Tag Archive for: Murder 101 series

Running the Race

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It’s great to have old friends if only for the shorthand that being acquainted for so long brings.

Case in point: my friend, Dr. Pantz. How she acquired that nickname is a story for another time, but suffice it to say that she is a doctor of theology and her surname is not “Pantz,” even though that’s what our entire family calls her. Pantz and I went to high school together where our maiden names both started with “S-C” and meant that we sat in the same formation for all the years we spent together, me one desk in front of her. Pantz once said that she did the academic side of school very well while I did the social side of school very well. In reality, we both managed to do a combination of both, but reflecting back on our high school selves, that’s a pretty apt description. She encouraged me to take up running, something I never excelled at, and I encouraged her to…well, I’m not sure what I encouraged her to do except blow the pop stand that was our high school in her junior year for early admission at one of the Seven Sisters schools where she continued to excel academically.

Pantz has studied abroad and made quite a name for herself in both theological and medical circles due to her research on medical ethics and specifically, harm to patients. We lost touch after high school until I discovered, by chance, that she was living right around the corner from me, here in our small Village.

We try to get together from time to time, but this year, haven’t been entirely successful. We haven’t seen each other since her annual New Year’s Day party and there she was today, sashaying into the local grocery store at exactly the same time I was. She informed me that she had run a half-marathon yesterday, and I resisted the urge to ask her exactly how many miles that was. It took me a few minutes to remember that it was thirteen miles, not the same distance as a 5K, but the thing with Pantz is that because she’s known me for so long, she knows that although I can’t divide twenty-six by two, I have other find qualities that have allowed us to be friends for over thirty years, with a little break in the middle for things like getting married, having kids, and establishing careers.

I approached the asparagus, which seemed obscenely cheap and asked her if the price could actually be $1.99. The man behind her smirked at me as I realized that it was $1.99 a pound, not a bunch. But Pantz didn’t blink because just like over thirty years ago when she was coaxing me through geometry, she knew that I would never be able to calculate the price of asparagus. I turned to the man and told him that yes, we went to high school together, and no, it didn’t matter to her that I can’t calculate the price of vegetables in my head. Calculating for me has been an integral part of our relationship and to her, it’s second nature.

Pantz is the person who told me, when I had received a Stage IV cancer diagnosis that the “longer you live with cancer, the longer you live.” She is also the same person who made sure that a very special chaplain at Memorial Sloane-Kettering said a prayer with me just hours before I underwent surgery. She is also the person who tirelessly researched every drug I was on and every trial I was to enter, letting me know how successful they had been and never telling me if they had proven unsuccessful in any way. She listened to every fear that I had and countered it with scientific fact. She never placated, but she always made sure the facts were on hand and translated them into information that I could understand. She is both a scientist and a woman of faith.

She is the one who told me when I developed lymphedema in my leg, post-surgery, that that was a battle scar and an indication that I had won the battle and the war.

So to say that every time I see Pantz I get a lift is an understatement. She is someone that I run into far too infrequently, but the shorthand is there. I will always remember how she could have run faster in the three-mile race that we did together as sixteen-year-olds, but she hung back so that I wouldn’t finish alone. To me, that is the perfect metaphor for a good and lasting friendship.
Maggie Barbieri

Untitled Post

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It’s a tough time to be a Catholic.

I speak from experience. Having been a practicing Catholic all my life—with a brief “lapsed” period in the 80s and 90s—I have been trying with all my might to reconcile the basic tenet of the Catholic Church (love thy neighbor) with the horrific abuses that we have all read about over the last decade or so. I have found that many of my fellow parishioners and friends have been questioning why we stay in a church that is filled with abuse of power, a disconnect from its faithful, and an unwavering commitment to antiquated thoughts and practices that only succeed in keeping good people from serving in a meaningful way.

I was speaking with a friend last night and we lamented that after identifying yourself as a Catholic to someone who doesn’t know you, you have to do a lot of backpedaling and assert that you believe in the power of the laity, the value of women, and probably in the idea that a priest can and should marry if he (and hopefully, SHE, at some point) so chooses. We are assumed to be monolithic in our identity and beliefs, and that is just not the case.

I remember being a little girl and my mother showing me pictures of a friend of hers from high school, Sister Leonore, nee Noreen. Sister Leonore worked for years in Africa trying to bring education and hope to an impoverished people. Her work was endless, and for all I know, she’s still there. She entered the convent out of a desire, I assume, to make the world a better place for people who had little and lacked the basic necessities of life. Yes, she probably wanted also to convert them to the faith, as missionaries are charged to do while working with the poor. But every once in a while I think of a young woman who devoted herself to the poor while still a teenager and wonder if it was hard for her to do so, knowing that the leaders of our church have always lived in opulence and grandeur while sending their minions to the ends of the earth, all in the name of God.

Then I think about a family from our church who took their three children and went to South America to be missionaries. They stayed for several years before returning to our lovely Village, having done what they considered ‘the Lord’s work.” When I see them at church, I look at them with awe. They are ordinary people, just like the rest of us in the pews, but answered to a higher calling.

And recently, a group of high schoolers from our local high school went to Nicaragua and built houses in a small village. This was the third year they went on this trip. Many come back saying they feel “changed,” but unable to express what that really means.

I have never really identified with the church hierarchy because I have never felt that they inform my faith. I’m sure that that statement alone is probably considered heresy. As a friend last night pointed out, they are almost like Goldman Sachs in terms of bureaucracy, and now, abuse of power. Interestingly, while I am aghast at what they are purported to have done, I don’t see them as part of my “church.” I see them as ordinary people who have ascended to power and who are completely disconnected from the everyday Catholic, those of us in the pews. Sister Leonore, the family from church, and the high schoolers, however? They are the “church.” They are the people living their faith. And they are the people I want to follow and emulate.

But don’t take my word for it. Read Nicholas Kristof’s essay from this past Sunday’s New York Times entitled “A Church Mary Can Love,” in which he discusses the people doing the hard work, the work that, as Catholics, we are implored to do. Because we are a faith built on a foundation of social justice and many of the people executing the work of a man who lived many centuries ago are…wait for it…women. The same women who are not allowed to celebrate Mass, become deacons, and who have been relegated for hundreds of year to a supporting role—at best—in the Church doings. Along with the people mentioned above, these women are transforming the world, one act of kindness at a time.

So, to my fellow Catholics out there whose heads droop lower and lower by the day with each passing news report on new abuses and new scandals, I say: deal with your anger. Channel your anger into doing good and changing people’s perceptions as to what Catholics are and what Catholics do. Do what we were implored to do all those centuries ago: Love thy neighbor. If you do nothing else, it’s still more than enough.

Maggie Barbieri

Parenting: Working without the Manual

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If you are a parent, or even if you’ve been subjected to the ranting or misbehaving of a child in close proximity to you, I suspect that you’ve had the urge to spank. I know I have. Fortunately, because I never felt that physical punishment was a solution to misbehaving, I never gave into the urge to give my kids a swift whack to the bottom. Lord knows, sometimes it was hard. But now there is evidence to support the feeling held by many parents that spanking is not the solution.

Researchers at Tulane University have studied 2,500 children and the effect of spanking on their behavior. Their findings? Children who were spanked frequently at age 3 became more aggressive by age 5. This, as well as other findings of the study, support a recent Duke University study that said that infants that were spanked at twelve months—and let’s face it: twelve-month-olds are infants—scored lower on cognitive tests than those children who hadn’t been spanked. In addition, the children in the Tulane study were more likely to be defiant, demand immediate satisfaction, get easily frustrated, have temper tantrums, and exhibit aggressive behavior toward others.

For me, it was always a decision fueled by my rational, intellectual mind: hitting a child would get their attention, but ultimately, not their continued compliance. I always assumed that spanking the offending child might make me feel better and get the child’s attention, but would eventually end up with both of us crying—me for losing control and them for being physically and emotionally hurt. I instead favored the “time-out,” which has come under some criticism for not being a strict enough punishment. Personally, I like the time out very much, so much so, that I sometimes put myself in time out, if only to get a hold of my emotions or think something through. Research has found that the time out has the same effect for a child, but only if you stick to your guns, something that is very difficult to do with a wailing child sitting in the “naughty chair” or whatever location you choose.

My pediatrician told me when my daughter was an infant that the best piece of advice he had received as a new parent was “once you say no, the answer is no even if you’ve made a mistake and the answer could be yes.” Because, like animals, kids can smell fear. They can also smell dithering. Once you have said no and then change the answer to yes after repeated queries, the child knows that they can have their way with you. And then it’s all downhill from there. You’ll never have the upper hand again because you’ve been outed as a “mind changer.”

My friends and I often lament that parenting is hard and the manual for what do in most situations is nonexistent. We have only each other to rely on to get a sense of whether what we’re doing is correct, sane, and will guarantee that our children will reach adulthood. We spend an inordinate amount of time as parents making sure our children are safe, and any remaining time that they are good citizens capable of making good decisions. You have to parent when you are sick, tired, stressed, and at your wit’s end and you have to do all of it while making snap decisions on the fly. When you think about it, it’s amazing that anyone does it well. Or at all.

I am not trying to paint a picture of myself as the sanest, most patient mother in the world. Au contraire. For instance, I am thisclose to giving a stern talking to the little girl who sits in front of us at church (and who I don’t know) who scratches her bare hiney during the priest’s sermon when she’s not beating her brother over the head while her mother blissfully ignores her. And the little boy who threw a fork at me during dinner at a local restaurant? Well, I’d put him in time-out before the fork had even left his hand; I can sense bad stuff before it happens, especially if my kids are thinking about it. I’m gifted that way. For that kid, time-out would take on a whole new meaning. When my kids were smaller and would beat the stuffing out each other night after night, I would calmly pick both of them up and place them in their beds for the night, despite the fact that the sun hadn’t set. Fearful of another sixteen hours in their beds, the nightly fisticuffs soon stopped. If nothing else, my kids are pretty astute, getting the whole “if-then” relationship.

Basically, my parenting style reflects the credo of the Mafia: find out what they love—from free time to television to their handheld electronics—and make it go away. Works like a charm. Who needs spanking?

My Annual Ode to Sunscreen

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Spring has sprung around these parts and with it comes the desire to be outside. And although most of you tuned in looking for my annual ode to Spanx, what you will get instead is my annual sunscreen screed to everyone who has spent all winter indoors and is now looking to get some “color.”

Let’s be clear: there is no such thing as a healthy suntan. Sure, you think you look better and if that’s the case, run—don’t walk—to your nearest health and beauty aids store (the place that used to be called the “drugstore”) and get yourself some spray tanner. I am not very adept at anything that requires you to get naked and spray on with a steady hand, so instead, I prefer the ghostly white look usually reserved for Mary, Queen of Scots and the like. From what I understand, spray tanner has come a long way and you can actually achieve the look of the sun-kissed with a little practice and all for under twenty bucks. What could be better?

While you’re at your local health and beauty aid store, pick up two additional items. One is Neutrogena’s Ultra Sheer dry-touch sunblock with helioplex and an SPF of 55. This stuff is the best around, and not just for us gals. Men can wear it, too. It goes on dry and protects your face and neck from the sun’s harmful rays fifty-fives times longer than if you weren’t wearing it. It feels like your favorite foundation and has the added benefit of protecting you from sun damage or worse.

The other item you should pick up is a good sunscreen. Around here, we like Ocean’s Potions (recommended by Dr. Anna, oncologist extraordinaire) or Bull Frog, both of which provide such good coverage that even I, seemingly a descendant of Mary, Queen of Scots, can sit out without risking a sunburn.

You know the rest: get a hat, limit your sun exposure, reapply sunscreen if outdoors for a long period of time or after exertion. Make an appointment now to see your dermatologist for a skin check Or, if you’re like me and never want to hear the word “biopsy” again unless it’s on an episode of “House,” invest in some UV-protectant clothing like my sexy swim tights or my mock-turtleneck swim shirt. Oh, you laugh. I can hear you. But I came back from tropical Bermuda last year with nary a red blotch on my fair skin and that’s saying something.

Over 60,000 new cases of melanoma will be diagnosed this year and that’s not counting just your garden variety skin cancers. You can’t change what you did to yourself in the past, but you can change how you behave going forward. The environment has made it so that we’re getting more of the sun’s rays than ever before, but we are lucky to enjoy the scientific breakthroughs that allow us to enjoy the outdoors without risking harm to ourselves.

Be sun safe, Stiletto faithful!

Maggie Barbieri

The Right Thing to Do

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Forgive me for getting political. Here at the Stiletto Gang, we try hard to write entertaining and informative posts about a variety of topics. For instance, this week, my choice for a topic was between “Spanx” and “health care.” As you’ll see, I’ve chosen the latter and I apologize, in advance, for ticking anyone off, something I apparently have gotten very good at lately.

It seems that you can’t go anywhere these days without hearing the words “health care” or “health care reform.” Never has a topic, in my lifetime anyway, engendered such passion and heated debate and I was born a year before the Civil Rights Act was passed. I don’t remember this kind of inflammatory discussion when brave men and women were shipped across the sea to liberate a little country called Iraq. But hold the insurance companies’ collective feet to the fire, or offer health care to a child, or someone with a “pre-existing condition” and we get threats and potential violence against our lawmakers.

Is the health care bill perfect? Not by a long shot. But neither was the Constitution. That’s why we’ve got amendments, people.

Some other things that weren’t perfect? Medicare, the Social Security Administration, the Works Progress Administration, the ERA…need I continue?

A few friends were over the other night, including a friend who has muscular dystrophy. He recounted that because of the arcane system under which we are all laboring (and getting sick), he cannot get treatment because he has the dreaded pre-existing condition. Yes, he’s had MD since he was eighteen. Did it exist before that? No. He already had it when he became an adult, though, and when he went on his own insurance. So he can’t be treated with certain drugs that could possibly minimize the discomfort that he feels from his illness. The insurance company won’t let him. He hasn’t quite figured out how to get around this Catch-22 and he’s forty-five years old living with a chronic disease that he’ll be living with for the rest of his life.

Then you’ve got me. Five years ago, I was diagnosed with Stage III melanoma, a deadly diagnosis at best. There was one surgeon with whom we consulted who would even attempt to remove the tumor from my groin. He felt that the operation would be successful, unlike the other surgeons we consulted. He felt that he could cure me. The only catch? The hospital where he performed my surgery didn’t take my insurance. The cost? Upwards of six figures.

Fortunately, I come from a family with the means to help me pay for what turned out to be a life-saving surgery. The operation was successful. Not a day goes by, however, that I don’t think about the mother, sister, aunt, or daughter who has to make the decision either to not have the surgery or go with the surgeon with the shaky hands who isn’t confident that he or she can get the tumor out never mind have the patient survive the surgery. I met that surgeon, incidentally, and he didn’t inspire a lot of confidence.

Can you imagine having to make that choice?

The Iraq war will cost the American taxpayers close to three trillion dollars by the time we finally get out. I haven’t heard a peep about how much the war is costing the average “Joe and Jane,” but I hear about how we’re going to be paying for someone else’s health care for as long as we live and into future generations. Guess what? We’re paying for it now. Just because we’re not currently insuring the uninsured, we’re still paying when they have an x-ray, or go to the emergency room, or have a strep test at a clinic. We pay every single time.

By the world’s standards, I’m a pretty rich person, even if by the standards of this country I fall solidly into the middle class. It is because I’m a pretty rich person that I am here today. I have the means to pay for the best health care money can buy and I’m not even one of the “Cadillac plan” holders. Without health insurance, and the ability to pay for the difference between what my insurance would cover and what my doctor would accept to take out a five centimeter lump from my groin, I would be dead.

That’s not putting too fine a point on it. That’s the truth. And I can’t bear to think of anyone saying to one of the most sought-after cancer surgeons in the world that they’ll have to pass on the surgery that could save their life because they can’t afford it. I can’t even think about what it would be like to sit around and wait to die, because that would have been my fate. I would not be writing this post—and possibly ticking you off—if I hadn’t had health care. I wouldn’t be here.

Back in 2000, I watched a debate between Al Gore and Bill Bradley, both of whom were vying for the Democratic nomination. I had always been a Bradley fan and hoped that he would win the nomination, an outcome that was not to be. I remember one of the moderators asking him why we should strive for universal health care in this country. Why, the moderator asked, should we insure the uninsured?

His answer? “Because it’s the right thing to do.”

The plan isn’t perfect. Politics prevail, and not in a good way. As a nation, if we focused on the saying “because it’s the right thing to do”—and made our decisions based on it—as opposed to which side of the aisle someone sits, we’d all be better for it.

I promise to write about Spanx next week.

Maggie Barbieri

The Oscar “Curse”

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Sometimes I think that we haven’t come very far in the fight for equal rights women. Then, I see something like a high school production of Annie Get Your Gun, and I am reminded of just how much has been accomplished since 1946, when the play was first produced. Annie, however, was pretty prescient in its treatment of the celebrity marriage with all of its ups and downs.

For those of you who don’t know the story—and I didn’t before seeing the show—Annie is a girl from the country who is illiterate but can shoot a gnat off a pig’s nose without hurting the pig. She meets up with “show biz people” in the form of sharpshooter Frank Butler; his snotty sister and assistant, Dolly; and Buffalo Bill who produces and bankrolls the show. Naturally, she falls in love with Frank, but in order to get her man, must hide from him the fact that she is a way more talented sharpshooter than he’ll ever be. But what’s more important? Fame or love? Accolades for one’s accomplishments or the warm embrace of a guy in a white satin Western suit? You can only imagine which Annie chooses.

Throw in a bunch of politically-incorrect “Indians,” who sing monosyllabic songs of love and act as something of a Greek chorus and you have the makings of the most racist and sexist show I’ve ever seen. Annie makes last year’s production of South Pacific seem like “Do the Right Thing.”

Child #1 played in the orchestra pit, as she did last year. I asked her about the content of the show and she responded that all of the kids—from the actors to the orchestra members—were commenting on just how ridiculous the show’s plot was. How it was racist and sexist. At least the kids have the good sense to know what’s what.

Child #1 said that it was hard to believe that people actually believed that a woman should hide her talent to spare the feelings and ego of her partner. Although I’d like to think that this kind of behavior is no longer common place, consider the “Best Actress Oscar” curse, as it is called.

Seems that almost every Best Actress winner from the past decade has seen her marriage or relationship break up shortly after receiving the highest award an actress can be given for her film work. There was Halle Berry who kicked sex addict Eric Benet to the curb after winning for “Monster’s Ball”; Julia Roberts, who broke up with hunk Benjamin Bratt shortly after winning her Oscar for “Erin Brockovich”; Charlize Theron who ended it with Stuart Townshend shortly after being recognized for playing serial killer Aileen Wuornos. And who could forget Hilary Swanks’ tearful acceptance speech where she thanked everyone from her cleaning lady to her dental hygienist and forgot poor Chad Lowe, her husband a talented actor in his own right? Had he not been such a talented actor, he never would have been able to stand by her side for one red carpet interview after another remarking about his wife’s talent and how it was really ok that she had forgotten to thank him at the Academy Awards. But a frozen smile and a clenched jaw are dead giveaways, and that was a man who cared.

The list goes on. Talented women with husbands who can stay in the shadows for just so long. Our most recent example, Jesse James, betrayed America’s sweetheart Sandra Bullock, revelations about his extracurricular activities (available in paperback at bookstores near you!) coming to light from a woman who can probably hear the clock ticking on her fifteen minutes of fame as I write this. According to the tabs, Sandra has moved out and if she has any sense, she won’t move back in. (Side note—saw a celebrity psychologist on television talking about the James-Bullock marriage and she said that the only way they could come back together is if he reestablishes trust with Sandra. To which I say a big, fat, “DUH.”)

Maybe we haven’t changed all that much since Annie Get Your Gun came out. Is it just show biz marriages? Because I know plenty of married couples who share in the excitement of one another’s accomplishments. Isn’t that part of the deal?

What do you think, Stiletto faithful?

Maggie Barbieri

Weathering the Storm

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This past weekend was the weekend of the “snowicane.” Yes, the National Weather Service has coined a new phrase to mean a boatload of snow. We got two and a half feet of the powdery stuff, but the worst part was the wind and freezing rain that followed it that, you guessed it, knocked our power out.

Here at Chez Barbieri, everything runs on electricity. I have an electric stove, an electric washer/dryer combo, and our heat and hot water runs on electric. Fortunately, when we lost power, at nine o’clock on Thursday night (immediately following Survivor’s Tribal Council), it was only Dea and me at home with our lovely and needy West Highland Terrier, Bonnie. Once the lights went out, after a transformer buzzed and flickered a sinister blue light through my bedroom window, we decided that it would be a cold night and hunkered down in my bed with the dog, hoping that we would be able to keep each other warm.

Ever try sleeping with a dog? Even a really nice, docile, and domesticated animal? Not easy. Every time I tried to turn over, she would growl at me. Heaven forbid I actually touched her with my foot. That action was met with a growl/snap/bark combination. By morning, I was exhausted from no sleep and hoarse from screaming at her all night. It never occurred to either one of us to banish her to another room so afraid were we that she would freeze to death overnight.

The next day, Friday, brought no relief from the unrelenting snow and still no power. And no sign of Con Edison trucks in the vicinity. What it did bring was more downed trees, falling so precipitously and often that we were afraid to go outside. It also brought a full-scale fire to my neighbor’s house, which she and her children weren’t aware of because her smoke detectors didn’t go off. I know! It was terrifying. Fortunately, Jim saw black smoke billowing from the house, alerted me, and the two of us set off to get the family and their four dogs out of the house. The kids took off for my house with one of the dogs, and the mom got the rest of the dogs out but not before she ingested a bunch of black smoke. Everyone is fine, but people: MAKE SURE YOUR SMOKE DETECTORS HAVE FRESH BATTERIES IN THEM! If this had happened during the evening hours, it could have been devastating because sleeping people and no smoke detectors equals tragedy.

The entire weekend stressed me out completely. I lost a day or so of work, which always causes consternation, and we eventually had to leave the house as the temperature indoors approached fifty degrees. Lucky for us, our good friends offered a place to stay along with hot water, heat, and food. As we were driving over to their house on the other side of town to spend the night, Jim looked at me and said, “No matter how bad or how inconvenienced we are, think of the people in Haiti who had nowhere to go, nothing to eat, and nobody to take care of them. We’re very, very lucky.”

Indeed we are. We have the resources and the connections to go where we can sit in the lap of luxury, in front of a roaring fire, with a couple of bottles of wine, chatting with good friends. A regular adult sleepover. We have friends and family looking out for us. Even our local Village government has called us daily to update us on the situation regarding the power and tree removal from power lines. Heck, if our power didn’t return for a week—as is the case with some people here in the Village—we could always check into a hotel. Life is easy for us, even when we don’t think it is.

I continued to stress out. How would I catch up on work? How would I finish the edits on my manuscript? Did everyone see the mountain of laundry growing in the rat-free basement? What if we didn’t get back home before Jim and the kids had to go back to school? What if? What if? Although I was trying to focus on how things could have been much worse, I continued to fret. I went to bed Saturday night, having worked myself up into a complete frenzy. Although Jim continued his mantra of how lucky we were, and I tried to convince myself, I couldn’t get out of my own way. Some time, while I was asleep, a friend who died last year came to me in my dreams. I asked her why she had come back if she was dead and she said, “I feel like you’re in trouble so I came back this one time to help you out.” And in her inimitable way, she told me to quit my bellyaching and work on the things I could control rather than fretting about those that I couldn’t.

Wise words.

On Sunday, I texted my neighbor, now safely ensconced in a hotel with her kids and dogs. She texted back that they were great. Safe and sound. Sure, all of her belongings will smell like smoke for a really long time, but that didn’t matter. They were all fine. The other stuff can be replaced. It’s just a minor inconvenience, right?

I’d like to say that I’ll never stress out again, but I know myself too well. But I will remember that I may miss a deadline, and my laundry pile will never go down completely, and I’ll never catch up on work but I have good friends (both alive and dead apparently!), and a support system that will never let me down.

Lucky indeed.

How do you weather snowstorms—and life’s storms—Stiletto faithful?

Maggie Barbieri

From Confessions to Closets

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I have a confession to make: I don’t always pay attention during church.

You can basically boil down the tenets of my faith to two things: God is love and the old do unto others as you would like done unto you plea. But for some reason, some of our preachers feel that twenty minutes on the intricacies of the Gospel are necessary for the flock to hear, despite the fact that there is more than one lolling head in the crowd. As a family, we began sitting up front so that we could sit in rapt attention and avoid distraction. This “front of the church” position resulted in my husband’s continuing embarrassment over one of the nastiest bouts of “church giggles” that had ever befallen me. By the time I excused myself from the pew, tears were rolling down my face and I almost had to be escorted out of the building by one of the ushers, who thought I was overcome with grief over something to do with my then-illness. I didn’t have the heart to tell him—or the courage to reveal—that I was really laughing because the woman behind me was singing off-key and an entirely different song from the one the rest of the congregation was singing. After that, we moved to a side pew, where it was less likely that my giggling and my son’s chattering would be overheard or remarked upon by anyone. Because anyone sitting in a side pew is there for probably the same reason as we are and isn’t there to judge. Jim has found that separating me and our son from the general congregation has its benefits as well as its disadvantages. For me and our son, it just gives us a more private area for our deep discussions. One week, he and I had a discussion on what would happen to his teeth if he continued not brushing on a regular basis, a non-habit that I feared would result in the loss of all of his teeth. He told me that he had two options: 1) he would wear wooden teeth like George Washington or 2) he would wear plastic Vampire teeth for the rest of his life. (He was completely serious, by the way.) Another week, we had a spirited discussion about his science project and the lack of data and/or progress, all the while clapping our hands in time to “Go Tell It on the Mountain,” if not exactly singing all of the words.

So as you can see, I am a worship multi-tasker.

Last week’s homily had put me into a semi-stupor and my mind naturally went to the problem of the lack of closet space in the house. It started out with something like “the space Jesus inhabits in your heart” which took me to “space” and then to “lack of closet space” and then the thought of all of my clothes jammed into a small, under-the-stairs closet that I share with child #1 and her smelly field hockey uniform, cleats, and equipment. It’s closet hell, really, if we’re going to stay with the religious theme.

All of a sudden it hit me. There’s a little alcove in son’s room and it would be the perfect size for my wardrobe and fifty pairs of shoes. I even thought about the little pocketbook/scarf/belt rack that I would hand along one wall to hold my impressive collection of such items. I looked around the church, hoping I could share this revelation (and there’s another one!) with someone and saw my contractor sitting in the back row. Eureka! Using my powers of telepathy, I tried to relate to him that I would be needing an estimate on a new closet as soon as possible, but unfortunately, he had fallen into a deep sleep. With his eyes open. His slack jaw and gently bobbing head were a dead giveaway, though. His wife nudged him awake but he didn’t seem to understand that I was trying to tell him something very important.

I tried to return my attention to the sermon but it was for naught. Thrilled at the thought of my new closet, I kept imagining what it would be like to be able not only to see all of my clothes but to take them out, unwrinkled and not smelling like field hockey sweat.

I caught the tail end of the sermon and it was something to do with love thy neighbor, which I felt I had already accomplished because the love I was showing my contractor by giving him another job was just another notch in my belt of holiness, right?

A Jewish friend, who is also a brilliant architect who we affectionately call “Mike Brady, the architect” as an homage to the Brady Bunch dad, came over yesterday and I took him to show him where I might put the new closet. He was impressed. “Great idea. When did you come up with that?”

I confessed that it was during the homily at church.

He burst out laughing. Although he wouldn’t cop to dreaming up travel itineraries, or reconfiguring the kitchen to be more user-friendly, or even thinking about what his wife was cooking for the break fast during Yom Kippur services, his glee over my worship multi-tasking led me to believe that daydreaming during services is an endeavor not relegated to Christians.

I’ve already made my peace with going to hell, but I’d love some company. What are you thinking about when you’re supposed to be praying about your immortal soul, Stiletto faithful?

Maggie Barbieri

One (Wo)Man’s Junk…

/in /by

I got a call from my friend, Tina, about a week ago. She reported that on her way back from the grocery store, she observed an extended family cleaning out a small, tidy house on a main corner in our town. The former inhabitant, a lovely woman of about 90 or so, had passed away right around Christmas. We surmised that the family was getting ready to put the house on the market and was in the process of discarding sixty or more years of the woman’s belongings.

Tina, never one to pass up another’s treasures, or what some of us call “junk,” screeched to a halt in front of the house and asked the family if the contents of the house, which they were putting at the curb, were hers for the taking. They assured her they were; everything inside the house was being thrown out, no ifs, ands, or buts. They were keeping nothing from the home or from the woman’s personal possessions. Tina opened her trunk and threw in two lamps, a recliner, a couple of end tables, and two big, black plastic bags filled with jewelry. She donated the furniture to our local library for the new teen room that is being constructed. And when she got home, she called me to tell me what she had found. I raced over to see what she had claimed.

On her dining room table were the personal possessions of a woman who clearly liked jewelry and took pride in her appearance. Tina separated a few pieces out and pointed out the fine work on two rings, in particular. The two of us went through years and years of costume jewelry, some art deco pieces, shoe clips, dangling earrings, some beautiful necklaces, and two sets of pearls which we thought may be real, but couldn’t be sure since neither of us own a real strand of pearls. Tina held up a little box and her eyes filled with tears. “And this is why I couldn’t bear to see the stuff at the curb,” she said, opening the box. Inside was a volunteer pin from the local hospital where I had given birth to both of my children. “I couldn’t let them throw this out.”

I took a couple of funky necklaces which I need to bathe in jewelry cleaner, as well as a giant Peace sign on a linked chain for my daughter. Tina set about picking out the pieces that she would take apart and glue to a plain simple frame, which is a craft she excels at, not to mention, enjoys tremendously. We both stared at the cache on the dining room table and were sad when we thought about ninety or so years ending up at the curb to be picked up with the regular trash. It just didn’t seem right.

We both went on our merry ways and I forgot about the jewelry until Tina called me a few days later. She works right around the corner from the famed New York City jewelry district, where Jim bought my engagement ring and wedding band two decades ago. She reported that she brought all of the jewelry that she thought might be worth something to her favorite and most trusted jeweler. He examined everything, pronounced a few pieces to be platinum, one an emerald, and the two strands of pearls to be real. He handed her a sizable wad of cash and sent her on her way, assuring her that he would clean and reset a few pieces and then offer them up for sale.

Tina went back to her office, put a call into our local caring committee which services the elderly, sick, homebound and poor in our little Village and told them that they could expect a check in the coming days. She asked that the lady whose jewelry she had sold—whose identity we put together after a little detective work and found out was Mrs. C—be named as the donator of the money. We both felt better knowing that if her family didn’t want her things, the value of them would live on in supporting a good cause right here, a place she lived for most of her adult life.

I thought about all of the things I’ve collected over a lifetime half as long as Mrs. C’s and wondered what would happen to them after I’ve gone. Would my life be reduced to a couple of black plastic garbage bags filled with my high school ring, my diamond stud earrings, and some costume jewelry that I can’t part with at this point in time? I hope not. I don’t know why Mrs. C’s family didn’t have the patience to sort through her belongings; perhaps they had a good reason. But thanks to the eagle eye of my good friend and collector, Tina, Mrs. C’s legacy will be in the good work that can be done with the cash her treasures produced.

Maggie Barbieri

It’s a Wild, Wild Life

/in /by

Gentle whitecaps cresting on a sandy shore. Beautiful birds of prey—eagles, hawks, falcons—diving in and out of the murky depths to catch fish. River glass scattered along the shoreline, waiting to be picked up and dusted off. Kayaking on a tranquil summer’s day, the sound of your oars hitting the water the only thing you hear.

Oh, and rats. I forgot about the rats.

I live close to the Hudson River and enjoy everything about river town living. Except one thing: the rats.

Let me back up. It was a peaceful Wednesday night a few weeks back, all of us settling in to watch our new favorite show, “Modern Family,” when child #1 announced that she had no clean clothes and needed to do laundry. She was barely on the top step of the basement when I heard her scream and retreat into the kitchen, dropping her laundry basket and fleeing for the safety of the living room. Once there, she stood before me, shaking, and recounted the mouse that she saw flitting across the basement floor. As she was demonstrating how big it was—the distance between her hands indicated that it was a mouse the size of a newborn baby—I heard Jim call, “It’s not a mouse! It’s a rat!”

And so began a weeklong journey into rodent hell.

Jim frantically paged through the local phone book looking for a 24-hour wildlife service because I assured him that if the rat wasn’t gone by midnight, I was checking into a hotel. He managed to find a service who directed him to a private contractor of rat extermination, who I have dubbed, “Tom, the rat whisperer,” the kindest man I have ever encountered. He couldn’t come that night but promised to be at the house by one o’clock the next afternoon. He explained to Jim that rats can chew through old foundations to escape the cold and that was probably what had happened. He also admitted to being somewhat dubious to our contention that there was only one rat. Rats, it seems, do not travel alone.

My blood ran cold.

We all slept somewhat uncomfortably that night, tossing and turning, imagining that the sounds in our almost one-hundred-year old house were rats in the wall, rather than the sounds of old pipes and settling. I ceased eating. So by the time Tom, the rat whisperer, arrived, I was starving, sleep-deprived, and anxious beyond belief. He took one look at my haggard, exhausted expression, and set off to the basement.

He came up several minutes later and said, “Yep. You’ve got rats.”

“How many?” I asked.

“No telling,” he said, “but I do detect droppings and the smell of rat urine.”

And all this time, I thought it was the scent of my laundry detergent.

He led me around the house, pointing out all of the possible points of ingress. After a few minutes of this, I said, “I have to sit down.”

He lugged up the twenty-pound bag of dog food that we keep down there because there’s nowhere else to store it. “See this?” he asked, pointing to a small hole in the bottom. “Rats.”

I got it. We had rats. They had come in from the cold and were eating our needy Westie’s “Sensitive Systems” dog food. The one that promised a shiny coat and easy digestion. There were some well-fed, not to mention shiny-coated, rats living among us. Tom spent a few more minutes laying some rat poison in the basement—the one that makes them thirsty and yearn for the cold outdoors where there is a water supply—handed me a bill for far less than I would have anticipated and promised to be back in two weeks.

Because I am a “public sharer,” I posed this travail on Facebook (to Jim’s chagrin), and to my amazement, found more than a few friends had had the same problem. My friend, Susan, had one in her garbage shed. Two doors down, Ingrid and Bob wrestled three in two years, finding one beneath their dishwasher only the week before the still-surviving members of the rat population moved into my basement. Seems that our proximity to the river, in addition to wooded areas in close proximity, bring out our rodent friends. I had no idea. We’ve lived here for twenty years and have not seen a rat outside of the confines of the riverside park where we hang out in the summer. The thought of an extended family in our basement was just too much to bear.

It took me a week of living in complete paranoia—as well as lugging everyone’s clothes to the Laundromat—to conquer my fear and descend to the basement. Jim, brave soul that he is, had been down several times, only to report that there was no corpse in a trap, and no trace of anyone with whiskers and a long tail. I have since done several loads of laundry—the maiden load done with a hearty dose of liquid courage—and haven’t seen anything myself.

But if I do see anything that resembles a rat, you can rest assured that there will be a “For Sale” sign on the front lawn and we will be moving to a dee-lux apartment in the sky.

Tell me your wildlife stories, Stiletto faithful.

Maggie Barbieri