Tag Archive for: Maggie Barbieri

Brand A or Mango? Help me decide…

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For the fifth time in as many years, I’m shopping for a new computer to replace the one that no longer works, otherwise known as “their computer” which is the opposite of “my computer.”

And I’m getting darned tired of it.

I have stuck with the same PC company for all of these years, but I’m nothing if not astute. Perhaps I should switch brands/platforms? Because the five computers that I have owned have all been replaced, one after another, by newer, faster, and sleeker models all because their predecessors have bitten the dust in one way or another.

Horrible virus that wipes out your hard drive? Check.

Computer won’t start? Check.

Computer freezes to screen saver page but won’t allow you to open any applications? Check.

Internet won’t connect and gives you a notification that tells you what your problem is in numbers only? Check.

Computer instructs you to call technical support? Check.

Call me old-fashioned, but I don’t think that computers should be disposable. Why is it that computers, like cars, depreciate in value once you open the box and set them up? Why can’t they last for say, oh, three years or even past the warranty date?

PC companies would have you believe that if you switch to the company with the fruit name—let’s call it Mango or “Mang” for short—that nothing you do with other PC users will be applicable, something I’ve come to find is a complete falsehood. (I’m highly suggestible.) The PC companies would also have you believe that their products are much more affordable. This is true. Know why? Because Mango’s computers don’t have to be replaced every year! And Mango’s computers are safe from most viruses! This is important to me because my computer(s) have never met a virus they didn’t like. Every time a new virus is identified and word gets out to concerned PC users everywhere, I usually already know because I’ve already dealt with the virus and am dealing with the guys at Geek Squad who swear they’ve never seen a virus as bad as the one I’ve brought in. (That’s always comforting.)

We’re currently down to one computer, the one on which I work and write, and that just isn’t going to work for a family of four. When everyone is home, that means that they lay in wait until I take a bathroom break and then line up beside my desk like cars waiting to cross the Canadian border, just waiting for the opportunity to check their email. Scintillating exchanges occur like “r u home?” or “I’m lol-ing” or “what r u doing?” all of which could be discussed at length by using the more reliable but far less technologically-cool landline.

I live in fear that my trusty laptop will die and we will have no computer at all. And then I’ll have to run to Mango to purchase something as soon as possible, always a recipe for disaster. I’ll probably get talked into a 50 inch monitor with web cam and complete mani/pedi capabilities and that’s never a good thing. I’ll over-buy. Because that’s what I do in panic situations. (See Bluetooth capable car with no Bluetooth-capable cell phone as an example.)

So I’m asking you, dear Stiletto Gang readers, what do you suggest? Stick with generic-PC company, also known as Brand A? Or switch to Mango (Mang for short)?

We Catholics have a patron saint for everything. I think we need one for computers. I’d feel so much better if I could pray for my computer’s continued health.

Maggie Barbieri

Do I Care?

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Lots going on in the world this week so I’ve taken some time to wonder “do I care”? Let’s find out, shall we?

David Letterman had “relations” with several staffers, none of whom were married. He was. Do I care? No. It’s his private life—as well as Mrs. Letterman’s and his young son’s—but really, does it matter to any of us? Do I care about the mea culpas and whether they were genuine, funny, sarcastic, or smarmy?

Not a whit.

Here’s the thing—if we find out that Letterman sexually harassed any of these women, women who worked for him, then we have a different kettle of fish to fry. (And yes, I’m the queen of mixed metaphors.) My “do I care” will turn to “I most certainly do care” in a heartbeat. Because using your power to manipulate those in a subordinate position to you is certainly a crime. Having an affair while involved with someone else—while reprehensible in my book—is not. The extortion plot? Also a crime. But Letterman’s dalliances are not my business and I would rather not hear about them anymore. Go back to stupid pet tricks, Dave. Or in your case, stupid human tricks.

Crime is crime, but bad moral character is just that. And I just don’t care if my 11:30 pm talk show host guy is a philandering s.o.b.

Roman Polanski was extradicted from France after thirty years on the lam for raping a thirteen-year-old girl after plying her with champagne and Qualuudes. Do I care? You betcha. As a woman, a mother, and a person living in a society where children should matter more than they do, this event tips the scales a little more toward goodness. She was not a consenting participant in this event no matter what Mr. Polanski—or his apologists, too many to even believe—have to say on the matter.

There’s a reason that the person holding the scales of justice is a woman. I hope Mr. Polanski is as frightened as his victim presumably once was. About this I care deeply.

Jon Gosselin has suspended taping of “Jon and Kate Plus Eight.” Do I care? No, siree. Well, let’s amend that; maybe I do care if only because now those poor, innocent children will finally be able to live their collective lives off camera. Maybe something positive did come out of this after all.

I’m thinking that this post makes me sound angrier than I intend but when I realized that I had to wade through several articles on the Letterman issue in the newspaper this morning—as well as the details as to whether Polanski will ever make it here to stand trial—to find out what really was going on in the world, I got my panties in a twist so to speak. And when I saw yet another celebrity come out in support of Roman Polanski, I got a little more irate. And when I saw the Gosselins on television yet again, I was near stroke. I want to know what’s going on in the world at large, the global community, and my world. And no, I don’t mean what Michelle Obama wore overseas to try to secure the Olympics for Chicago (which I kind of care about because that woman—same age as I—really rocks the shift dress). I mean what our government is doing (or not doing, as the case may be), how our troops are faring overseas, how close we are to figuring out how to give health care coverage to the majority of citizens in this country. Or how we’re going to help the one in four American families who have had a member experience job loss in the past year. And on the lighter side, who the Mets fired and why, whether Eli will be able to throw on Sunday, and how Mark Sanchez is faring after getting spanked by the Saints. The important stuff. The stuff that matters to me.

So do I care about David Letterman? Not so much.

Roman Polanski? To the extent that if he is found guilty, his butt is fried by both a court of law and the court of public opinion.

The Gosselins? Not at all. Except for eight little children who deserve a childhood.

Your thoughts? What matters to you? And what images or stories are you assaulted with every day that send you over the edge?

Maggie Barbieri

Clothes Do Not Make the Writer (Thankfully)

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I was planning on writing about something else entirely, but Marilyn’s post yesterday generated so many comments that I took some time to think about what exactly I wear when I write and why.

I fall into both camps that were discussed yesterday—I do get up and get dressed almost immediately upon waking, but there are those days when I loll in my pajamas for a few minutes. These are the days, inevitably, when it is raining cats and dogs and someone needs a ride to school. On those days, yes, I have been known to drive around town in Old Navy pajama pants and a “Life Is Good” tee shirt, hoping against hope that I don’t break a law that would require that I pull over and face a cop, most of whom live right in the town. I’d never live it down. And, for sure, I’d end up in the “Blotter” section of our local paper, the section most often cited as the first one everyone goes to on Thursday when the Gazette arrives. Trust me—you do not want to see your name in the Blotter.

I could be one of those writers who spends an entire day in pajamas, but I don’t feel like the day has any merit until I’ve showered and dressed. Additional grooming is another matter entirely. I have just returned from a lunchtime trip to Trader Joe’s where I realized—upon gazing into the mirrored glass above some of the pre-prepared dinners—that I never brushed my hair today. There’s really no point in getting up and worrying about what you’ll wear if you forget to brush your hair, is there? Thankfully, I never forget to brush my teeth but remembering to put on a little make-up? Another one of my issues.

Work attire usually consists of tee shirts and jeans. However, there are some days that require that I leave the house to see a client and on those days, I usually put on a pair of nicer pants and a blouse with a cardigan. My mother calls these “wake clothes” because they are too dressy to hang around the house in, yet not dressy enough to wear to a wedding. To her, they represent the clothes that we normal folk call “business casual” but since we’re a wake-professional family (all Irish-Catholic families are to some degree), she has denoted them “wake clothes.” Feel free to adopt this phrase into your vernacular. Guaranteed, most everyone will know of which you speak. Incidentally, husband I went to Bermuda this summer to a resort that had five restaurants on the premises, many requiring “smart casual” wear. We wore our wake clothes. We weren’t turned away.

The only problem with the tee shirt/jean combo is that it doesn’t allow me to wear many of the fifty-odd pairs of shoes that I own, many stilettos, most dressier than the usual daily ensemble requires. So every once in a while, just to shake things up, I will put on a pair of shoes that I shouldn’t be caught dead in during the day in the middle of the week and prance on down to the A&P to clickety-clack along the aisles, feeling like Amazonian shopping woman.

But here’s an equally thought-provoking question that I’d love your input on. What’s on your desk when you write? What are your magic writing talismans?

Maggie Barbieri

Getting to Know You (Ok, me)

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As I get older, it is refreshing to acknowledge the things I like and don’t like to do. For years, I did things because I felt like they were the right thing to do or what I should be doing. Because everyone else was doing them. Or loved to do them.

Case in point: yoga.

For years, I was a faithful practitioner of yoga, knowing that it would be the best thing for my type-A, control freak, slightly ADD personality. I went every week with my purple mat, in my cute black stretch pants (that incidentally could have benefited from a tummy control panel) and twisted myself into various positions, holding them as long as I could, and trying to think about anything but all of the things I wanted to think about. I never could execute a handstand, but I could live with that, because when it came to the “pigeon pose,” I was a champ.

The only problem was, I wasn’t relaxing. What I was doing was stressing about not being able to relax at yoga. And I was thinking about other stuff that didn’t have anything to do with my own inner peace, chakras, or mindfulness. Every time I got into a pose and was instructed to hold it, my mind went in about five hundred different directions, starting with: “Things I need from Shoprite: eggs, milk, butter, toilet paper…” Then I would refocus (and readjust my tummy-control-less yoga pants) just in time for the next pose and clear my mind. Seconds later, I was back to: “…chicken, bread, toilet paper—oh, right, I already have that on the list—beer…beer…beer…”

My friend, Tami, is a yoga instructor and in the best shape of anyone I know (with the exception of trainer Shari). She is also very serene. She has graciously invited me to her class and while I was tempted to go, I never took the plunge. I couldn’t figure out why. Then, it finally hit me: I don’t really like yoga.

For all of you yoga devotees, let me be perfectly clear: the problem is me, not yoga. Yoga is a fabulous form of mediation and exercise. It’s just not for nut cases like myself.

But for years, I kept thinking that because it was such a fabulous form of mediation and exercise, I should do it. Even though it didn’t do anything for me physically or spiritually. I finally found the courage to articulate this epiphany to my friend, Melissa, who stared back at me and said, “I could have told you that.”

Why are our friends more likely to know more about us than we know about ourselves?

Now that I’ve embraced this new-found self awareness, I have also finally admitted that I really don’t like the beach. It’s hot, it’s crowded, and there’s sand. And flies. And it’s outside.

I also don’t like expensive coffee, I would rather have a big plate of fried chicken than a salad (despite what it does to my cholesterol and triglycerides or whatever they’re called), and I think that programs on public broadcasting stations are for the most part boring. I also prefer a dimestore novel to what is purported to be a literary masterpiece. I will no longer suffer through an “important work” if my mind starts to wander after the first three pages. I also prefer cheap chardonnay to the more expensive ones. But I won’t cheap out on Champagne.

By this time, you’re probably wondering why it took so long to come to some of these truths. I guess I’m just a slow learner.

So, what have you learned about yourself recently? Please share.

Maggie Barbieri
http://www.maggiebarbieri.com

Much Ado About Nothing (IMHO)

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I just finished watching the President’s address to our nation’s schoolchildren. You know, the one that generated such heated debate over the last week or so that several states and countless school districts decided not to show it. Even here, in my liberal little biosphere of a Village, the Superintendent of Schools sent out an email informing all parents that if anyone chose not to have their child watch the speech, they could opt out by sending an email to that child’s teacher.

My husband and I chose to let our children watch the speech. No—that’s wrong. We didn’t give it a second thought. It was a given that our kids would watch the speech. And yes, in the interest of full disclosure, I did vote for the guy (not that it’s anyone’s business but that seems to be a crucial part of the debate…along with the assumption that if you vote for someone you automatically agree with everything that person says or does. Not true, by the way.). But had a previous administration’s President spoken to our children, they would have watched that speech as well. President George H.W. Bush spoke to our schoolchildren in 1991; same for President Reagan in 1988. They were/are our Presidents. We need to listen to what they have to say and make our own judgments. And civic responsibility? It’s never too early to learn that.

So I’m interested to find out a) if the kids had a reaction to the speech and b) if they are interested in talking about it at all. Because I’ve found that those things that get us adults all up in arms are really not the same things that get our kids agitated (i.e. the price of the new Rock Band Beatles edition for one). I’m guessing that the speech won’t be mentioned unless either hubby or I bring it up, or unless somebody got in trouble for talking during the speech which would be duly noted and reported on in great detail.

I decided to withhold judgment on the speech until I watched it. I know, novel idea. Many of the vociferous rantings of the last week were done without benefit of even having read the transcript of the speech. But after watching it, all I can think is, “Is this what got everybody all fired up?”

“Do your best.”

“…start with the responsibility you have within yourself.”

“Every single one of you has something to offer.”

“What you make of your education will decide nothing less than the future of this country.”

I heard nothing in the speech on health care, the war in Afghanistan, tort reform, or the stock market, some of the topics that opponents to this speech feared would be presented. What I heard was a President imploring the nation’s children to take responsibility for themselves and their education, to make the most of what this country has to offer in terms of education, and to know that who they are and how they behave is of vital importance. It was a great speech, written for a varied audience, hitting all of the notes that parents should hit every now and again while raising their own children. I’m glad President Obama spoke to the kids today, on the first or second day of school. Come to think of it, I wish President Obama would speak to them every week. Or at least come over here once a week and talk to my kids. Maybe then we could table the “great green bean debate” once and for all.

I’m getting concerned about the backlash to everything this administration, and even the smaller local ones, are trying to do. While not a fan of some previous administration’s efforts to reform certain things in this country, I do have a healthy respect for anyone who tries to affect any kind of change, even if I am ideologically opposed. So, until it doesn’t work, let’s give it a try (I’m looking at you, No Child Left Behind). But having the President take time out of his day to speak to the nation’s schoolchildren about the value of education? Not something we need to worry about.

Thoughts?

Maggie Barbieri

Second Chances

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With the death of Senator Ted Kennedy last week, I have been thinking a lot about second chances. Kennedy is being lauded as a lion of the Senate and champion of the “little guy” (that would be me and all of my kind, I’m suspecting), and the left-, right-, and center-leaning talking heads have been all atwitter about the Senator, discussing the second chances he received at various points in history—his personal history and our collective one—and if he deserved the post-mortem kudos that he is receiving now.

I’m thinking yes.

It was not until I was older that I understood the magnitude of this man’s Senate career and ultimate legacy. Thousands of legislative bills presented, several hundred turned into laws. He had worked tirelessly on the health care issue since the Nixon administration, which for me was a time I was working tirelessly on one thing: getting Barry Manilow’s autograph. That will give you an idea of how long ago that was. He had been a senator for forty-seven years with only two senators—Methuselah and Robert Byrd—having held their seats for a longer period of time. Yet, this man’s life and legacy will be marred by a string of tragic events, in particular, but not limited to the drowning of Mary Jo Kopechne, his own struggles with alcohol, and his involvement with a nephew brought up on rape charges. Many people are stuck on these issues and events and can’t see past them to celebrate a life well lived, while there are others who have completely forgotten these aspects of the man’s life only to celebrate his remarkable achievements.

And then there are those of us in the middle. I can’t help thinking about what it must be like for Ms. Kopechne’s family to see all of the accolades bestowed upon him in death. But I also can’t stop thinking about a man who lived his life in public and endured shame and recriminations but who also saw two children through cancer, the death of all of his siblings save one—with two dying violently—and other tragedies that would have felled the strongest of us. I can’t help thinking of the man who submitted a letter to Pope Benedict just recently, asking forgiveness for the things he had done in his life. I also can’t stop thinking about the people interviewed who said that he had personally helped them get necessary medical care for their loved ones, or information about someone missing overseas. I can’t stop thinking that I wouldn’t have had three months home with child #1 after she was born if it hadn’t been for the Family and Medical Leave Act that he, along with President Clinton, helped enact.

We are all flawed. And if you think that you are the first to admit that, you’ll have to get in line behind me. But I can’t help thinking that after reading a number of articles and watching news broadcasts and the funeral on television that this was a man who spent his life atoning. There are many of my kind (the Irish-Catholic variety) who find his brand of pure unadulterated liberalism a discredit to our heritage and religion, while others of us find it exactly what we think both embody. Social justice? Check. Helping those less fortunate? Check. Trying to make up for a life of imperfection? Check. Doing it all with a big smile on your face while eating a sandwich and telling a long-winded story? Double check.

It’s a complicated legacy, for sure. But then again, all of ours will be, I suspect. Maybe it is not what we’ve done, but what we do with the chance to do it again?

Maggie Barbieri

New Year’s Resolutions

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Contrary to popular belief, THIS is the most wonderful time of year. It is reflected in the commercials we see on television (one even uses the wonderful Christmas song to illustrate this point) and in the faces of moms and dads around the country. What time is this, you ask?

It’s time for school.

This is the time of year, for me and many others like me, when it feels like we’re turning over a new leaf. New Year’s Eve and Day? They’ve got nothing on the beginning of a school year. New backpacks are purchased with promises extracted from their new owners that this year they will not, under any circumstances, lose them; new clothing is bought, with again, promises extracted that they won’t be worn until the first day of school (I’m looking at you, child #2, in your bright-white sneakers purchased from the Nike outlet by a very suggestible grandmother); school supplies are purchased with promises made to fill them only with intellectually-stimulating material generated by invigorated teachers.

All lies, I promise you.

But this is the time of year when people like myself (those who work in their attic and never see the sun and/or those sending a passel of kids back to school) decide to make some resolutions about how life is going to be different after a regulation-less, schedule-less summer. Here’s what I have planned:

1. I will go outside every day, even if it kills me. I live so close to the Hudson River that it would be a crime not to. I also have a good friend who has just quit her job, and has purchased two new kayaks. There is no reason, besides my incredibly dysfunctional work ethic which dictates that I should be in my office all day every day, to not enjoy the beauty that surrounds us here in the Hudson Valley.

2. I will get dressed every day. Now let’s not get the wrong idea. I’m not undressed every day, just dressed in a way that might suggest to you—if you happened to run into me at the grocery store—that I’m either between homes or don’t care about my appearance. Maybe it’s the “What Not to Wear” marathon that I watched that convinced me that even though I work at home, I should take some time with my appearance. Once everyone goes back to school and I’m on the hook for going out more in public (i.e. back-to-school nights, PTA meetings, church events, going into clients’ offices) I need to spruce up a bit. The summer of baggy, linen pants from Target (which are a dream come true, by the way), un-styled and un-dyed hair (no that gray can’t pass for sun streaks—everyone knows I haven’t been outside since the end of June), no make-up, and seen-better-days tee shirts are over. You heard it here first.

3. We, as a family, are going to eat healthier foods. Oh, why bother? It’s a lost cause. I’m really the only one interested in anything green that grows outside.

4. I will not worry. It’s worth a try.

5. I will work less. Won’t happen.

6. I will write at least 500 words every day. I’d better. The manuscript is due in four months.

So, there you go. What are your resolutions for the “new year,” loyal Stiletto readers? What do you have in store for school year 2009-2010, even if you don’t have kids going back into the classroom? Let’s all turn over a new leaf together.

Maggie Barbieri

Don’t Miss This One!

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I had the pleasure of getting away on my birthday last week to see “Julie and Julia” with a friend, followed by dinner. I have to tell you, dear readers, if you haven’t seen it, run—don’t walk—to the theatre to see this delightful film. From the moment the credits came on until the lights went up at the end, I was smiling from ear to ear. It’s that good and it’s that uplifting.

I find as I get older—and have been through some stuff (that which we shall not name and all)—that I can’t take movies that have any kind of violence, but particularly violence against women, children, and animals; a focus on the end of the world and complete destruction; or anything in which a character develops, deals with, or god forbid, dies of, cancer. Any kind. If that makes me a wimp, well, so be it. (I still can’t look at the Statue of Liberty up close. Why? The last scene of “Planet of the Apes” where Charlton Heston escapes from the apes, runs down to the ocean, and finds the Statue of Liberty sticking out of the sand. He’s been in his own country all along, a country that’s been overtaken by apes. The visual has stuck with me all these years and is something of a joke in my family. But it’s not a joke to me. The memory of the final scene in that movie—seen when I was a young child—makes me sick to my stomach to this day. Heck, I’m getting a little queasy just writing about it!) So, with all of those requirements, it’s been well over a year since I’ve stepped foot in a movie theatre. When I saw the advertisements for “Julie and Julia” on television, I told my husband that I wasn’t going to miss it.

One of the most refreshing things about the movie is its positive depiction of marriage, particularly the marriage of Julia and Paul Child. These were two people who cared about each other, supported each other, loved each other, and had a very voracious and healthy sex life. What could be better? They had their hardships—many moves between Europe and the United States, infertility, Paul’s job insecurity and subsequent questioning by members of HUAC—but they seemed to get through everything with laughter, a good meal, and each other’s support. I know: it’s just a movie. I’m sure that they hit their bumps in the marital road. But isn’t this just a bit more refreshing than watching couples deal with infidelity and any one of a host of other problems in the movies that seem to come out weekly?

The “Julie” portions of the story weren’t quite as uplifting, but charming nonetheless. Her marriage was on shakier ground than “Julia’s” due to her obsession with her blog and cooking her way through Julia’s cookbook, but things resolved nicely and left me with a positive feeling about her and her husband as well.

One piece of oft-recited advice: Do not go to the movie hungry. The cooking scenes are numerous, realistic, and intense. I have never wanted to eat boeuf bourguignon so badly in my life but that’s a tough dish to find in a sleepy suburban village in New York in the middle of August. So we settled for dinner at an Italian restaurant and the chicken special to take the edge of the hunger exacerbated by the movie.

This is one not to miss.

What movies would you recommend, now that you know my requirements for a good feature film? And please, make sure the Statue of Liberty doesn’t take up residence on a sandy beach far, far into the future. That’s rule number one for my viewing pleasure.

Maggie Barbieri

Non-Negotiables

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I was recently talking to a friend—a mother of four daughters ranging in age from 18 to 5—about her departure for London, which would take place the next day. Her oldest daughter is starting college in the fall so the family decided it would be a good time to take one last “family vacation” before life got more complicated and her oldest daughter either spent extra time at school or toiling away at a full-time job.

I asked her what time the car service was picking up the family. She seemed surprised that I asked. “We never take car service,” was her response. Her husband drives everyone to the terminal, drops them off, and then travels to some remote location on the border of Queens and Long Island and parks the car in long-term parking. That’s four children, one mom, six suitcases, and six carry-on bags. And because they’re going to London, six umbrellas. He returns to the terminal, hot and sweating and shaky from the excursion, hoping that he can reconnect with the family on the ticket line. “How do you usually get to the airport?” she asked.

“Car service,” I explained. There is no way in hell that I’m attempting to drive me, or god forbid, me and the family, to JFK. Driving to the airport in the New York metropolitan area is akin to being stabbed to death by ten thousand paper cuts. It’s long, it’s tortuous, and it never ends well. But for my friend, whose family could afford the luxury of car service, taking said service is a non-negotiable. It’s just not something that they do. They’ve always driven themselves to the airport and always put the car in long-term parking and that’s what they’ll continue to do.

My friend and I started talking about the non-negotiables in our lives and decided that we had a few in common one being the combined ATM/Visa card. I received one of these recently from our bank and promptly put it in a drawer. Why? 1) Because I didn’t order it from the bank and 2) because I only want an ATM card that dispenses money when I need it. I don’t need any more credit. I also don’t want to complicate things by not knowing if I’m debiting or charging or both. I want to use my debit card to take money from my account and my separate Visa card to charge things for which I don’t actually have the money for on that given day. My husband, Jim, asked me about the combo card the other day, having fielded a call from the bank. “Did you get your combined ATM/Visa card?” he asked, innocently enough. After the diatribe he received from me about how I didn’t ask for it and would never use it, his eyes went glassy and he said that I could talk to the bank the next time they called.

Another non-negotiable? Paying ATM fees. I will walk a thousand miles before I use an ATM from a bank that is not my own and that will charge anywhere from $2.50 to $8.00 to take my own money out of my own account. It’s not that I can’t afford the charge but it just bakes my scrod to give another bank money to use my money to pay for something.

One more non-negotiable: getting my hair dyed professionally. I am a $6 box of hair dye girl and by all accounts, do a pretty darn good job. I just will not pay $50 or more to sit in a chair and have someone else dye my hair when the $6 bottle does just as good a job as the $50 or more colorist. And if you need proof, ask the northern half of Evelyn David; she’s always complimenting my dye job and although she’s a good friend, I don’t think she’s lying. (Are you?)

However, I won’t drive even two miles from home to get cheaper gas. If I need gas, I pull into the nearest gas station and purchase it, regardless of cost. And since I live in an area that is notorious for higher-than-usual gas prices, chances are that I’ve spent in excess of five hundred dollars or more over the last twenty years purchasing expensive gas. But I just don’t care. It’s not worth it to me to make an extra trip or drive further than I need to. My mother is always asking me, “What do you pay for gas?” just so she can hear me say (I’m convinced), “I don’t know.”

I know that not paying an extra $2.50 to get money from a non-sanctioned ATM does not jibe with someone paying extra for gas, but as I said, this post is about non-negotiables which basically boils down to what we can and cannot stand for. I’d love to hear what your non-negotiables are. Do you abhor cheap wine? (I love it.) Or do you not buy generic or less-expensive brands of toiletries? (I buy a lot of Suave products but just so I can hear child #2 ask where the “SWAVE” body wash is.) Weigh in, dear readers.

Maggie Barbieri

Bad News Abounds

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There are certain things I just don’t do anymore (thanks to suggestions from my Stiletto posse) which include Googling my name, checking my Amazon numbers, or reading reviews (I’m in good company…apparently Philip Roth doesn’t read his reviews either). I’ve found that all are anxiety producing and I don’t need any reason to feel more nervous than I already do on a daily basis. But last night, after checking out the first ten minutes of the local news—something I do every evening at five o’clock—I’ve added that to my list. No more televised news. Ever—or until my resolve wavers.

We have had a particularly bad stretch of bad news in these parts, though I don’t think we’re unusual in that regard. In the past week alone, we’ve lost a local police officer (a father of three) to a gunshot wound to the face. A woman, inexplicably driving the wrong way on a local road, died in a crash as did her three nieces, her daughter, and three men in another car that she hit. A woman jumped to her death from a local bridge a few nights ago. A young dad walking through Central Park was hit by the branch of a one hundred year old tree and went into a coma. And we’ve always got the fluctuating Dow Jones Industrial, the now-bankrupt “Cash for Clunkers” program, the unemployment rate, and the fate of universal health care to make us remember that not too many good things are happening in the country or the world.

I’ve decided that a head in the sand approach is the best defense against all of this. Goodbye televised news. Hello glass of chardonnay and latest copy of chick lit book.

I made a decision years ago to not see any movies that might upset me. So as good as I hear “The Hurt Locker” is and how amazing the direction is, I’m not going to see it. People possibly getting blown up in Iraq? No, thank you. I thought maybe I’d cut my work day short on Friday and go see “Funny People” until I read in a review that one of the main characters has a fatal blood disease. That’s out. I’m thinking “Aliens in the Attic” might be my safest bet. If one of those aliens—or god forbid one of the children—in the movie meet an untimely end, I will be extremely perturbed.

We’re only a few days into the news moratorium, so I’m not exactly sure how long it will last and I’m sure curiosity will eventually give way. And I also have to admit that I’m still reading the paper every morning, even though I skip the nasty stuff and go straight to the “Hot Finds for Summer!” (it’s always sandals I’m too old to wear) in the Style section or the sports section, where the list of steroid users and their pathetic excuses grow by the day. As someone who has been on steroids for medical reasons, I can tell you this: anyone who would willingly take steroids without a necessitating medical condition is a moron. Plain and simple. Between the weight gain, the mood swings, and the hair sprouting up in places where hair shouldn’t grow on a woman (let’s leave it at that), I wouldn’t care if I could hit a ball a country mile. They just aren’t worth the trouble. (Unless you’ve got extreme intestinal distress, in which case, they are a god send.)

Is there more bad news than usual? Or have I just become extremely sensitized to it? On the plus size, we had the beer summit…and the beer summit…and…I can’t think of anything else. What’s the good news coming out of your neck of the woods these days? And what do you do to combat the weariness you feel after reading day after day of horrible news?

Maggie Barbieri