Where Did I Just Leave My Girl?

My daughter is at an event called playlistlive.  I guess I should appropriately hashtag it - #playlistlive - there, that's better.  I had some idea of what event she was going to, though I didn't really get in to the details - it included friends she has made, people she admires, music, and a chance to meet new people who have built industries out of themselves.  A convention of sorts, a trade show, really, where the products are the people - who have expanded themselves into brands of all sorts, including music, comedy, and lifestyle.  About 200 of them.

Thousands of young people have descended upon this event, held at the World Center Marriott in Orlando, FL.  The last time I was at this facility was for a conference of over 5,000 people.  I'm pretty sure this event has it beat. 

They are everywhere.  In every nook and cranny of the hotel.  They range in age, for the most part,  from about 12 to 20-something and come in all shapes and colors and sizes.  Some have straggling parents, lumbering behind them, exhausted from day one, desperately seeking a place to sit.  Some are here with parents who are just as into the experience as they are, and it's a toss up on who wants to be here more.  Most are here unchaperoned, or at least, they're moving about the facility as such, searching equally for faces of internet fame and their virtual friends who many will meet in real life for the first time, or for some, one of the few times they get to physically interact.

Gaggles of them attract attention, deliberately, sometimes to fool others, or to become momentary celebrities.  They move in swarms, sometimes running in directions because the mass is doing so, not sure to whom they are running to, or necessarily why. 

I'm amazed at the wifi and internet infrastructure supporting this event.  This isn't your typical trade show.  This is the event that will put any i.t. to the test - more photos get uploaded per second than almost anywhere...ever, I'd bet.  As I'm typing this there are currently almost 90,000 posts using just one of their hashtags on Instagram.  And there are quite a few hashtags.  And plenty of media sites.  Livestreams, vlogging, it's all happening right here right now - and that's not including what's been actually planned for the event.

I've been kind of rolling my eyes at this whole experience as it approached, not really wrapping my head entirely about it conceptually.  My first impression was that was simply a fan hang out, people paying good money just to meet and greet with their favorite online celebrities.  And for a lot of the people here that's exactly what it is. 

But the more I read about it and into it, I'm almost regretting not buying myself a ticket.  This is the future of media and commerce in general.  I don't need to hug and take selfies with the You Tubers (such an awkward term, in my opinion, but I'm old, and they don't seem to have any issue with it so off we go).  But I would love to hear the inside scoop on how they've built their brands.  I would love to pick the brains of the start-ups and support businesses that have been birthed by the phenomenon - many of which are present here.  This is what's fueling the next generations.  And for the most part, they seem to be sending positive messages with their power.  Lots of love and unity and kindness and acceptance.  Hard to knock that factor.

They cross all sorts of demographic borders.  They have thrown away limitations, whether self-imposed, or physical ones - transcending time and space, literally, because of the internet.  We've raised kids for the last few decades telling them they can be anything they want to be, while silently gritting our teeth and biting our cheeks out of skepticism.  But this phenomenon, in a way, has proved us right.  They CAN make a living as a gamer, as a singer, as a make up artist, a comedian, a improviser, a chef...even simply as an idealist, sharing their hopes and dreams and encouraging others to do the same.  They can even do it just chewing on potato chips in a microphone (I'm not kidding.  Google ASMR - or just click the link - people are making six figures PLUS).  And I don't think one of them will tell you it was necessarily easy - it still takes investment of time and resources, and commitment to your craft and choices...but geez, hand me a jar of pickles and a mic and I just might be in.

I can't just shake my head and laugh anymore.  I did it for a while last night with another parent as we sat in the midst of the lobby, teenage hordes moving swiftly in front of us, across the marble floor, Starbucks pink drinks in hand, clear backpacks filled with merch in preparation for signatures at their meet and greets, colorful event bracelets glinting in the atrium lighting.  This is the business model of tomorrow.  These are the influencers.  Industry leaders, take heed.  I think there's a lot that can be applied to other business models, and I think these kids have a lot to teach.

A Bunch of...Things

If I say it, I know it.  If I don't know it, I'll tell you I don't know it or I won't say anything at all.  My ego isn't big enough to think I have all the answers.   I'm pretty sure that's some of the wisdom I've picked up along the way.

In an ironic statement, God help us if these religious nutjobs get hold of our public education system.

If you have cats, don't offer your cat hair covered seating to me.  I don't have cats.  For a reason.

If someone's doing a good job, tell them.

People who get angry that they can't help their kids with their math homework are really more angry that either they don't remember how to do the math OR they're not willing to admit that maybe their kids are smarter than they are.  They'll figure it out.  You don't have to. 

I wish I could better tolerate fingernail polish.  I have nice nail beds, decent "canvases" for some serious nail art.  But I can't take it for more than a day or two. And I'm just too hard on my hands.

What the fuck is up with facial tattoos?  Not fake ones you get at a fair.  Real deal ones.  I can almost roll with the neck thing.  But the face?  Nope.

I just gave the dog a bath two nights ago.  Now she stinks to high heaven.  What...is...up...with...that?

I have operated hand staplers all my life and have just learned about the rotating plate thing for different thickness of piles.  If that's not some kind of allegory for life, I don't know what is.

I will always fancy the ellipsis...and likely over use it...too bad.

For goodness sakes - just don't be boring.

Meet you at the featherball...

Front Row Seating

For the past few months I've had the privilege of a very front row seat in the relationship of my daughter and her new boyfriend.  They are young and sweet and seem to genuinely adore each other.  They are both old souls indeed, and have had such an immediate rapport - a comfort, that's sometimes never found in relationships no matter how long they endure.  Even the way he has fit into all of our lives - it was seamless apparently, like he's just always been a part of our family.

I say privilege because it really is that.  I'm blessed, or lucky, or whatever you want to call it, enough to not be boxed out and to be included in their lives.  We spend a lot of time together, my daughter and I, and I was so afraid I'd lose that too soon.  But that's not the case.  They seem to enjoy and appreciate my company - and choose to include me, or accompany me, or whatever it is they're doing, and we all get along quite well.  So many teens turn away from their parents once they're "in love".  Or hide.  Or just don't know how to handle their time, becoming overwhelmed in the emotional rush that young love brings.  I don't recall personally being able to balance it.  I don't have a lot of memories of spending time with my parents AND a boyfriend - a few here and there, some holidays and special occasions - but not in our spare time.  It was usually them or him.  So for me this is new ground.

I don't know how long any of it will last - their relationship together or their relationship with me.  But it's been a wonderful addition to our lives as of late and I sincerely hope it continues for a long time.  And I'm so grateful to be so included.  I know that will change the longer they stay together, and as they age and mature - less and less room for a third wheel, especially one that is a parent.  But I'll take what I can get. 

And then there were three

People use the metaphor of a roller coaster for life all the time.  It's probably among the most cliché comparisons...maybe ever.  I've been using it quite often lately, but as I'm typing I'm realizing that its not correct.  Life over the past few years has been more of a street luge experience.  We've been hurtling down a winding, bumpy path, negotiating the turns awkwardly, picking up speed, sometimes losing momentum, picking up speed again, holding tightly onto the apparatus, straining to keep our collective body in alignment to make the ride as smooth as possible, and praying that we don't fall off, lose our balance, shift our weight just ever so slightly to the wrong side, or hit a bump that throws us far off the track, crashing mercilessly into a row of bushes, down a ravine, and into a pile of rocks.

My husband's health is the driver of this crazy train, and he's been out of the house since just before Thanksgiving.  It's not a permanent situation, at some point he'll come back, but by the time he does, well over a month if not more will have gone by and then everything will change.  In the meantime, I'm trying to give and show my kids as normal of a life as I can - making up for some of the time they've lost from their youth over the past few years - giving them as much of my time as I can, keeping life as simple as possible.  I wish I could give them more, take them travelling, but I can only do what our resources allow, since most of them are funneled toward my husband's health.  But considering our recent past, the ease and simplicity of a quiet night at home, playing a card game, or watching a movie, even just doing homework...without being on high alert for another fall, collapse, or seizure is a gift beyond measure.

So we make this work the three of us - my son, my daughter, and I.  It's trickier than I thought.  I didn't realize how much my husband actually did around the house, even with his health problems.  And though his routine list wasn't long, the things he did do - like the cooking, keeping the house well stocked, getting the kids rides to where they need to go (he no longer is able to drive due to his health), receiving packages, paying bills, and being an adult at home when a repairman is needed - have thrown my tenuously balanced list of to dos seriously out of whack.

But we're managing.  We don't want to get too comfortable because we know it's not permanent.  But we know we will all be picking up more responsibilities once he comes home.  Maybe some of us are even slightly dreading it.  Maybe not so slightly. Maybe not some of us.

Back in September, my daughter starting dating a boy she met on the school bus.  He's a good kid, polite, respectful and thoughtful - the kind of kid you want your daughter to date.  He's become a bit of fixture in our lives in a relatively short amount of time, often spending good chunks of his weekend with us.  He gets along with my son - which is a feat in itself, for all the usual reasons a big brother and younger sister's boyfriend may have issues about, but added to it that my son is a finicky kid - quite guarded, and a little bereft of social graces. 

So now, though we are three in the house until the kids daddy comes home, I am typically hanging around with three kids on any given day - rather than two.  Three is a magic number.  And the three of them together make a lot of laughter.  Laughter I love.  Laughter that makes me breathe better.  Laughter I don't want to stop.

Of course, I can't make any presumptions about how long the relationship between my daughter and her boyfriend will last, but he fits well with us and he balances us back, and they sure do seem quite fond of each other. I hope it lasts a while.  People come in and go out of your lives for reasons - not just randomly - not the ones you develop relationships with.  What will happen when we're back to four in the house?  I don't know.  I'm just trying to take each day for what it is.  More to come on this...looking backward and forward.

Good night.  Meet you at the featherball... 

Praise for my Son.

Dec. 16, 2018 This was written in September of 2018.  I didn't finish it, and only saved it as a draft - which I've now found as I'm readying to get back to writing.  I'm not going to edit it, and I'm not going to finish it - as I left it at an odd place. I must have been called away from the task...or perhaps the computer crashed, I'm not sure.  But I was going somewhere with it - where I'm not sure, but I'll let you decide.

I sat and watched from the congregation as my son approached the bimah, readying himself to read, for the third time in so many years the haftarah for the Torah portion on this holiest of holy days, Yom Kippur (for those unfamiliar - the short version is that it's an interpretation of the holy scripture, from the book of Prophets from the Hebrew bible (aka Old Testament), that's read on high holy days and at bar and bat mitzvahs). It's read in Hebrew.  It's rather lengthy and unlike many other of the readings that other congregants do, this reader stands alone on the bimah - at least that's the way it's done at our synagogue. Though the rabbi could stand at another lectern, he or she does not, and the cantor and other bimah guests sit down as well.  If you're watching, rather than reading along, the spotlight, essentially, is on him.  I noticed things maybe only a mother can see because of how well I know him.  Things that were different, but to the congregation, seem just a part of who he is.  But I'll get back to that.

Before he walked up there, knowing where the reading comes in the service, he began to fidget somewhat in his seat.  He twisted and untwisted the fringes of his tallis (prayer shawl), one that he's unfamiliar with, as in the rush to get out  this morning he left his at the door, wrapping them around his fingers nervously.  He reviewed the new verses he had stashed in his prayerbook - while he's done this same portion a couple of times, for whatever reason, his selection was extended this year, and with a new rabbi and new schedule and new commitments, he didn't have the same preparation as in years past.

This is one thing I can't help him with.  I just don't know enough to help him.  I can remind him to practice.  I can set aside time to make sure he's preparing.  But the knowledge base is all him.  I can barely read Hebrew (but I get a little better every year with my haphazard, incidental learning with every service I go to), and I have zero knowledge of how to read or interpret trope (which is marking in the text that indicates to the reader how to chant or sing the reading - yeah, it's actually got a melody to it - its not JUST reading).  If he chants to me, the only real indication I have if he made an error is if he stops and corrects himself.  While there are plenty of online resources available now (that I know he chose not to use), I'm not sure what he used to learn the new parts, but he worked into the wee hours of a few mornings to get it right.  I wish he had that kind of commitment with his school studies.  But I digress.

My son claims to not enjoy performing.  While I don't deny this to be true, it's funny coming from a kid who performs in a marching band - but he claims that since he is one of many on a field, it's different.  Also funny coming from a kid who has performed on stage quite a few times, with somewhat significant roles, and has nailed it every time.  And while this is a religious duty and a mitzvah, it's not a requirement - he can always say no, it is a performance, and it is quintessentially solo.

His name is called and we are sitting toward the back of the sanctuary.  He chose a somewhat circuitous route that bought him a few extra moments, I suppose. His gait was strong and swift and he stepped up to the bimah and the center lectern with a comfort that for me (as I noted earlier - the stuff only a mother might see) is rare.  Not completely confident, he has a tell that I won't reveal, but again, that's a mom's thing, but comfortable. 

With each year, he's grown, of course, figuratively and literally, and now he is visible fully from the waist up when he stands behind the lectern.  So different than just a few years ago, when he stood at that same lectern, which slants downward toward the reader, at his bar mitzvah, and just his head and shoulders peeked out from behind.

His tie was crooked, and he should have gotten a haircut, but he still looked like he should be there, the tallis draped over his shoulders, his kippah perched on his head.  A stillness came over him and then he began to chant.

My son's voice is deep, with a resonance that truly befits holy reading.  I don't say that just because I'm his mother.  I've listened to many people read and chant the ancient words over the years, and I find that the sound, the timbre, if you will, that fits these readings best, tends to be deeper and richer.  And it's not just because he's male, I have found quite a few women who also have similar voices - a little higher on the register than a male, but still just as rich.  Some of it is genetics, some of it is skill, and if you can combine the two, no matter the message, it will be received.

He can also sing.  Most people who know him probably don't know that, unless they've known him a long time.  He sang more before his voice changed, and we don't often hear him sing - even to himself, under his breath.  And when he does in those rare instances around the house, he uses a silly voice, cutting his breathing, still carrying the tune, but not revealing the true sound.

But you can't do that when chanting trope.  Well, I suppose you could, but you wouldn't.  Not on the holiest of days, in a holy sanctuary, with a crowd of people there for same reason, to worship, to repent, to renew.

Something comes over me when he chants - along with the expected pride of a mother, I am just transfixed on the experience.  This doesn't happen all the time.  I'll admit, when I'm at a band performance, or something else when my daughter performs, I can chat with whomever I'm with, keeping one eye and one ear on the experience - I try not to, of course, but if I needed to I could.  But when he chants Hebrew I simply can't. I am swept away by the sound.

Take Care Of Yourself

For goodness sakes.  Don't ignore that pain.  Don't power through the strain.  Listen to your body.  It's pretty wise.  We're given a pretty decent vehicle from the get go - granted some models have some quirks and some are a bit sturdier than others.  But just pay attention.

Assumptions

I was driving my family down to my mother's house for an Easter supper, when an interesting conversation came up in the car.  Easter is part of this, but not perhaps, in the way you'd think.

We have an interfaith family and cover all our bases...at least on the celebration end of things.  For Easter we acknowledge it as a time of renewal and rebirth - embracing perhaps more of the original intent behind the holiday before the Jesus story came to be.  We hunt for treat filled eggs and eat far too much from a feast prepared by loving hands, counting our blessings with every bite.  We enjoy time with family and friends and toast to good things past and to bright futures to come.  For a little while, we all put away our more pressing issues, and leave the cacophony of the popular culture and just enjoying the very nature of being.  I mention all of this to give you an idea of how we look at Easter in our family - though my husband was raised as a Catholic, he doesn't cling much to that dogma and tends to identify himself as Jewish when asked.  I am a Jew, raised in an interfaith household as well, as my mother converted to Judaism before marriage, and her entire family celebrated the holiday as well, but again...mostly secularly.  The message of Easter sent to me was mostly about bunnies and candy.  I knew it was a Christian holiday, but didn't get it's larger meaning until middle school, much less it's previous incarnation until later in high school (the festival of Ishtar).  And now that I understand it, after asking many questions and doing my own research, I greatly respect what the holiday stands for and how important a Holy Day it is for my Christian friends and family (and all those who I don't know) who observe it.  But I digress...

So, we're driving down to my mother's, and in the distance we see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles on the left hand side of the road.  Traffic begins to slow as drivers are pulling out of the way, and others are simply craning their curious necks to see what had happened.  I believe there were four emergency vehicles, a flatbed truck with the damaged car already mounted, and a handful of people milling about with a load of whatever was likely in the damaged vehicle now sitting on the side of the road.

I whisper, "I hope everyone is all right."

My husband says aloud, "Someone's making double time today."

I don't put this out there to present an obvious difference in the way we think with regard to compassion.  My husband tends to more of the compassionate side for the most part, but I still thought it an odd choice of comment to make.  So I asked him why.

He replied with something about the fact that it was Easter, and how sorry he felt for all those emergency personnel who were called out to work on the holiday.  (For the record, he did add that as he had more time to look at the situation as the passenger, he had surmised that everyone, for the most part, was safe and unharmed. But that part simply isn't germaine.)

This is where I found the more glaring difference in our thought process.  My husband made the assumptions that 1. all of the emergency personnel were Christian, 2. they were all observing the holiday and 3. that Easter would be considered a holiday to the extent that employers would pay holiday time for. 

I pointed all of those potential flaws to his logic. He paused for a long time, and then said, "I just didn't think about it that way."

It's these very same assumptions that those who are not Christian in this nation come up against so often.  It's these assumptions that cause so much angst and frustration.  It's these blind assumptions that even when pointed out, day after week after year...that build resentment and hostility. 

And day after week after year those of us who are not Christian, for the most part, are expected to simply forgive the misunderstanding or innocent ignorance, and roll with the punches, accepting, yet again, another heartfelt apology, and simply adjust our lives to accommodate the exclusionary scheduling. 

Prom on Passover?  Exams on Eid-al-Fitr? Dance Recital on Diwali?  Oh...we're so sorry...we didn't know.  Reviews on Rivdan?  Finals on Vaisakhi?  We didn't realize.  We didn't even think about it.  We just assumed...

Stop the assumptions.  Think outside yourselves.

I know I should wrap this up with some inspirational recommendation on being bigger and better than who you are, and learning and embracing (rather than simply tolerating) what is different from what you know, and being inclusive and educated.  But the whole thing is just so...bothersome and I don't want to come across as too pedantic.  I'm going to assume you've already figured that out.  So instead, I'll leave you with this...

Remember that old saying about when you assume?  It still holds.  For all of us.

I've started a change in course that could and will likely have some relatively radical outcomes for my way of life.  I stress the word "relatively". Not reality-show life changing, nor Nobel-Peace-Prize-winning changing, nor winning-Powerball life changing.  But I've taken a first step that I'd hoped would give me a sense of relief, but that hasn't come yet.  There has been so much chaos over the past few years and I've finally admitted that I can't, as much as I'd like to, hope or depend that someone else is going to pick up any of these broken pieces.  And so I've been starting the clean up.  One small piece at a time.

Warning: Grumble In Progress and Possible Pedantic Pedagogy

It's not a new revelation, certainly, but I have a hard time trusting people who claim to have spiritual superiority and wish to share that enlightenment or methodology when they also, perhaps coincidentally, possess enormous material wealth. I know that's...classist...I guess would be the term, but I don't even like the word "class" to define financial strata. Some of the classiest people I know have not much money to their name and so many in this country who have so much demonstrate the least class (although I know it's not the same thing). It's a form of prejudice, surely. Perhaps it is the luxury of their wealth that allows them the time to look so deeply inward and be able to take the time to evolve their soul. And I know we can't judge a book by it's cover, or purport to know what anyone is going through or weight of the world they carry on their shoulders. But one who has not a worry for where their next meal comes from, or where they make their bed tonight, or if their dependents are provided for...I would think finding solace of the soul has a shorter path. And I don't or won't deny that they can find peace and enlightenment - I'm sure they do. But I don't think they can necessarily teach most others well. 

 

Find me a person with next to nothing who can still find joy in the blessing of every breath, find the strength to lift up others and give of the only things they may have - their time and their talent...while still being able to be healthy and happy, (and not overcompensating to a point that's hazardous to their or their dependent's well being)that's who I want to take a tip from.  

 

Some of you might immediately leap to Buddha, or to Jesus, or any one of a myriad of other righteous, religious, and spiritual leaders from the past who cast off their earthly possessions to find their bliss.  But their context doesn't work for me.  Nor do I believe that it is necessary to shed all material things to find inner peace.  And none of them lived in our now. 

 

Realizing the potential of every day and acting upon it.  Even if on some days it simply means to take in the beauty of a sunset or the relish the simple grace of the mundane.  Living intentionally.  Acting purposefully.  Acknowledging when enough is enough - whether for better or for worse.  I think the solution is in there somewhere.  I'll keep looking.

 

 

 

 

Is It Really That Hard?

Over the course of my kids' educational careers at public schools, I've had to (more than once, mind you), gently remind staff and faculty at their public schools that those in charge of the calendars oopsied.  I guess this annual tradition will have to continue because it seems, as of late, that no one else is willing to do it.  Perhaps they are, and are just getting the cold shoulder, but I just refuse to believe that.  And I'm not sure that result would make me feel any better - in fact, it would probably make me feel worse.

What's the oopsie?  Scheduling any significant school event on a major Jewish holiday.  Oy.

Is it really that hard to look at a calendar? And if you've taken the time to actually look at the calendar, and maybe aren't reeeeeally sure how it works, because maybe, one time, somewhere in your academic career you vaguely recall something a bit wonky with how Jewish holidays work, and often, regular calendars don't quite get it right, and maybe...just maybe, you should check with more than one of your go-to Jewish employees or friends or neighbors, because maybe, just maybe they might not quite have it right either?

There was a grade-level program on the first night of Passover.  A test on Yom Kippur.  A field trip on Rosh Hashanah, among others.  Each time I've taken the time to point it out, I've been met with profuse apology, an appeal for understanding, and a schedule change.  Which is nice.  But this isn't MY job.

And yes, I know, the Jewish population isn't huge where I live, but it's not non-existent either.  No, we're not New York, or Miami, or Los Angeles...but COME ON ALREADY.

Now I come to find out that our local high school (where one my kids is a freshman) has their prom scheduled for the second night of Passover.  Oy vey.

I'm guessing someone did glance at a flip page calendar, saw Passover typed on Friday and shrugged "we're good".  Or they might have gone a little deeper, maybe used the web, and saw that it starts Friday, the 22nd of April.  They might not even have noticed the end date.  And even if they did, most gentiles only think of Passover as a one-night deal - this isn't Chanukah, for goodness sakes (their thought, not mine).

Oy veyz mir.

My kid isn't going to Prom - he's not old enough yet.  Or at least, if some senior has asked him to go, he hasn't mentioned it to me yet.  I'm going out on a limb assuming, based on his circle of friends, that this isn't happening anyway.  So, one could argue this doesn't affect me, why should I care?

But I do care.  And I know kids who ARE seniors, and who are Jewish, and will now have to make a choice - even if it's for a millisecond - just a fleeting thought in their heads - between Prom and Passover.

And I know, Prom will win.  Of course, Prom will win.  I get it.

It's a big school by population.  And we're a tiny minority comparatively.  I don't think there are any Orthodox kids at the school, but I'm not sure.  I would presume there may be at least a few Conservative kids, and I know of a handful or so of Reform.  But not one of them should even have to have the thought cross their minds.  Not in this day and age.

I'm so miffed and confounded and confuddled I can't even come up with a poignant summary, a salient closing statement - a provacative end point followed by an ellipsis.  And I love my ellipses.

What do you think?

Midlife Crisis?

For a number of years now, I've half-heartedly joked that I've been gearing up for a mid-life crisis. Almost as instantly as the word tumbled out of my fingers or mouth, I would quickly do some math and then reneg on the whole idea because obviously, I was then too young...not to have a crisis of faith, hope, life, etc., but to call it a mid-life one.

But in this year of 45, and looking at the lifespans of my grandparents, and their parents, barring any major complications, I'm okay with calling this mid-life.  If I can get at least this many years on the downslope...I'm okay with that.  Don't want to be greedy - as attractive as "As old as Moses" sounds (120) or even the accolade from White House may be (for 100), I can see living into that tenth decade would be pretty gratifying.

And so, now satisfied with that math...I can allow the crisis to begin.  Hold on, because I've a feeling it's gonna be a bumpy ride...

I'm Gonna Be What Now?

So something very exciting is happening, (not like, huge, ginormous life-changing exciting - well, maybe - kinda tip-o-the-iceberg thing...maybe), and I'll share it when it's all said and done.  Don't get too excited...it's super small scale in the big picture of things, but somehow there's some old proverb here about how a grain of rice to an ant is tantamount to Everest or something to that effect.  It has to do with writing (YAY!).  No, not a book...not yet.  But in order for it all to happen, as per standards of practice, my piece has to be edited.

Silent pause (much more appropriate than a southern-belle gasp, lace fan a-flutterin', back of hand slapped to forehead...you get it).

I've been an editor, both informally, and professionally (when I got to capitalize the 'E').  I get it.  Of course pieces have to be edited.  That's the way it's done.  It's extremely rare to find a piece of reading that's literally, perfect in every way.  Especially to the eyes and sensibilities of experienced and professional writers and editors.  Oh, the field day one could have with this, for instance!  But I'm relying on blogger-life license for the freedom from the constraint of literary style manuals.

But most of my writing, when submitted to publications gets pretty much laid in just as it is.  I typically give it a few rounds of editing myself before sending it anywhere, and of course, always have other eyes on it - but not necessarily those of writers/editors.  I'm fact-checking - making sure I understood things right, that I'm inviting the public to the right place, date, and time, etc.

This is the first piece I've submitted anywhere that's not in the journalistic style.  Oh, well, now that I think about it, that's not entirely true.  But that only other one that I did, was indeed, slapped up on the internet in its entirety.  That page doesn't exist anymore. They were hungry for content and collected as fast as they could.  Not exactly a recipe for success.  That's no reflection on the editor (who did not create the page) - it was a business that spread itself too thin to begin with.  But I digress.

So being the kind of piece it IS...I'm fraught with wondering what they'll do to it.  It's not that long, and what did I or didn't do?  Did I miss some punctuation?  Do people punctuate anymore?  Are they miffed at my double spacing after a period (sorry, won't let that one go - call me a dinosaur - a spaceosaur, as it were)?  The word count was constrained, so I had to really cut things down to make it fit - what could they possibly take out?  Did they not realize how much time I spent on it before (apparently not)?  Don't they know who I am (definitely not)? Don't they...

Yeah...they might.  And they probably don't.  It's just a first for me - a new set of feelings that I never wanted to deal with before.  And really, in the grand scheme of things does it change who I am?  Will it change my style?  My intent?  No.  Their job is to actually help me look good to more than say...just my mom (who's opinion I do value greatly - just making a point).  Just like I used to tell people whose work I edited.

Ah...I get it.  I really do.

Stumped

I knew this would happen.  I just knew it.  As soon I make the commitment to exercise regularly (my writing skills - please, did you think I meant something aerobic?  Well, I should do that too), I knew I'd get brain freeze.  Similar to ass freeze when I make the, typically too loud decision to start going to the gym.  My ass just gets stuck in the chair.  Typically writing.  Come to think of it, since I've made the commitment to write regularly I've been busying myself with all sorts of physical activity. Wait...what?

Somehow my wires are completely crossed.  Commit to sweat, I get words.  Commit to paragraphs, I get achy muscles.  Not that either one is a bad thing - but somehow I have to flip the switch. Like that same dagnabbit switch that turns on about 10PM, no matter how flipping tired I during the day.  The one that stays on for hours...as if my day has just begun.  Or what I think a day just beginning is supposed to feel like, per everyone else's relentless ongoing commentary about being so freaking chipper after dawn, after their alone time before the rest of the world wakes up.  Honey, that's when I'm typically turning in.  But I digress.

I think I have to blow up that silly ball.  Where is she going with this, you may wonder.  Stay with me.  A while back (longer than I care to remember) I went out and bought myself one of those fitness balls - those big ones that you can bounce on.  I realized how long I do sit in this desk chair, whether I'm doing something for one of my various volunteer gigs, one of my jobs, or just surfing the social media landscape, and thought it better if I at least did it moving.  I'm not paying to reorient the office into a standing desk scenario, so this seemed like the next best thing.

It's still in the box.  I'm not sure where the box is.  I see it in my mind's eye.  I vaguely recall its last location, but then it all goes blurry.  As soon as I buy a new one it will appear, of course.

But maybe that's just it, I have to do both simultaneously.  Then I'll have no excuses, right?  Still won't help my kitchen get clean, but at least I'll be doing good for my body and my soul.  And maybe...I'll get something moving...the train out of the station, the ship out of the port, the kids out of the schoolyard (oh, wait, that's not good - they should stay, right?)...bear with me.  The engines are revving...

2016 The Year of Change

Fa la la la - year of change, resolutions, making a difference...we've heard it all before.  I've said it before, I've kinda done it before, I've failed before.  But you've got to keep trying.  You can't stop.  I can't stop.  As much I want to.  Each December I try to convince myself that come January, I won't be among the millions making public pronouncements of eating better, getting healthy, pulling myself up by the bootstraps, etc., etc....et..cet..era.  But I can't help myself.  Though I've become more quiet in my planning - subversively setting myself up to hide my failures...or rather, my short-lived successes.

But I'm giving it another go.  How can I not?  How can I not be hopeful that this is the launching point of something wonderful?  That each day is not a new opportunity to be better than the day before (regardless of how it winds up...but especially if it winds up a crappy one)? I'm not quite ready to throw in that towel.

So here's my commitment - we'll start small...or rather...focused...so as to make things achievable - just as I so often advise many who come to me with all sorts of inquiries.  I guess that's part one.

Part two is that I will write more.  I will write often.  I won't necessarily write dissertations - but I will exercise this skill that quite a few folks have reminded me I have.  And hopefully, it will help make it better.  And also...that you will enjoy it.  And read it.  And become a part of Magzland.

More soon...pinky swear.

Who Me? Suddenly I'm the Expert?

I grew up in NY.  Downstate NY...the "old country".  Originally the Bronx, and then most of young life in Westchester County, just a 25 minute train ride from the Big Ol' (then kinda stinky-raw-but-way-awesome, but now quite shiny-and-still-has-some-awesomeness-once-you-leave-Times-Square) Apple.  There's people from everywhere all crammed in, going about their lives, all the same, all very different, all moving in one general direction, forward in time.  Yes, there's neighborhoods of folks of one background or another, and there's plenty of stereotyping, and old-school hangers on of perpetuating those stereotypes, quietly, subtly - often inadvertently, however, the melange of culture is so rich that often, unless one leaves that area, they have no idea that their traditions, or hobbies, or vernacular come from places far beyond where anyone in their blood line has ever tread.

Being Jewish in that area was nothing outstanding, nothing unique, and certainly nothing that would get you grilled on.  Synagogues abound, bar mitzvahs de rigeur, and everyone gets a day off on the Jewish holidays.  Outside of Israel, NYC has the highest concentration of Jews than anywhere else, and I presume, that in the past few decades that includes its suburbs as they continue to grow, stretching a "reasonable" commute to over 2 hours on a train - ONE way, and you're okay with that craziness.  And remember, this same city that has had seven of the last 11 mayors since 1965 be tribe members, also boasts the biggest freaking Christmas tree ever, and Santa comes barreling down 5th Avenue as the finale to the Thanksgiving Day Parade.  So you can see, in NY - there's a lot of blend going on.  But I digress.

Lots of friends were Jewish, and many were not.  Of my Jewish friends growing up, however, I was the "ish" and they, indeed, were the "Jews".  Their parents schlepped them to services on the weekends, they all went to Hebrew School, and only a few had anything up around the house during December other than menorahs, and even then they were referred to as Chanukah Bushes.  I, on the other hand, being raised in a somewhat interfaith household (though technically it was a Jewish one, as my mother converted before my parents marriage), we waited for Santa (although our Chanukah Bush/Christmas Tree did have Stars of David on it)...right after the menorah was put away, and the Passover matzoh was stashed in an Easter basket.  My parents gave me a choice of a bat mitzvah or a sweet sixteen when I was about 11.  I had my sights set on a car, so I went with door number 2 (which didn't quite turn out the way I wanted, but that's another story). 

Obviously, when it came to Judaism, I was the least likely candidate to be your go-to-gal.

We did attend synagogue on the High Holy Days...we'd enter the cavernous sanctuary, anonymous and intimidated. We'd always be in the back since the front was for the regulars, and Rabbi Cohen, who reminded me of Frank Perdue, would drone on and on about something and then speak in Hebrew.  We would stand and sit and stand again and listen to the overzealous cantor bluster and bellow on in melodies that were foreign to me in words I didn't understand.  We went to the JCC - which then was the YM/YWHA, and I did a play for Purim, cast in my first leading role as Esther - but I had no idea, unlike everyone else in the cast, what the story was about, (which went over great with the other kids as you can imagine).  We had large family gatherings filled with kugels and matzah balls, we would sit shiva and help relatives cover mirrors and put stones on grave markers, family weddings were conducted under chuppahs and glasses were stepped on (and mind you, words like chuppah and shiva were never italicized in local papers following style guides of demarcating foreign words).  But I had no idea why we did any of things really.  They were just part of the fabric of life.  No one ever explained and I never really asked. 

Then I moved away.

Growing up with the last name of Goldman in NY was far from uncommon.  It's like Smith or Johnson, Romano or DeLuca, Rodriguez or Ramirez.  But once I left it became a stamp of identity, a marker of supposition, and apparently a flag that said, "You've never met a Jew?  Well, here I am and ask me anything because I, apparently, have all the answers!"

"What do you eat?"  "Can you eat this?" "What's the deal with Saturdays?" "Do you have horns that get removed in some kind of ceremony? (I know you think I'm joking about that one...but, sadly, I am not)".  "Can Jews get married outside?" "Seriously, how do you live without bacon?"

The questions came fast and furious, shallow and deep, serious and utterly ridiculous (see above).  I'd always be surprised at how little people knew about a culture and a religion, that for me, was no more special or outstanding than anything else.  And even more surprised that people just assumed that I would have all the answers.  Or even be willing to explain.  For my own integrity's sake, I enrolled in a class in Judaism in my junior year of college just for catch up. The class didn't really engage me, the professor was just as dry as my Rabbi, and while I did pick up a few things here and there, all it did was really remind me how Jewish I wasn't.

In my childhood, no one ever asked me any questions about being Jewish.  In my teens, the only questions I got were from my Jewish friends about why I didn't have a Bat Mitzvah or why we didn't go to temple regularly.  People just didn't ask.  I don't know why.  I guess it was a combination of that they didn't really care and a lot of it they already knew, no matter their religious affiliation.  Besides, all the attention got drawn to Tina Santos...the lone Jehovah's Witness at our school, who always had to sit in the Library during holiday parties and when cupcakes were handed out for birthdays.  Come to think of it, I guess we did ask her a lot of questions for a little while until she finally said she had no more answers, it was just Jehovah's bidding.  We never really understood what that meant, but we did know she had reached a breaking point when she ran out of the cafeteria in tears one day.  So the questions stopped.

But the ones directed me have not.  They still come, less and less frequently as generally the folks I'm around have settled into a less caustic approach at life as we have all aged together.  Well, that and my married name doesn't have a mezuzah mounted on it anymore.  My shock and awe have dulled over the course of 20 some odd years into a warm embrace, as I've come to anticipate them now, as part of my own Jewish journey.   Ironically, they've actually allowed me to develop a stronger sense of Jewish identity than any of my prior years, and much to my own surprise, have ingrained in me a spirit of ambassadorship, as it were, a sense of obligation to represent the faith, the culture, the people in the most authentic way I can.  As I've delved deeper into the nuts and bolts of Judaism I've come to realize that I was actually living my life much more Jewishly than I had thought.  Things I did on a regular basis, thoughts I had, perspectives I've come to, all well in line with the current thinking of Reform Judaism.

As my son is working toward becoming a Bar Mitzvah in the next few months, and I become more and more involved at my synagogue, discovering and exploring my Jewish identity is becoming a pretty popular part of my life.  And likely, I'll be expressing more and more about it, as I wrestle (in traditional Jewish style) with what all of it means, and how or if it will provide any kind of framework for my living. 

When I sat down to write this, I actually had the intent of being somewhat snarky and flippant about it, as I've always found it pretty funny that somehow I'd become an "expert" on Judaism - based solely on being typically the only one in the room, both figuratively and often, literally.  But as I've been processing, and my fingers have been banging away at the keyboard, an enlightenment has settled in of sorts.  Keep those questions coming.  They allow me learn, and they allow me to teach.  I've often heard the best way to learn is by teaching...so have at it.  I won't make up the answers, I promise. 

L'Shanah Tovah Tikatevu and Shalom.

I Miss Old Things

Recently, a local high school and it's surrounding community celebrated it's 100th anniversary.  It was in the paper, there were some celebrations, I believe some historical markers may have been placed - or at the very least, talked about.  It's a decent number of record, especially in an area filled with brand new everything - new roads, new houses, new strip malls, new lights, new, new, new.

I grew up in a town that was founded before the United States was - 1664.  Just a couple of generations after those pilgrims landed in Plymouth and the British set up shop in Virgina.  I never really gave much thought about it when I lived there.  There weren't any celebrations in Eastchester about it that I recall; perhaps after the first 300 years they get blase.  When that town turned a century old, there were some other things on its plate at the time - a revolution a-brewing, so to speak.  There's a now defunct quarry in the town from which marble was unearthed and transported to Washington DC to build monuments and many of those vast, enormous edifices of government.  There's a house down the street from the high school that we would tour as it was a stop on the Underground Railroad.  A one-room school house from circa 1835 still stands in stellar condition.  Finally, there's St. Paul's Church, built in 1765, which is now technically in a town called Mt. Vernon as time has changed some things - a place where George Washington directed the parishoners to bury the tower bell, that was cast in the same foundry as Philadelphia's Liberty Bell, during the Revolutionary war to protect it from the British (so they wouldn't melt it down).  Rumor has it, that at one point, the town was used as a temporary capital of the US during the Revolutionary War, though I can't seem to find much to back that up - but I do remember hearing that somewhat frequently when I was a child.

Considering the harsh winters of New York, so much has weathered so well over time.  But of course, things were built to accommodate the climate and were certainly built differently back then - built to last.  To endure.  To hold memories and secrets within. 

As I grew older I developed an affinity for things old - for gravestones, tilted with time, for wooden double-hung windows with exposed pulleys, for thick oaken doors that now sit sub-street level because of the development around them.  I loved to come upon stone fences that still run through forests or old stone pump houses tucked into greenways, grown over with moss, mother nature reclaiming her property. I would give all of these things their own stories, since I didn't have anyone to tell me their true ones. 

I miss those things. 

Of course, after a trip to Europe my perspective greatly changed on what was considered old.  Tour after tour of church after church after ruin after church of buildings and structures erected hundreds to thousands of years before made me blush at my wonder of my local history.  It was all so overwhelming for so many reasons I almost shut down and at one point I said I just couldn't do it any more.  

I did go to a musical the other day in a theater that has been continuously used as a civic building of some sort or another for that same century as the high school.  The current proprietors are very proud of the history of the building, as they should be, but for some reason, it just didn't seem that old.  It didn't feel that old, or smell that old.  You could have told me the place was 40 or 50 years old and I wouldn't have doubted it.  But some of that I suppose has to do with the climate.  Even with the hurricanes, rain and lots of sunshine are easier on things than hail, snow, and ice.  Just ask all the folks who move down here. 

One day, I suppose things here will get that old, but instead of staying, many will be replaced since, as I mentioned before, things just aren't built to last - even with the milder climate. Perhaps they'll stay on the same foundations, or within the same property markers, but since they were put up with limited funds, or in ways to save a dollar, you won't be sitting in the same seats within the same walls as your predecessors from centuries prior.  You won't peer out the same windows that watched history being made.  

Because of time and natural erosion, Florida has lost much of it's land, where the first peoples settled thousands of years ago.  So much of that history is lost to the depths of the Gulf and to the Atlantic, whereas up north, beneath the stone structures of our European history, lay millennia of life, with their own sacred stories to tell.

I suppose its up to us to create that history for here.  My neighbors and I...from my street to my town to my county...we are making the stories to tell. Someday, we'll be the stuff of the old things, since the "things" we make today are so limited in lifespan.  And maybe, just maybe, someone will miss us.

The Story of Mother and Daughter in 2.6 Miles

(originally presented on Facebook the day the story occurred as dated.  One of things on my list to move over...better late than never.  I saw a little girl learning to skate the other day and it brought back this memory)

3 January 2011 at 23:47

This is a true story, that happened today, Jan. 3, 2011.  It has not been edited.

My daughter learned to skate on roller blades today.  She's had crappy, cheap versions of them in the past, with unmanageable, flat wheels that are only good for about 2 minutes before they get too pocked to roll.  Yes, I bought them for her, perhaps with the cloaked understanding that they would keep her slow, keep her close, and keep her from falling too often.

Then as young girls are wont to do, she asked for better skates.  She said she wanted to move like the other kids on the street - winding in and out of driveways, using their wheeled freedom and exhilerating speed as a small escape from the trappings of flip flops or sneakers.

So I finally gave in this recent holiday season.  I found the coolest pair I could for the budget I was willing to invest, and they are pretty cool, actually.  Black with hot pink trim and some Ed Hardy-esque stylings on the sides.  But the important thing was the wheels.  Real wheels, capable of manuevering up and down, over and under, in and out of the obstacles of suburban developments.

She kept asking to use them, since Christmas, and I kept putting it off - explaining that she had to find her elbow and knee pads first in our garage (and if you've ever seen my garage, you know my plan was set to buy some substantial time).  So finally today she dug them out.

And I, reluctantly, agreed to help her out.

She held on so tightly at first, I thought my arm was going to fall off.  My daughter, for seven, is quite tall, and is the size of an average 10 year old, and now up on her skates is even bigger (thank goodness for my 70 inches of height, or I might feel a bit overwhelmed!).  But there she went, more walking than skating, scraping the ground with the sides of the wheels, intent on not falling down, pulling harder and harder on my arm.

My son was on his bike, riding ahead, and returning often to check on our progress as he dutifully taunted his sister about her inability to keep up with him or even our small dog.  She took it all in stride, and was dead set on getting this skill mastered.

A few wobbles here, a couple of whoopsies there - she admitted she was glad to have put on the pads that I insisted on.   But she kept going.  And her strides became longer.  And her grip became looser.

She'd let go for a second, then grab on again desperately.  Laughing all the way.

And her strides became longer, and her grip became looser.  And she'd let go for longer.

Eventually, her brother had had enough and challenged her to a race of sorts, insisting he could lap us around the lake before she could reach the 300 feet to the stairs.  Her head went down, her elbows up, like a roller derby girl and she accepted.  But she grabbed my hand and said, "come on, Mama, we can beat him."  I was surprised she wanted me along.  My pace grew faster, until I had to break into a trot - and then I realized that I...I had to let go.

I was holding her back.

She turned her head, and asked why I let go - and I said, "don't worry!  Just go, just go, honey!  You can do it - I'll be behind you if you fall!"  She smiled and took off.  I'd swear I saw a glint in her eye.

Her brother still won the race.  And she was happy when I caught up.  She was so excited about what she'd done - how far she'd come in such a short time - so proud of herself.  Exhileration was an understatement.

But now we had the bridge to tackle.  A long wooden bridge, in good shape for the most part, but with some boards in need of repair, some nails that need to be banged in, and it winds over a creek and some wetlands, before descending back into the paved trail.  She wasn't ready to do this alone.

We got over the bridge together, giggling at the immense sound of her roller blades over the weathered wood.  She compared it to a wooden roller coaster - and said she couldn't wait to try it again, but alone next time.

At the bottom of the bridge, returning to the smooth pavement, she took my hand.  She said, "you know, Mama, I don't need to hold your hand now.  I just want to because I love you."  I smiled, and held her hand tighter than she expected.

Soon, I sensed her mounting frustration at our speed.  I let her go and said, "go on - go as fast as you can - just watch the acorns!"  And she went.  I watched her take off, accelerate and round one of the corners of the trail, past the old uprooted tree, which since her birth had almost all but disappeared back into the earth.  And she was out of my sight.

She hollered back, "I'm doing it, Mama!  I'm doing it!  I'm really doing it!  I'll meet you at home!"

"Okay!" I shouted back, choking back that inevitable lump in the throat that gets implanted when one becomes a parent.  "I'll be there soon..."

When I finally caught up with her, she was beaming.  She said, "you know what, Mama?  I even fell.  I fell pretty hard, but I got myself back up again.  I didnt' need anybody to help me.  I didn't even use a thing...I just did it myself.  And look at me, I'm okay!"

"That's awesome, honey.  I'm soooo proud of you!"

"I'm okay! I'm okay!  I can't believe how far I came today!"

You have no idea, little one.  You have no idea.

Sleep Away Camp

I just spent a weekend with over 400 young people and the over 200 staff that support them at a camp in the Georgia mountains.  I was an observer for the most part, with a few opportunities to interact with the group.  My primary activity was actually participating in workshops and discovery sessions with fellow professionals and volunteers who are focused on youth engagement, at a conference that was held on site at this resident camp.

What an amazing experience! 

I never went to sleep away camp.  Sure, I went camping with scouts, and friends, went on extended stay field trips, and youth group conventions, and had plenty of sleepovers, but I never had the opportunity to attend a camp scenario like this.  I had friends that went away for weeks and months at a time, but I stayed close to home.  I have no regrets - I look back fondly on the summers of my youth - filled with day camps of all kinds - from music to sports to animals to scouts and so on.  And in between and throughout, my idle time was anything but, spent with friends, or even solo exploring trails on bicycles or on foot (I can't believe how far I used to travel on my own!), or reading in summer programs at the library, or crafting at home, heading to a museum or a show in the city, or sometimes, just simply doing nothing...which in summer time, especially in summer time is not always such a bad thing to do.  But I never went to sleep away camp.

My dad used to go every summer.  I didn't know it then, but I do now, when my grandmother repeats the conversation about how incredulous it is that I don't send my kids off  shortly after school ends, every summer of recent past.  He never pushed it for me; he may have mentioned it once or twice, but never recounted fond memories, or told me stories that would make me wonder.  Perhaps he didn't like his experience - that's what I have to surmise, otherwise, being the talker that he is, I'm sure I would have heard about it.  And I would assume, had he loved his experiences, he would have encouraged me to do the same.  I could be wrong on that too - he was a young dad, and maybe it just didn't occur to him.  Nevertheless, I never went to sleep away camp.

I've known kids who hated their experience.  I've known kids who liked it.  I've known people who loved it so much, they returned year after year to the same places, eventually becoming counselors, meeting significant others who become spouses, and then in turn, sending their children to the same places.  But I never went to sleep away camp.

Now that I've seen it, close up, live, immersively...I get it.  To see so many kids - in a broad age range - bonded together, sincerely enjoying their time and being able to express their joy through so many outlets, both physically and intellectually, is exhilarating.  To see so many kids - with such a wide range of personalities, physically embracing one another during a session of music, arms linked in solidarity, swaying in time with the songs they are singing, is moving and emotional.  To see so many kids - making connections with others from across the ocean and right next door, building memories to last a lifetime, developing relationships that may influence their lives forever is utterly profound. 

I kinda wish I went to sleep away camp.

I hope to give that gift to my children soon.

Into the Darkness

One of the roads I drive home on, the one I call my extended driveway since you can't get to much until you get to one end of it or the other, has a significant portion that runs solidly east and west.  When I drive home, after a long, long day, full of work and errands, perhaps some shopping or dinner with the family or the girls or any number of activities that fill my life, and I hit that road at just the right time there is a phenomenon that strikes me as marvelous every time. 

Ahead of me, darkness - and often, particularly in summer, that post dusk darkness is thickened by a deep cloud cover, which can result in a surprisingly early inky sky.  In my side and rear view mirrors, however, a spectacular sunset glows - all pinks, and oranges, tendrils of clouds whispering to the sun, go to bed, go to bed. 

There seems to be no blending, no gradual descent into night, just light behind me, and darkness ahead, like somewhere over the top of my vehicle a curtain has been drawn.  It's almost distracting, as the even sleepy sky seems brilliant in reflection compared to the shade that lies ahead.  Depending on my day, it can be disconcerting sometimes to have such a broad contrast between where I've been and where I'm going. 

It reminds me of when I used to take the train when I was younger, that for a stretch ran true north, and one of side of the train slid along the darkness and the other still bathed in sunset.  But I had more time to soak that in as I was just a passenger.  It really felt like two different worlds - as I would loll my head from one side to the other, my irises dilating and contracting in rhythm with the train rumble.  Funny that at that time of my life, the contrast ran bilaterally, allowing me to make a choice on which type of scenery I soaked in. And now, as I am quite a bit older, the directions have changed and with it the perspectives.

I suppose, in the wee hours of the morning, the phenomenon reverses itself, a sultry morning sky yawning ahead, while the darkness fades away behind.  But that's not my schedule, at least not my natural one.  And the few times I have driven that route at a time I might capture it, I am just awake enough to move the mechanics safely, and stay focused on the task at hand. 

So for now, I'll just marvel at the rearview, nature's finale in harmonic hues and say goodbye to another day.

The Hipsters Are Comin'! The Hipsters Are A-comin'!

I sat next to an uber-hipster family this afternoon at a yogurt shop.  I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised - I mean, it was a froyo joint after all.  But this is a relatively new phenomenon out here, in this burgeoning bedroom community between two of the largest cities in the state, Tampa and Orlando.  The Orlampa corridor, as it were (I guess Orlando won on that since well, they have Disney and Disney always seems to win - and Tampando -  hearkens too closely to feminine protection, I guess).  I should have surmised that once the froyo joints attacked in force, the hipsters weren't far behind.

Anyway, this family was comprised of Dad, Mom, and Daughter - I think...to be honest I couldn't tell if it was a girl or boy, about 9 years old - a strikingly beautiful, highly androgynous child (a what hipster family would be complete with one?) with a short blonde cropped boys style hair cut, wearing a tattoo mustache, wearing all black, very gender neutral clothing with a few pink stripes and black Converse Chuck Taylors.  The child sat perched on the chair with both legs tucked underneath, knees out to opposite sides - very gymnast/dancer style, quietly listening, engaged in the conversation dad and mom were having.  Mom, almost fully reclined, had a similar haircut, so you could see the clasps on her multiple wooden beaded, short necklaces.  Dad, upright on the edge of his chair, left hand slapping out a rhythm on the table, short hair under a fedora, which matched his well-groomed de rigeur beard, that he kept stroking through the conversation with his non-percussive hand...he would periodically break form to eat his yogurt, then immediately return to the stance.  They were so well coordinated in their un-coordinated, expensive-made-to-look-not-too-expensive clothing, cropped flat-front, full cut leg pants with frayed hems and sandals (this IS Florida, after all) for both adults, style-conscious tatts conspicuously placed.   The rings...so many on both, the string bracelets, casually mixed with copper and thin sterling wire.  The discussion...about music, I think, bands I'd never heard of (they were only sitting about 2 or 3 feet away).  The attitude...gracefully sardonic as they quietly critiqued each subject of discussion.  I actually felt woefully under dressed, or under coiffed, would be more appropriate.

This was not a totally unique sighting, but one in which I had time to breathe it all in.  I've been noticing the appearance of the kind with more frequency lately, as I suppose this generation is now coming up with elementary aged children, leaving the dens of urban life and relocating, somewhat surprisingly, but not too surprisingly to the suburbs.  I've noticed some in passing at the local elementary school,  but dismissed the phenomena assuming they were uncles or aunts, cousins, or visiting family friends.  In our sea of yoga pants, running wear, mani/pedis and blowouts/flatirons, golf shirts, chinos and military chic haircuts, they do have a remarkable tendency to seem a bit conspicuous with their layered and accessorized styles, seemingly unkempt coifs and higher than average ratio of facial holes.  But I suppose, upon further reflection, that they actually have arrived here in the Suncoast Suburbs.  It will be interesting to watch the acclimatization.  Which way will it go?  Will we get hipper? Will they homogenize? Some say, the power of the suburbs is strong, and that resistance is futile...but this is a new generation that shouldn't be underestimated.  I now have a front seat for the show. 

When we came home, I found my son a few hours later, reading a book in his room, a fedora perched on his head that I had forgotten he had.  Hmmmm....