-minute face powder (to me).  Put lipstick on myself and her, which thrills her no end.

7:00 pm  - Pop in car to go to magazine event. Car still stinks of sweat from Dude using it a half-hour ago to return from the gym.  Luckily I used my little perfume trick - just a dab in the general vicinity of the upper thigh area.  This ensures others will not choke on your perfume, but that you will release a nice smell when your plump thighs rub together under your dress.

7:15 pm -  Have panic attack. Dress bodice is way too tight. Barely able to breathe.

7:30 pm - Grab glass of wine like a shipwrecked sailor going for the lifeboat. 

7:45 pm - Talky, talky. Dispense homemade business cards. Editors and publisher are all younger than I. I'll be depressed about this later.

8:00 pm -- Wait -- is that one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey over there?  By jove, it is!  Wow, her lips are really, really plump. It is collagen? Silicone?  And what the hell am I doing in the same room as one of the Real Housewives of New Jersey?

8:15 pm - See a woman I know; a former fellow preschool mom (of two) who is also a network news anchor. She looks flawless and calm.  I do know, however, that she doesn't have to train it to work.  They send a limo for her. 

8:30 pm - Finally allow myself to eat an hors d'oeuvres. It tastes like cardboard; salmon salad runs down my chin, and a few bits of flaky pastry fall into my cleavage. It is such a bad idea to eat at these things.

8:45 pm - Bend over in the ladies' to clean out my cleavage, and my jugs pop almost all the way out.  Shove them back in frantically.  I simply cannot fathom why women would want to buy and surgically implant fake ones. Strap a half-bag of flour to your chest for a day instead, and see how it feels.  Still want 'em?

9:00 pm - Time to leave!

9:45 pm -- Safely at home. Ravenously devour big bowl of soup, which watching, glassy-eyed, The Girls Next Door.

10:30 pm - At long last, sleep.

~BurbMom

More about infidelity, 'cause it's so juicy!

To continue this thread, I was agog last month when I opened my Atlantic and saw Sandra Tsing Loh's rant about the dissolution of her marriage, and the institution in general. Even better, there's a video on the mag's site of her with all her stuff in a 10x10 U-haul, packed and labelled by her (ex?) husband. You don't often get to see a public figure dish to this degree, lemme tell you.

Anyway, to give you the ten-cent version, she was unfaithful, but she doesn't really see it as her fault.  To her point of view, marriage is hard; it lasts way too long these days, as life expectancy has increased; married people don't have sex; women tend to get the short end of the stick, having jobs and still under the gun to be good homemakers. She suggests that the love that got folks into this mess in the first place is really, really hard to keep hot, as CityMom suggests, or to rekindle when it's gone.  So why even try in the first place?

There are not a lot of other options, though she posits a few interesting scenarios:

As far as the children are concerned, how about the tribal approach (a natural, according to both primate and human evolution)? Let children between the ages of 1 and 5 be raised in a household of mothers and their female kin. Let the men/husbands/boyfriends come in once or twice a week to build shelves, prepare that bouillabaisse, or provide sex...

Let the Type A moms obsessively work, write checks, and forget to feed the dog. Let the dads then, if they wish, kick out those sloppy working mothers and run effective households, hiring the appropriate staff, if need be. To a certain extent, men today may have more clarity about what it takes to raise children in the modern age. They don’t, for instance, have today’s working mother’s ambivalence and emotional stickiness. 

I agree -- marriage is a bizarre endeavor these days. I say it can't succeed without a tremendous amount of humor, and humanity, and friendship, all of which were perhaps far gone in Loh's union, otherwise she wouldn't be living out of a U-haul. Who said it's going to be a hot romance all the time?  Sometimes it really is just all about the kids. Then, when you can catch a breath, you get it on again, assuming you have still kept some respect and kindness going for each other. There are things that come out of left field, insurmountable things; I get that. But you've got to cover your bases to even have a chance.

It's challenging and interesting and even a little kinky, every marriage its own experiment. Maybe brutal, yes, but the payoff can be wondrous, for us and for the kids. Despite the odds, it's still worth a try, dang it.

~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

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.)

Oh, just shut up about simple living, already

Something about Pico Iyer's piece about the virtues of living simply in today's New York Times irritated the hell out of me. To give you the ten-cent version, he raves about how living in a smallish two-bedroom apartment in Japan instead of on Park Avenue, while downsizing his mass media consumption and big-time career dreams, has lead to greater piece of mind and more time to enjoy the simple things in life, like novels and tangerines.  He writes:

"If you’re the kind of person who prefers freedom to security, who feels more comfortable in a small room than a large one and who finds that happiness comes from matching your wants to your needs, then running to stand still isn’t where your joy lies. In New York, a part of me was always somewhere else, thinking of what a simple life in Japan might be like. Now I’m there, I find that I almost never think of Rockefeller Center or Park Avenue at all."

I agree, in principle, with these thoughts. Of course we shouldn't waste our lives on ephemera, on chasing money and the Next Big Job.

But it's mighty disingenuous of him to think that he is somehow setting an example for the rest of us.

First of all, he can afford to rest on his laurels; he's done the big time, he's had his pad on Park Ave, and published many books; some of which, as I recall, were best-sellers. He's still writing for the Times from his little hovel in Kyoto.  His kids are grown; of course he doesn't need a car. And he's in Japan, living as an expat, which is itself endlessly stimulating and interesting, and must also be pretty darn expensive, by the way. Ever think the reason people live simply there is because they can't afford to live largely, Pico?

What I want to read about is someone who manages to have that kind of mindset while raising young kids in the middle of crowded city or suburbia. Who tries to scale back on consuming for herself and her kids, all the while being bombarded by social and media messaging. Who finds healthy organic food on a budget, because the condo association would sure be pissed if she tried to grow it herself. Who has to spend the better part of days sort out bills and various insurances. Who can't filter out the media because she works for it, which, by the way, involves being ruthlessly competitive and having a very, very tough skin these days. Aiming small just ain't the way to make it as a journalist.

Otherwise, simple living people, I don't want to hear about it anymore. Wallow in your serenity quietly next time, and spare us the lecture. It's just more media chatter for me to filter.

~BurbMom

Pain: It does your body good (sometimes)

The headache descended Saturday afternoon. It arrived like it always does: suddenly, overwhelmingly, irrevocably. The world darkened, as if a light bulb in the room had blown out. Then came the nausea, followed by the ache from behind the eyes. 

For the record, I hate that I get migraines. (Some experts peg the number of sufferers in this country at 28 million.) I hate that it can fell me so suddenly and knock me out so completely. It makes me feel weak and helpless. It sucks. The day after, I'm trying to catch up on the lost hours and never quite getting there. (It's a productivity killer; MigraineCalculator.com has a tool on how to calculate the cost of migraines to the workplace.) And I'm filled with resentment at having lost so many hours.

Except today. The telltale hangover's still there, the lack of bounce. But I'm not resentful. I'm accepting. Maybe even thankful. Yes, thankful! At least a little. In the two weeks leading up to Saturday, I'd been driving myself hard, stressing about work and having too much to do and not enough time to check everything off the proverbial list. Rather than put on the brakes, though, I kept pushing. The three hours I spent with my head buried under a pillow was supposed to be spent making calls and setting up interviews with sources so I could get a jump on my week. I also had slotted myself for some filing and organizing. And then there was the 4:30 pm meeting for yet another project. 

But because of the migraine, I couldn't do all that. I wasn't giving my body a break so it forced one on me. My body would not cooperate. No!, it bellowed. Gone were the interviews, the note-taking, the desk overhaul.  For the first time in weeks (not counting the few hours each night I was eking out for sleep), I wasn't thinking about work. 

As a runner you're trained to pay attention to each ache and pain because they contain crucial information about how you're running. I learned to calibrate my gait, my speed, in relation to how my body felt, and it made me a better runner. Who knew that advice held up in other ways, too? (Amazon.com stocks a well-reviewed book by pain expert Dr. Paul Brand called The Gift of Pain that might be worth checking out. Here's the description: "Pain is not something that most of us would count as a blessing; however, what it is and why we need it if we're to live life fully is brought to light in this book." Hmm...)

Though I wouldn't willingly sign up for another bout, this last migraine had, in its own way, done me some good. And for that I am—dare I say it?—grateful. Let's just hope I don't need another "lesson" in finding balance anytime soon. (At least not a lesson like this.) As for calibrating my life so I won't be so vulnerable to migraines—stress is a major trigger—that's a work in progress.

—CityMom