GoldStar4Trying

Having Faith in Faith

2011-02-17T22:45:00.001-05:00

Her name was Faith.

"I love that," I said, and I do love the name. It is such a hopeful name, in this case, Faith's mother is also Faith, and waited until her fifth of five children to share the blessing.

This particular Faith offered up her thoughts, very grounded thoughts, on the ridiculous realities of the neighborhood we live, things like the bedbug scare and the storm.

"It was great to see people in New York have to walk single file because of the snow, have to be patient," she said with a sneaky smile.

I laughed in agreement. "So true," I said, "I'd almost think Bloomberg planned it if I didn't know better," I said, quoting me back to me as I often do now that I write a column, write various articles based solely on what I think. Scary.

Just like with the bedbugs or the snow, things often out of our control, Faith is a believer in moving through things, moving forward, letting go of expectations.

"Uch," she said of buying expensive sunglasses, very expensive anything, "then, of course you lose it right away or something happens." She shook her head no, in vehement agreement with herself, the best possible person one can agree with.

I gave Faith a gold star for her great attitude, for her deep, smiling engagement in the conversation. Maybe it's all in a name after all.

Save My Washing Machine, Save Me

2011-02-15T21:23:00.000-05:00

Roger is a saviour. The laundry had been piled up for a week, just awaiting the expertise (and hose) of a guy like him, one of several upbeat super-helpful repairmen deployed by Lenny of Len's Appliance Service that have come in to our home and restored order and orderliness. Granted, it took them a few days for the part to come in and I had to be flexible in accordance with their busy schedule, but they were patient and so was I.

"I need you, now!" I'd joked to Lenny, the owner over the phone.

"I love you, but..." he'd said. The "but" in this case totally negated the love. There were so many other women, truly desperate housewives, he couldn't even pretend to differentiate us. It was first come first served with Len.

"I had a boyfriend named Lenny in high school..." I told him, as if he cared, as if this would make him schedule the belt getting put in my washer any faster. It's always worth a try.

It reminded me of my days soliciting grocery buyers over the phone all across the country to ferret out the latest package-goods marketing secrets. One of them, a hilarious man I adored in upstate New York, was always on the money when it was my time of the month, the first to guess I was pregnant with my second.

When Roger finally arrived with the part, the stench in my place was beginning to grow a little fermented.

"You must be very popular," I said to Roger, giddy when he closed the lid on my newly fixed washer and carefully wiped the machine with a cloth to remove the smudges he'd placed there.

"People do tend to appreciate me," he said with a big happy-with-his-job smile. "Actually, sometimes, it's like it was the first time someone was ever nice to them. I make them feel comfortable in their own home, like I'm not sure they normally are."

Roger was proud of his efforts and rightly so. He was sure to tell me he didn't set the prices. Better to separate yourself from the bill if you want to be popular and appreciated. Smart man, Roger. And for this I gave him a big gold star.

Watching the Dragonflies

2011-02-07T17:14:00.000-05:00

She sat down next to me and I noticed her earrings right away: dragonflies.

"I love your earrings," I said. "I love dragonflies."

Caroline smiled. "Thanks," she said, putting her hands up to touch the silver dangling dragonflies, as if she had to feel to remember them.

We talked about dragonflies' amazing fortitude, their resistance and ability to adapt to their environment. They are growing large, lately, I've noticed, the past few summers, and flying further afield from water than they once did as the climate changes, as they need to change. I have seen dragonflies in Midtown, by MOMA. They do seem rather artistic...

"Animals and plants are doing strange things lately, stratifying away from each other," Caroline noted, citing something she'd read. "We have to watch nature to see what it's doing, but as humans there is this confluence of wanting to invent and like water, wanting to find the easiest route."

Of course, Caroline and I agreed, we have to work together and with nature, as nothing survives alone. But despite any greater designs, such cooperation is not always the direction things go. Interdependence has a price and it is, of course, independence. It is a conundrum, then, whether it is best to choose collaboration or to go it alone.

Sitting side by side in the cafe, new friends, we both are rooting for communal efforts but, Caroline said, somewhat resignedly, "Making the choice to do right for yourself is survival in its perfect form."

If history is any indication, we seem, like the dragonflies, to bow and duck around in time, with the wind, to find the "best" way forward in various states of solitude and dependence.

"Either way, we are destined to make mistakes," Caroline said, getting up and acknowledging that our brief passionate discussion to try to figure things simply by watching dragonflies was not going to end in an answer.

I laughed as I gave her her gold star, for trying. "We're about as effective as Dr. Seuss's Whos screaming as loud as they could into the wind..." I said. "But at least we're trying to pay attention!"

Revolution Required, In Fashion and...

2011-02-04T07:10:00.000-05:00

Chet piped up to defend me at Parco yesterday when sassy barista, Jeremy, questioned my being given an assignment to cover fashion, albeit men's fashion.

"You, fashion?" Jeremy laughed.

"Hey, just because you only ever see me in Spandex..." I said.

Chet, sitting next to me, sort of, came to my rescue, offering up, "Miuccia Prada often looks very bad..."

Hmmm, was he defending me? "Um, thanks? I think?" I said.

We talked about fashion a bit then, Chet and I, about how the people in the biz, the trend-setters, often set the trends slightly by accident, because they just don't care to follow the rules.

"I think it must be so funny for people to put some strange thing together on a whim, just by instinct, and then have all kinds of people copy it," I said.

Handlebar mustaches, for example, are all of a sudden slightly common.

"You could pull off some funky facial hair..." I suggested to my new friend.

Chet nodded. "But only if I had a big ring through my lip, and that wouldn't fly in my office, as a government wonk."

"I don't know," I said, "sometimes when we break the rules, people follow. They want someone to lead them, to take charge and change things. Like in Revolutionary Road, when he decides to screw what he thought he should do and just went for it, he got a big promotion. That happens all the time."

As it was, I noticed Chet himself looked very dapper.

"I needed to dress up today...I just had to do it," he said.

It was a freezing day in early February, Parco visitors were mostly running behind. Getting out of bed is hard this time of year.

"I'm with you," I said, "sometimes you just have do it, dress yourself up to make it happen."

"You gotta look the part..." Chet agreed.

He couldn't decide where to put his gold star, maybe on his red tie? In the end, he put it straight on his chest, just above the pocket of his natty suit. It suited Chet, the star.

With a wave and a flourish, a gracious thank you to Jeremy for his delicious mushroom quiche, Chet was out. We shall meet again, I'm sure.

Trying to Be Communal

2011-02-01T11:02:00.000-05:00

Jessica joined me on the bench yesterday as I sat doing door-duty at my children's Hebrew school. I am a half-hearted Hebrew school parent at best, which is why I volunteered for the easy duty, to assuage some of my Jewish guilt.

Jessica, likewise, was stuck, waiting, so we began to chat as friendly people are wont to do. Before too long, as can happen easily in Park Slope, the conversation turned to the Park Slope Food Co-Op and whether or not I was a member...I am, somewhat abashedly, somewhat ashamedly, not.

"I just can't handle another responsibility, another organization that needs something from me that I probably won't be able to give, especially when it comes to my groceries," I explained.

Jessica, like so many others before her, like those who have tried to get me to join The Landmark Group, tried hard to convince me.

"It's only 2 1/2 hours a month..." she said, "and it's a guaranteed 20% mark-up over cost, where other stores are like 100%."

She made a good case, I'll give her that, especially as my convenient just-across-the-street shopping at 150% mark-up Union Market is putting me in serious debt.

I am tempted but I know myself too well. If I get involved, if I just walk in the door to try out the low-cost fruits and veggies on offer, I'd be tempted to put in more time, to get more involved than necessary. I'd think so much about what I could do for the co-op but don't necessarily want to that I'd probably fail to even meet the required time. Worry, worry would be all I would give my fellow cooperators. And that's not fair.

Jessica, a clearly sensitive woman, a sign-language interpreter and dancer, looked at me with big, understanding eyes.

"There are so many communities to be part of, it's true," she said.

"Exactly," I said, as the other Hebrew school parents, none of whom I know, walked in to claim their kids. "And it's so easy to become Jack the Joiner, part of many communities but really part of none."

I gave a gold star to Jessica for trying herself to be part of many communities and for understanding that I, in my own way, am trying too.

Snowy Appreciation

2011-01-28T06:36:00.000-05:00

It is easy to take others' hard work for granted.

As we walked easily yesterday down our sidewalk with sleds, snow piled high on top of parked cars, I said out loud, "Wow, aren't we fancy?" Here we hadn't lifted a finger and, yet, voila! Despite a foot or so of snow, there was a clear clean path out our door and leading, it seemed, straight to our destination.

It then occurred to me: our being "fancy" was someone else's really fucking hard work!

As we came around the corner, the dry cleaner was there with his shovel, the sweet man who knows us by name (not that I know his, I'm terrible.)

"Great job, thank you very much for shoveling on our behalf!" I said, handing him a gold star. I wanted to take his picture but he waved me off.

"Very shy..." he said.

I understood and didn't pull a paparazzi move. I gave him his space. I think that's why I never ask him his name. Strangely, I get shy around shy people. I feel guilty being my very verbose self around them. It feels like I am actually inflicting torture.

We had a great time sledding. I say we, but it was mostly the kids, with mommy chatting up all and sundry (even the shy ones.)

Snow days in Park Slope, if the sledding is good, offer a rare opportunity for an outdoor party on the high hill behind the Picnic House in Prospect Park. All the fun parents are there, the more fearless, the ones who can stomach watching their progeny fly fast over the ridges created by many sledders, often straight into other sledders. Collective groans could be heard all around at the amazing headlong crashes.

Picking up provisions for lunch afterward, just some quick fixins at the deli, an older woman I've seen around, always looking to chat, came in to ask the Yemeni deli guy if he wanted anything for lunch.

"I'm goin' to Smiley's," she said, invoking the name of the local pizza parlor, "ya want anythin'?"

She looked at me then. "I do everything for everyone around here," she said, adding, only slightly in jest, "No one does anythin' for me."

I love these moments, when I can reach into my bag and do something for someone who feels needy, quickly and easily.

"Here," I said, handing her a star, "now you've been recognized for your good deeds..."

Tears came to her eyes. "Really," she said, "I have a heart too..."

Taking people for granted is so easy, especially those who like doing for others, who do it with relish, like this nice lady. My gold stars help remind me to reach out to these people, that they need it even if they're too shy to ask. What reminds you?

A Visit from Kamel

2011-01-25T14:46:00.000-05:00

Kamel Boudjemil came to stay on my couch as a gift from my young French friend Felix, who joyfully lodged in our third bedroom for six months as he worked at Human Rights Watch last fall, before he high-tailed it to Beirut to put his Arabic lessons to the test. I had asked for some of the crepes Felix is making at a creperie, back in Paris after a tour in Yemen and before he heads to Syria. Or, I'd said, "you can send someone to make me crepes..."

Kamel did not make crepes and I felt too guilty to take him up on his offer to make Quiche Lorraine though he brought us a delicious bottle of French wine and a book of Babar in French for the kids. Next visit he'll make us the quiche.

It was a joy to host Kamel, who was relegated to the couch since Lisa, a poet from New Jersey, currently resides in the extra room. A political science major at Sciences Po in Paris, he offered up great wisdom on the Middle East regions he understands well and offered up, for me, as Felix had, some great hope that the next generation will figure all this out, that we will somehow come to some peace simply because our future politicians, like Kamel and Felix, will not think to do otherwise.

I gave Kamel a big gold star, which he placed in the middle of the red felt square he had attached to his hat, the remnants of a friend's slightly Marxist club. Who knows what -isms, if any, will work. He left New York with a lot of memories and a bag full of great American books including George Orwell's Animal Farm, Charles Bukowski's Women and some Woody Allen. We talked, hopefully, of doing an international book club over Skype. I would love it.

These cultural exchanges are crucial for understanding others, for finding a way to appreciate one anothers' practices instead of hating them, to, ideally, finding peace. My fingers are crossed that my young brilliant friends will work fast, saving regions like Beirut from falling, again, into ruin.

Maybe Somebody

2011-01-20T22:26:00.000-05:00

"No offense," a nice gentleman told me recently, "you're impressive, but you're nobody."

I laughed. I tried to look on the bright side. Impressive was a nice compliment, no matter that it was followed by the huge insult, the huge insult that is both true and untrue.

Of course, I'm somebody. The way The Doors were somebodies before their band took off, before photographer Henry Diltz took the photo above and the one of the group in the window of The Morrison Hotel, a famous photo for which the cool Soho gallery he co-founded is named. I visited there today to find inspiration, and gave the friendly staff gold stars.

We are all somebodies. Only in hindsight can there be a line between when "somebody" still somewhat inconspicuous becomes a "Somebody" people have heard of and even speak of in common parlance. John Dos Passos captures this idea well in his U.S.A. trilogy, which follows a variety of people's stories at the turn of the century, regular people like a boy who liked to build whose name was Frank Lloyd Wright.

Photographers are gamblers of a sort, gambling that their subjects might rise to fame and fortune and, with them, the value of the photograph taken of them, the quick flash of a moment back in time.

"Are you going to be famous?" Isak Tiner, the photographer I met in a cafe and hired to take my photo for this blog asked before he trained his camera on me.

I laughed then, just like I did at the man who said I was nobody. "Maybe," I said, "one never knows."

2011-01-17T08:42:00.000-05:00

He smiled big at me as I sat down on the subway across from him.

I laughed. "It's my hair, isn't it?" I said. "You're smiling at me because of my hair..."

James Tapuano, I would come to know in our fast 15-minute friendship, does not shy away from the truth.

"Yes, it's fun, very charming," he said of my Princess Leia look ("an OLD Princess Leia," according to my own young truth-teller, Eli).

I have noted recently that the two silly buns sticking out from either side of my head give off the impression that I am a slightly-touched person, someone free and childlike and non-judgmental. Who would I be to judge? The style makes people, like James, smile and feel friendly. It's a good thing, like a gold star in a hairstyle.

James, it turns out, is a construction worker/sage. When I told him I was a writer, I wrote sometimes about parenting, he told me he was a father of two, and a grandfather of two.

"I started young," he said apologetically.

"Maybe that's a good thing," I said.

He perked up, like maybe he hadn't done the wrong thing. "I was a kid along with them...it was hard to separate and be the parent," he said.

"That's great, you have to be a kid with them I think, then they trust you. I always wonder, otherwise, what the dividing line is, when you're the disciplarian parent and then, all of sudden, you want to have a friendly relationship with them."

"That's true, that's true," he said. "But I didn't know anything..."

I laughed. "Does anybody, at any age? Please. At least you didn't feel like you should know anything...you probably let yourself off the hook. I think that's the problem with parenting, we don't know exactly what we want to achieve, we have no objective."

James sat up and leaned forward eagerly. "Exactly! How do you get to a place when you don't know where it is?"

I asked the difficult question. "Do you have a good relationship with your kids?"

He paused, long paused, and I started to retract but then he spoke.

"As far as love and communication, yes. Was I the best father? No." He laughed. "It was more like, 'this is my life as a cowboy, watch me. I'll be the sacrificial lamb so you can learn what not to do.'"

I gave James a gold star and my card and told him to keep in touch. I hope he does. I could use some cowboy advice, some real truths about what it takes sometimes to make things work. Construction workers know best what it really takes to build things.

Forging the Best Path: Trisha Mulligan

2011-01-13T14:31:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it's just easier to do the easy thing, even when you know it's not the answer.

Trisha Mulligan knows this well. She is an herbalist and a gardener (Terra Flora Botanicals) who watches the pharmaceutical industry thrive because it is too hard for people to make changes they know are necessary, changes that require their own discipline and hard work.

Of course, like all of us, Trisha, a mother of two under 5, sometimes takes short cuts that derail her for a time, easy ways out. For example, she is considering, after a long marriage, finally exchanging her Irish surname (the last in her family's line of Mulligans) for her musician husband Tony Garnier's more famous one.

"Uch," she says over coffee and quiche at Parco. "I volunteer so much at my kids' schools, and it's just so challenging to have a different name than they do!"

Smart people know that sometimes you have to be flexible. What works for a time may not always work. We have to pay attention and, sometimes, make a change. A gardener knows that as well as anybody. Change is a constant among the plant world.

Trisha is great, dynamic and strong, which is why I wasn't at all surprised when she slapped her gold star right smack dab in the middle of her forehead. She is forging ahead with a new garden at the public school where she volunteers for her oldest, and making plenty of adjustments in her own life--temporary or permanent--in an effort to find the best path. Not the easiest path always, mind you, not the primrose path, but the real, honest, down-and-dirty route that might work best for her and her family.

Street Find: Women's Strength

2011-01-10T14:10:00.000-05:00

I don't know Susan, but she gets a big gold star for leaving her fabulous plush robe and her book on Marie Curie's discovery of Radioactive Substances out on the snowy sidewalk in a Manolo Blahnik bag for me to pick up.

I've been wanting a white plush bathrobe ever since I got back from Miami. Hotel robes are used, I reason. They're just washed, like I will (likely) wash Susan's before I put it on and channel the lady whose name is embroidered on the side.

I love the idea of being someone other than I am, putting myself in someone else's shoes, (or robe as the case may be.) I do it anyway in front of the mirror, imagine, if I am able, someone not so grey and wrinkled, so what will be different?

For a while at least, for as long as I continue to like the robe, I will be Susan. She is a bit bigger, if the robe size is any indication, (let's call it, kindly, more voluptuous, Rubenesque even) and has the daring to wear stilettos that she pays way too much for, a small price, really, for feeling sexy. Cool. I like her.

As for the book on Marie Curie, I was curious. I know nothing about Physics, dropped it my senior year in high school in favor of editing the school newspaper and practicing my Erma Bombeck monologues for Speech & Debate tournaments. My real interest is really in Ms. Curie herself, a woman who gained admission to the Sorbonne against all odds in 1891, became the school's first female faculty member, and then went on to receive the Nobel prize for isolating Radium, a deadly substance that, in the end, killed her.

I will think of Marie Curie's bravery and boldness while in my robe, while Susan, as I try to remind myself to be strong. We women have to stop and appreciate one another's strength, after all, not just try jealously to sap it as so often happens. Gold stars to women trying to be great, whatever that might mean.

The Divorcee

2011-01-09T10:35:00.000-05:00

She sat down toward our end of the long bar and ordered a glass of white wine. It was mid-morning on the Upper East Side, a weekday just before the holidays.

Her head was down or tilted slightly to watch one of the seven televisions surrounding us, until she overheard our conversation, about divorce.

She looked up then, alert and engaged. "Oh, I could tell you about divorce..." she said, and proceeded to.

"I was put out to pasture," she began. "One day, he just asked me to meet him at a hotel bar and he gave me a key to a storage space where he had put my stuff. He'd already had all the locks changed."

I somehow felt she wanted to say more.

"Why?" I asked.

She shook her head, like maybe she wasn't sure, but then answered, straight out. "He found my diaries..."

I ventured further cautiously. "So...then... did he kick you out because of something you did or something that you thought?"

She didn't skip a beat. "Something that I thought."

She had merely fantasized in writing what it might have been like if she'd gone down a different road, with a different man. That was it for him, he was done, ego blown to smithereens, unable to believe again in the pretty blonde he'd made his wife years earlier. They had no kids, just stuff, stuff and money they'd been dickering over with the assistance of pricey divorce lawyers ever since that day, ever since the reading of the diaries.

She ordered another glass of white wine and seemed to get lost in it, lost in memory and regret. I got up and gave her a gold star, which she promptly put on and smiled.

"Thank you," she said.

"I know it's hard," I said, "but keep trying."

The Glow of Amber

2011-01-05T15:56:00.000-05:00

Amber is a brave soul. She embarks on everything she does with a sense of wonder, her big eyes mirrored in the amber-colored beads around her neck.

"Someone accused me of being meta," she said, fingering the plastic baubble version of her beautiful name.

I smiled. "You are meta..."

Amber is meta-cool, meta-real, meta-hard-working. Maybe I am a bit biased. She interviewed me a while back on her great show, "Hey Brooklyn," http://heybrooklyn.com/282/stephanie-thompson-gold-star-for-trying/ a podcast from which she is currently taking a hiatus to focus on her new photography biz. You can find her now at http://www.ambermarlow.com/.

I am awe-struck by Amber's maturity and forthrightness. I hope I was as fearless and bold at 28, though I look back and don't believe I was. I did more the prescribed things, the things I thought I should or needed to rather than following my gut and just going for it, as Amber does.

It is not easy, making up one's own rules. There is no No-Rules book, unfortunately. You must write your own every day anew, as Amber is doing, try new things all the time, not because you are NOT afraid, but because you are and need to best those silly fears.

"I want to go rock-climbing," she said to me as we lunched together yesterday at S'Nice, leaning forward in her characteristic enthusiastic way, all aglow with excitement.

I gave Amber Marlow Blatt a big gold star for all her efforts, professional and personal. She held it up proudly, as well she should. She deserves a big reward.

Taking It Slow in 2011

2011-01-03T17:19:00.000-05:00

I rang in the New Year in this idyllic unnamed location. It is dreamlike, magical, this place our good friends are kind enough to share with a group of us every year.

I slept late on the first day of the New Year, longer on the second. Ugh. The pressure of a new year, the possibilities never ending, like in the world I imagine might exist across the glassy slightly frozen lake.

But here it is, day 3, and I awoke early again as is my usual, slightly stressed for the re-emergence into the post-holiday world but ready. It is time to try again. Today, I give gold stars to all who are getting up the gumption to get it together, to fix the things they saw as problems last year, to continue to do what worked and hope it still does, to figure a wholly new plan. It definitely doesn't happen magically with the turning of the clock from 11:59 to midnight. It takes effort, thought, faith.

I walked into a cafe in Ft. Greene today that I visited one day on a fluke, and ran into an old favorite barista from my neighborhood who had written on the chalkboard, "A New Year, a New You." I laughed out loud. The new me will have to come from my own efforts, I realize, there is no magic bullet. George Michael's "Faith" came on and I almost got up to dance. Never truer words were spoken to such an awesome beat..."Ya gotta have faith." Say what you will about the man, whatever he does in bathrooms with whomever is his business. It's a great song.

I do have faith, I believe in the great possibilities for the coming year, for the auspicious 2011. As my fearless fabulous yoga instructor, Judy, coached us this morning, "you have to remember to consciously breathe." Such a thing as that, even something so seemingly easy as breathing, like yoga or any other endeavor, takes "practice, practice, practice," she said.

Mostly what is required is something I vow to do even more of this year, to PAY ATTENTION. It is one bit of advice that has lasted the test of time, since French philosopher Montaigne opined about it in the 1500s. One must be wholly conscious to figure their own needs, the needs of others and the needs of the universe. Gold star for trying. It is the Year of the Rabbit, I'm told, a time to take it slow. Phew. That's just what we need.

The Gap, Revealed

2010-12-30T18:25:00.000-05:00

I looked over from the line I was standing in at The Gap in midtown and started to laugh.

"Wow," I said, turning to the young woman behind me and pointing out to her the scantily-clad mannequin to our left. "I noticed fashion was getting a little more risque, but I think this might be stretching it..."

"Did they do that on purpose?" she wondered.

"I don't know, can't really tell these days, what with some of the outfits the ladies are wearing, the over-the-knee boots and knee socks, short skirts...Maybe they've finally decided to just be honest, to offer up a little window into what people really hope to get out of wearing some of these sexier styles."

The girl nodded but looked a little scared at my rant. Right then, as we continued to stare at the headless vixen with the perfect pecs and the beckoning open zipper, a woman (the young woman's mother, it turned out,) came alongside the mannequin with a shocked expression and tugged a bit at her cardigan to try to cover her exposed breasts.

I lost it. It was hilarious, perfect. The woman came toward me shaking her head. "What if a man was up here?" she asked, mortified.

I laughed. "You mean men haven't seen that before?" I asked.

By this point, I was up at the cashier, who had already alerted her manager to the issue of the half-dressed mannequin. Apparently, it was not on purpose. The manager, I daresay, was not at all amused as she ran over to button up the sales-figure's figure behind closed material. I had placed a gold star on the babe's plastic breast that might be there still, a reminder of what people are so often TRYING to do by dressing well...The Gap is, I guess, supposed to be more subtle in its marketing.

The Joys of Childbirth

2010-12-26T06:39:00.000-05:00

I was eavesdropping. I make no apologies anymore in cafes, when I pipe in to other people's private conversations. If I have something valuable to say (the decision of whether or not it's valuable made, of course, by me) I say it.

When Riannon Price rubbed her belly and began to discuss the many variables inherent in giving birth, I had to speak across Naidre's to add my twenty-two cents.

"You just have to relax and let nature take it's course, you have to visualize the baby," I said. "We are meant to do this, and the only thing that creates a problem is if we clench and are nervous. It's amazing, enjoy it."

She looked at me then, skeptical. "I'm not sure I want the epidural..." she said.

I laughed. "Luckily, with my first, I had a doctor who had just had her third child, she came in and said not 'if' but 'when.' I got it, and it was great, it helped me relax. I had no qualms with the second one."

Rhiannon has the usual concerns, about doctors giving a c-section to speed things up, about the potentially scary side-effects of the epidural. It's not that these things aren't ever issues, but together, in aggregrate, if you focus on them, they add to the already fearsome prospect of parenting. The worry over things you can't necessarily control will definitely be a problem, while these other things are mere possibilities.

I loved giving birth, both times. My pregnancies were not without scares (all false alarms from diagnostic tests delivered in the hope of helping but that proved only harmful in the end) and my deliveries too were not without their panic moments. But the beautiful, magical idea that I could bring a new baby into the world trumped all of that, as it should.

Rhiannon seemed calm, with a beautiful smile. I have no doubt she will be able to put all her concerns aside and deliver her baby with great aplomb, even, maybe, enjoy the process.

"It's nice to hear someone be positive..." Rhiannon said. It's true, most people focus on the pain.

I waved off the slim memory of pain. "You're bringing a person into the world, what else matters?" I said. "Plus, what no one tells you is that the pain subsides during contractions, you get a little rest!"

I gave her a gold star and the recommendation to drink a glass of wine before labor, to get the epidural if she wanted it or needed it. I passed along the great wisdom of a Lamaze coach who dressed-down a control-freak Dad, concerned that his wife's use of drugs would harm HIS baby.

"'For as long as women have been having babies, people have found what they can to ease the pain,' she said, 'Indians used peyote...'"

Whatever it takes to relax and enjoy (within reason, of course,) Rhiannon should do. It is, after all, the greatest gift to be able to give the gift of life! It can be, and should be, fun.

Doing What We Want

2010-12-20T17:07:00.001-05:00

Jeremy is an old soul in a young man's body, clad as he often is in a cardigan, listening to Fleetwood Mac, a great band who broke up long before he was born. He actually eschews Facebook in favor of face to face friends.

I visit Parco often just to engage the bearded twenty-something in conversation, to feel better and more hopeful about the future of our youth. I quiz him sometimes, like the other day.

"So," I said as I sidled up for my long-shot double espresso, "do you do everything your doctor says?"

He paused in the midst of the pour. "Well," he said, "yeah..." He shrugged then. "Well, except for the smoking."

I doubled over and danced up and down. Thank goodness the little cafe was empty.

"That's amazing," I said, "hilarious."

It turns out for all the great wisdom Jeremy has offered up, I had never given him a star. I was glad. This was a perfect moment.

The truth is, no one does much they don't want to do, even when it comes to potentially helping their own health. It is hard to change habits, especially habits we have in spite of what common sentiment might say, in spite of what even "statistics" tell us might shave years off our lives. The truth, which Jeremy knows well, is that no one, not even one's trusted doctor, knows very much for sure. Smoking gives some people lung cancer, while others get off scot free. We have to debate these decisions for ourselves, weigh what matters to us in the moment with potential unproveable longterm affects.

Gold star to Jeremy for being a free thinker, for making a choice for himself that others might judge harshly. He has that right.

The Truth and Nothing But

2010-12-17T10:48:00.000-05:00

She walked up to the front desk at the Prospect Park Y to turn in a check she'd found for $300, a check for someone else.

"How are you?" one of the cleaning staff asked.

"Shitty," she said.

I doubled over.

"I love that!" I said. "People never say that."

She smiled slightly as she handed the found check over. It was obvious she could have used the money herself.

"What can I say," she said, shrugging her shoulders, resigned and proud at the same time, "I'm honest. I tell the truth."

As I reached for my gold stars, there was a commotion among the ladies who worked there who had gathered round.

"It's the gold star lady!" they said.

I handed one to Miss Shitty first, for her honesty, then handed them around to the staff so that no one would feel left out. It is the holidays after all, and they do work hard. Plus, I love to be generous and stars are a cheap way to make someone's day!

Reinvention

2010-12-16T07:17:00.000-05:00

During the dog days of winter, it is our furry friends who stand, sadly, out in the cold, shivering on their little paws.

In front of Parco, though, Nora Fish's dogs look enviably warm and toasty. They are clad in fabulous sweaters the likes of which I wouldn't mind for myself in a slightly different shape.

Nora, a freelance graphic designer, has had so many comments and compliments on the sweaters as she meanders around the neighborhood, that she has decided to build a business to sell them. Tootaloops already has six orders!

It is a reinvention of sorts for her or at least an interesting addition to her current creative endeavors, a necessity in this economy and in life in general. When things get boring, try your hand at something new. Nora is an inspiration in this regard, and for that I gave her a gold star.

E-mail nvfish@earthlink.net for one of Nora's awesome sweaters.

License to be Bold, At Any Age

2010-12-13T06:50:00.001-05:00

Across from me on the subway were three older ladies. One wore a purple hat and red gloves, the other two both wore red hats and red scarves.

Was it red or purple that those ladies that travel together in the same bold, life-affirming, I’m-still-kicking-and-I’m-cooler-than-you color wear, I wondered, looking down at my own long purple scarf.

"Are you part of that red hat group, or purple?" I leaned across to ask.

They looked at each other and laughed. No, it was purely by accident that they all wore red and purple, they weren't part of the Red Hat Society, though they knew of it.

"There's a group of Loise’s too who travel around together," one said with a shrug, cocking her purple cap with eyes closed against the ridiculousness of it all.

"I guess sharing a name is as good a reason as any to hang out with people," I said with a sarcastic laugh.

I gave these ladies gold stars and they were excited, though they declined when I asked them if I could take their picture. They wanted no publicity for being their bold selves. They were doing it only for themselves, for one another, for people who mattered in their lives. I loved it.

There is something about being able to pull off bold colors, to wear them proudly like a badge of courage amidst the New York City crowds. It marks a bravery we hopefully find in youth but that, often, doesn't come except with age if at all.

There is a poem by Brit Jenny Joseph, from 1961, when she was 30, that inspired the Red Hat Society's development and their mission to, among other things, "celebrate life...forge solid friendship...explore new interests...fulfill potential...and lead healthy lifestyles." No small order.

Jenny Joseph

Ms. Joseph's words are words to live by, at any age:

Warning:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple

With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.

And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves

And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.

I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired

And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells

And run my stick along the public railings

And make up for the sobriety of my youth.

I shall go out in my slippers in the rain

And pick the flowers in other peoples' gardens

And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat

And eat three pounds of sausages at a go

Or only bread and pickles for a week

And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry

And pay our rent and not swear in the street

And set a good example for the children.

We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?

So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised

When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

Thank you Ms. Joseph! Gold star for trying to inspire yourself and others. Hopefully, you still seize life in the same manner, whether you wear red and purple or not.

Art Basel Inspiration

2010-12-09T13:53:00.000-05:00

Days after my return from Miami, my slight tan faded in the distance, I am still figuring why it is that I want, no NEED to return to Art Basel every year.

Aside from the blue sky and sunshine we saw before heading in to the vast climate-controlled art collections, the experience offered inspiration in spades, direct signs of the incredible efforts of artists of all kinds, new and old, creators of all kinds that aim to raise our consciousness and our spirits in all sorts of ways. I could have given away thousands of gold stars and might, should have if I wasn't so busy taking it all in.

I did, of course, give away a bunch.

Regina Kravitz got a gold star for her amazing zippered hat.

"It's a Kokin hat," she said, imbuing the name of a designer I am too clueless to have heard of.

"Well, it's awesome," I said.

We talked about how the people-watching, the fashion show as we rested our eyes from the visual art on display, was almost as scintillating as the show itself. Turns out, Ms. Kravitz is a clothing designer, something that didn't surprise me at all given her great personal style. She is starting a new line for her RIK designs, "relaxed spa-like clothes," she said. I will definitely be on the lookout.

It is not an easy industry, "impossible," she said. "I should be Diane Von Furstenberg but..."

But...it's so hard to figure a way to the top of the heap. She stays on top of the latest ways of self-promotion, the social networks and such. She is on the circuit, she is out and about looking stylish, which is in and of itself great marketing! Based on her personal look, I am totally tempted to buy her new clothes or take advantage of her styling services.

My friend Miok and I met artist Per Adolfsen at the bar of the Raleigh. The Dane was in fine form and we got a glimpse of his art on his Blackberry, which didn't quite do it justice. The next day, we visited it in person at the booth of the Dusseldorf-based gallery, Schuebbe Projects, that is representing him.

"I love it!" I said.

He smiled. "But you have to say that, no?"

I laughed. Per does not pull punches, he's straight up. That's why I like him. "It's true, I do, but I actually mean it."

Per has only been painting for a few years but he is already commanding a pretty penny for his pieces. The one on display is going, if it goes, for $16,500.

I love the swirling chaos of them, love swirls in general both for their freedom of movement and their metaphor. As Per describes his thinking, a window into why his paintbrush goes where it goes, "I paint things out of order, chaos. Things don't make sense. We can't control life, or always put things together by making systems."

Gold star for bucking systems, for being bold in one's brush strokes, in life. Per gave a big smile and slapped his gold star straight on. He is a star in the making.

Xiliary Twil, from the St. Helena, CA-based office of gallery Caldwell Snyder got a star for her sunny demeanor, something that shone out in the art she stood by (in more ways than one) of rising art star Paul Balmer.

I could have stood all day in front of the bright cityscape of a fantastical landscape, lived happily in its midst.

"It could be anywhere you want it to be," Xiliary said.

"Excellent, I get to use my imagination," I said.

Too often, we expect to be told what something is, given someone else's opinion instead of being asked what we think, what we want something to be.

I loved Xiliary's side pony and told her so. "I think the side pony is totally back," I said.

She nodded in agreement. "I might do Princess Leah too..."

Absolutely. Now is a time of whimsy and fantasy, a time for make-believe worlds the likes of which Paul Balmer creates with his brilliant hand.

I was blown away by the energetic drawings behind Andrea Zieher of ZieherSmith gallery. She introduced me, sadly, only in spirit, to artist Eddie Martinez and his amazing work.

"He never stops painting, it just needs to come out," she explained.

Staring, mesmerized at the magical depictions of daily objects reimagined, I nodded. "I can see that."

In an interviewwith Mr. Martinez in a little book that Andrea gave me (even before I gave her her gold star!), he said one of his inspirations was Hockney because, he said, "he just always goes for it, whatever he's doing...he's still just fucking doing it every day."

I love that, I'm going to use it, give Eddie a gold star for the phrase if ever I should have the luck to meet him: just fucking do it, every day!

The Forms of Fine Art.

2010-12-06T21:12:00.001-05:00

Gold stars go out to the gorgeous female form. Artist after artist from Picasso to even more modern portrayers, try to do it justice, to offer up literal or figurative meaning to the mother sex in all types of media.

At Art Basel in Miami Beach this past week, in a city known for its Double-D mammaries, even on store mannequins, breasts and the women attached to them played a front-and-center role. (Pun intended.)

Thousands of gallery owners in town from all over the world for the United States' signature annual art fair, offered up their best booby depictions in booths spread out across convention halls, hotel rooms and massive mobile tents. It is only fitting that it take place in the city that, pound for pound, probably puts the most skin on display, at least when weather permits.

Below is a sampling of the great works...

Ouch...

The prices, mostly, were well beyond my range, in the thousands if not hundreds of thousands or beyond. Mostly, I didn't even ask, but this tile below caught my eye.

"How much is it?" I asked tentatively.

"It's 40," the woman seated in the gallery's booth offered. "This is the artist, Yves Martin," she said, gesturing toward a man who nodded at me with pride.

"Uh," I said, looking at Yves, having made this mistake before, "Forty...?"

They laughed. "Forty dollars," he said.

I offered up cash, straight to the painter, and the piece was mine. Victory. I had made a purchase. I was the last of the really big spenders in support of artists and their rendering of human life givers in their infinite beauty.

The tile, along with the string bikini I bought for myself--shameful at 40, I know--both offer homage to the body, imperfections and all. Of the latter I will provide no photos, though, just a gold star to myself, for trying!

Coffee and Concern

2010-12-03T09:50:00.000-05:00

As I waited in line at the Juan Valdez in Cafe at the American Airlines terminal of JFK, I listened to the young lady behind the counter advising an airport worker, a man, about his health. He just shook his head.

"Are you sayin' my doctors are lyin'?" he asked her, clearly annoyed. She shrugged. Her instincts and nursing school experience told her maybe they were wrong, maybe he should try something else, I couldn't exactly understand what.

She kept on him as she counted out his change. As she handed it to him, she looked at him intently.

"Are you going to quit smoking?" she demanded.

He just stuck his hand out for the change and remained silent, his face a bit red out of exasperation as he walked away.

I smiled at her and lifted my glasses as I walked up. "Are you married to that man?" I asked. The exchange sounded familiar, demands made, frustration on both sides.

She laughed. "No, she is," she said, pointing to her co-worker. "Nah, just kiddin'."

"So, you're just trying to help him?" I said.

She nodded. "Trying..." she said.

"Well," I said, "men don't usually listen. The only reason I'm still married to my husband after almost 15 years is that he will often just admit that he's an idiot," I said.

I got the laughs I was looking for from the ladies right on cue. There is no faster way to bond with women than to talk about how dumb men can be, how far superior the female sex is as species.

"And that man?" I said, "The one you were trying to help? You know how long we would last? About two seconds. He clearly doesn't listen even though if he did it would probably help."

The ladies nodded in agreement, still laughing. None of them were married and they were impressed I had been with my husband for 15 years.

I shrugged. "It's not easy," I said. "Communication in general is hard."

"My friend said if she got married again, she would only do it for money," one of them said.

Funny, I was actually purchasing a copy of Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Lisa Scottoline's "Why My Third Husband Will Be a Dog." It seemed apropos to the conversation, not even on purpose.

I gave Tamika, Melissa and Morgan gold stars. As they posed happily for their picture, I laughed.

"You look like you should form a girl band," I said. I wished them much luck in their relationships, and they wished me luck in mine.

A Lucky Spot

2010-12-01T12:47:00.000-05:00

I smiled at the man as I rushed down 15th St., late as usual, whistling. He stood by his car, paced a bit back and forth, ready to burst.

I slowed as he began to speak to me. "I got it, right away, for the first time!" he said excitedly as he gestured at his car. His enthusiasm was infectious. I had to stop.

"Got what?" I asked.

"A parking space! Right here! Right where I want to park! Without driving around for half an hour!"

I laughed. Only in New York would such a thing be met by such excitement, such glee, would such a thing as a good parking space be the thing you needed to flag down a stranger to share. There was only one thing to do. Despite running late, I had to give Jim Green a gold star. I mean, day in and day out, the man has set out hopefully to find the perfect spot.

He has been patient, but patience begins to wear thin without reward. And then one day, one fine day, his dream comes true: he glides in to the perfect spot without even a second thought, without worry or a search. Such luck must have been divined, otherworldly, worthy--of course--of a star.

Mr. Green put the star right on his lucky car and posed for a pic. He had time to spare to get to his job as a coach at Prospect Park Tennis Center a few blocks away, through the park.

2010-11-29T07:11:00.000-05:00

"My brain is the key that sets me free," said Harry Houdini, the great turn-of-the-century escape artist and magician.

Thousands gathered wherever Houdini performed to get a glimpse of a man who truly believed he had the power to emerge unscathed from nearly any situation, certainly situations far more scary and dangerous than the everyday scenarios regular people face, even in the hardest of times.

At the Jewish Museum exhibit we visited last week, it became clear that what Houdini's daring stunts offered up in spades was hope. His successful escape from handcuffs, ropes, chains or water-filled tanks, was a metaphor that even poor immigrant Jews, like himself, had the ability to free themselves from the shackles that bound.

As the curator of the exhibit offered, "Houdini's metamorphosis was his own, from foreign immigrant to native star..." His story, as well as his performances, provided much-needed relief and inspiration for the crowds of fans who watched his every move with baited breath.

A gold star goes out to Houdini for giving thousands a reason to believe they could do it if they tried.

The spirit of his message, of the power of belief, lives on in so many places we visited over the Thanksgiving weekend. It resides in plays like Neil LaBute's The Break of Noon, which offered up the message of one man's soul-saving belief that he had been spared from a killing spree in order to spread the message from God about goodness. It rests too in more crowd-pleasing shows like Radio City Music Hall's Christmas Spectacular, which, beyond the sexy, magically-moving-in-unison legs of the Rockettes, hard hits with the mantra that the holiday season, hell, life itself, will be bright because of the power in all of us to believe in the magic of Santa and the saving grace of Jesus.

As he read R. Crumb's graphic novel version of The Book of Genesis, my son Eli asked why they refer to what he has learned in Hebrew School as the Torah as the Old Testament, why people needed something else. The weekend's lessons loomed large.

"People always need something new to believe in, they always need a story of hope," I said. It is a lesson I will teach, and learn, again and again and again in so many ways.

The Power of Public Art

2010-11-24T06:54:00.001-05:00

Jim Power has been doing public art in the East Village for more than two decades without pay. He has covered more than 80 poles with beautiful mosaic, "more than two miles of mosaic trail," he says. Sitting with his dog, Jesse Jane, with her beautiful mosaic collar, and his mosaic-covered cane, he continued to sit amongst the crowds and practice his craft.

"It's beautiful," I said, as I put money in his tip jar by Union Square. "And for enjoying something in New York, you must pay..."

He shook his head in disagreement. "Not always," he said.

Mr. Power has given his life to offer free art, so it stands to reason he would not agree. As my mother and I stood talking to him, a crowd had gathered, a sightseeing group from all over the world led by a guide who chatted with Jim, asked him what was new.

What's new is that Jim is finally asking for funds. He has started an e-mail writing campaign to get something back for all he has put in, to finally, maybe, reap the benefits now that Wikipedia has named the area the East Village where his art resides officially The Mosaic Trail.

To help Jim, you can e-mail mlinahan@council.nyc.gov. In addition to $5, I gave him a gold star and he put it on his hat, covered with a variety of other signs and symbols.

"I got a promotion!" he said, giving himself and me a big thumbs up.

Service with a Smile, Rewarded

2010-11-22T06:09:00.000-05:00

The new guy at Naidre's, Gatlin Hardy, always has a smile when I walk in. He seems genuinely pleased and upbeat, always ready for an amiable chat. When I complimented him on his attitude, he just laughed.

"It's what got me fired from my last job," he said. "They didn't like it. The guy said, 'You laugh too much, and you spend too much time with the customers.' I reacted poorly when he said that, I guess. I laughed."

His reaction was perfect, I thought, perfectly worthy of a gold star. He has found a place that allows him to his be his playful fun self instead of just a productive robot.

"I love that you guys are all so chatty, always willing to go there. And I don't even mind if it means I sometimes have to wait..." I said.

Gatlin nodded. "The regulars feel that way," he said.

I laughed. I could recall a variety of non-regulars impatiently waiting behind me as I caught up with one or another of the boys behind the counter. "I have seen some people who come in and get frustrated and walk out," I said.

Naidre's would not be the place for someone in a hurry. I never used to go there in the days I had to rush into the city for work, in the days I had only the desire but not the time to stop and make friends with baristas. I think of that often, that different pace, that different priority. It is what makes me loath to be too busy. It is so important to take the time to tune in to the people you encounter, to allow them a moment to tune in to you. I have found that a good laugh goes a long way, farther even than a latte maybe, toward making a good morning. To help someone do that, to do that yourself, should be raise-worthy, gold star-worthy, certainly not a fireable offense.

THE SOCIALIST SENSIBILITY OF STAY-AT-HOME MOMS

2010-11-20T12:02:00.000-05:00

Tamar is a painter. She is also a mother and a wife. Being all three is a challenge.

"You sound just like me," I said as she explained how she had given up her studio when she had kids, how she found it hard now to structure the time she had in between pick up and drop off to do her own thing.

"Maybe if I had to, if I needed the money..." she said. But, like me, Tamar has a husband whose job covers the bills. As a result, she lacks the direct motivation to make something out of her art as she once did.

It is, of course, a lucky position to find oneself in, not having to work to pay the bills. But with it comes a certain pressure all its own, the need to drive oneself, to be productive, without necessity. It is a conversation I have had often about the sad necessity of capitalism, why socialism sometimes does not suffice. My Swedish exchange student boyfriend in high school taught me that lesson well. We each believed in the greatness of the other's system. Maybe it's that no one thing works, that we must mix it up in order to appreciate the finer benefits of both.

Either way, Tamar and I headed to yoga together to get centered and focused on the day ahead, on keeping things in perspective about our work and ourselves in order that our children might be able to do the same. She had moved the gold star I had given her from her forehead to her jacket, sadly. I believe it often requires a third eye, a sixth sense, to figure the way forward.

WATCH ME ON FOX & FRIENDS TOMORROW, SUNDAY, AT 8:20 EST AS I TAKE ON A MOM WHO IS FIGHTING AGAINST SLEEPOVERS WITH SCARY STATISTICS ON SLEEP DEPRIVATION AND MOLESTATION!!!

Midtown Madness

2010-11-18T07:09:00.000-05:00

They step, stone-faced, onto the escalator, hoards of them, out of the E train up toward the exit into Midtown on the East side of Manhattan. People touch each other, but only by accident and such touches are often met with snarls, to which the offender might offer only a defensive apology. It is rush hour after all, not easy to stay to oneself in such crowded environs, although everyone is attempting it.

Would that I could brighten the mood, give gold stars to everyone. But I myself get trapped into the me mindset, the attempt to keep hold of my own psyche as I head into an office where things have to get done, productivity is crucial. A transition is necessary, a need to get out of oneself and focus on external tasks.

I am only going in to Midtown once a week, to help a friend, and yet the weight of that one day, the effort it takes to mold myself once again into the conformity of the mass mentality and then break out of it again is a challenge.

Lunch in Midtown is always interesting. The cashiers at the salad/sandwich/soup cafes are like automatons, trained to move as fast as humanly possible with as little emotion as possible. There is no time for chat.

"How are you?" I asked the girl who grabbed my food and flew fast and furiously to ring me up though there was no line behind me.

The question startled her. "I'm fine, how are you?" she asked, looking up at me for the first time.

"I'm good," I said. "Hungry. Excited for my salad."

She looked at my salad, then, really looked at it. "Oh, what did you put in?"

"Curry chicken," I said. "Doesn't it look good?"

"Yes," she said. She was a human. I had surmised it all along.

The line had begun to form so I paid and thanked her and moved off to dig for a gold star. I stepped back, moving around the next customer she was helping, and handed it to the cashier, whose face, which had fallen into expressionlessness once again, shifted into a huge smile.

She looked at me then with great appreciation. "Thank you so much," she said.

"You're welcome," I said. "Have a great day."

A little human interaction might have actually helped improve this girl's day. It must be hard, I always think, to stand in a place where people can so obviously see you and yet rarely be seen at all. People are busy, moving fast, caught in their own mental swirls. But to step out of oneself, into the world of someone else, if only briefly, to connect over something totally trivial even, is crucial.

I am happy to be viewing Midtown with a new lens, to bring to it my stars so that I can remind myself and others that we are all aligned, if even for just for brief moments.

A Moveable Plan

2010-11-16T06:38:00.000-05:00

I am not in the practice, typically, of awarding gold stars to inanimate objects. But, walking around the West Village yesterday, before wandering into Grey Dog's Coffee on Bleecker, I saw this sign in the window of an antiques store and I thought it (and the person behind it) deserved a BIG gold star.

I loved this sign for its refreshing honesty and humor, for its heart. We try to pin everything down to specifics, specific times, specific places, specific tasks. Everyone wants to know exactly when, how, who. Wouldn't it be nice sometimes just to be flexible and slightly vague? To open when you felt like it, when you really felt excited about being in the shop, when you were really mentally there? Wouldn't it be nice not to have to be there when you didn't really feel like being there?

The sign made me laugh and I instantly liked the person who put it there. Would that I might catch them sometime actually in the shop!

I had given my first gold star of the day to a Dad I knew in the neighborhood, a writer, who had shaken his head in sheer frustration when I saw him on the train platform.

"I knew it wasn't going to be a good day when the dog pooped in the house, when I spilled my coffee," he said. "Aaah, Mondays."

I gave him the biggest gold star I had and he did seem to brighten a bit as he put it on his hand. But, maybe, just maybe, if he had such a sign to put up in the window of his office, maybe if he had the out not to go when the stars weren't aligned, to crawl back into bed and go later if at all...

The perfect thing, really, is a basic plan with built-in flexibility. I made a new friend at Grey Dog's, a man whose great task it is to put on big events like the city's Halloween Parade and the Family Reunion after the New York City Marathon. Lewis Siris, president of PublicWorks, Inc., knows well the nature of having to try to run things like clockwork but, also, how to step back and cede control to the universe.

Talking to him about this idea, for which I gave him a gold star, I quoted a friend who said recently, "You can plan the picnic, but you can't control the rain..."

He just stared at me, hard. "Oh, right!" I said, laughing. "You know that all too well!"

He shrugged. "People still show up, with umbrellas," he said. "There's nothing you can do."

I laughed. "Woodstock was a big washout, wasn't it?"

He nodded, lost then in a moment of nostalgia. "I was there..."

My mother always uses the line, "Man proposes, God disposes." Whether you believe in God or not, it is sheer hubris (or folly to non-believers) to think you will always know what will happen or where you will be when. You just have to relax and roll with it.

I said to Lewis how I always pictured the model Petra Nemcova during the tsunami, clinging to a tree.

"All you can really do is hold on," I said.

Lewis laughed. "Write about that," he said.

And so I did.

Lotto' Hope

2010-11-12T08:58:00.000-05:00

I heard something flutter to the ground as I opened my book on the subway. Looking down, there was some kind of paper, and I leaned over to pick it up. It was a lottery ticket. It was definitely not mine. I am not a participant in this particular form of trying. But, under the transitive property of trash pickup, once it's in your hand, putting it back down is littering. That's what I tell my children, so I must follow the rule myself as well.

I put the scratched-off lottery ticket in my book as a bookmark without looking at it. A moment later, an older man sitting just over from where I was standing called out to me.

"I think that's mine..." he said.

I apologized, handing the ticket back to him, feeling guilty all of a sudden even though I'd thought I was being a good samaritan.

"Is it a winner?" I asked.

The woman sitting next to him, maybe his wife, maybe a friend, said supportively but somewhat suspiciously, "He thinks so."

He smiled at me with his few-toothed smile. "It's $50 I think..." he said.

"Wow," I said, laughing, "and to think I picked it up and didn't know. What if it turned out to be even more, turned out to be millions, and I had just stolen it and put it in my book? Sorry about that."

He leaned on his cane, slowly masticating a bite of the sandwich they were sharing around with his gums.

I handed them both gold stars. "For trying..."I said.

The woman barely looked at me, grasping at the star greedily. "Thank you, thank you so much," she said as she quickly worked to put it in a safe place. She turned to her gentleman friend, admonishing him for not taking better care of his star.

"She gave that to you for good luck," she said. "Put it in your pocket, put it somewhere...we need all the luck we can get."

I hoped, then, that she hadn't heard me say the stars were for trying. I amended.

"They are for good luck," I said in agreement, slightly under my breath. I'm not sure she heard me. I was long gone from the equation. In some ways, more than many, they were already lucky: they had hope, in spades. It showed on their faces as they stared longingly at their lottery tickets. I was happy to have given them even more.

Jazz for the Next Generation

2010-11-10T07:17:00.001-05:00

Sunday in New York City, what to do. There is so much on offer that sometimes we do nothing. But my kids are both music enthusiasts, learning piano better by the week, and I have been remiss at bringing them to see much live music, concentrated as it often is in dark bars long after their bedtime.

I had heard tell of jazz brunches around the city and, after a bit of an Internet search, focused on my mission enough to patiently sort through the various and sundry offerings, I found a good one. The Jazz Standard every Sunday features an ensemble of talented kid musicians as part of a Youth Orchestra directed by conductor David O'Rourke. The $5 per person suggested donation goes to support the Jazz

Standard Discovery Program, which connects New York City School children to the jazz art form.

The trip was a huge success. Taking the train into the city from Park Slope is itself an adventure, one my kids need to do more so as not to become afraid of the big bad city that abuts our little leafy neighborhood. We walked through the fancy new Italian food court, Eataly, and across Madison Square Park with its bubble-making man and public art installation, "Scattered Light", to the Jazz Standard.

As we ordered barbecue from Blue Smoke upstairs, we were front and center for a jazz master class as Mr. O'Rourke coached the kids to pay attention to their own playing and to the playing of the musicians around them. Jazz is a lesson in collaboration but also one's own singled-out efforts in such a great way.

After a bit, the actual performance started and the kids were amazing, confident and clear and strong. Any awkwardness these adolescents felt in other situations was erased as they put their minds and mouths and fingers to work for our great benefit. It was awesome to see the next generation continue what is a music form many often worry is dying. I wished I had brought enough gold stars to give them all. Next time. We'll definitely go back before too long.

Trying to Name It

2010-11-06T09:27:00.000-04:00

I sit in the corner at Parco and chat with whoever comes in who is willing. Often, as I'm chatting, other people will be compelled to pipe in and there grows a full-blown salon, homegrown, right in the tiny cafe with its pictureless gold gilt frames.

The other day, I began talking to a woman I know, a fellow mother, about the difficulty I have trying to help my little one, Oscar, navigate his need for physical and emotional contact while staying on the right side of the rules.

"The teacher talked to me after the second day of kindergarten, concerned, that Oscar was hugging all the girls. It didn't bother her, she said, but she was worried that the other mothers would complain..." I said, still struck by this two years after the fact. "Funny, none of the mothers did complain. They all wanted playdates. But still... Should I have told him not to hug?"

Another woman next to me, at the little high counter, nodded. "I had the same thing with my son," she said understandingly.

We began talking at length about the need for kids--and adults--to express themselves, and the difficulty of doing so openly and still functioning politely in society. I told her of my recent article openly discussing my mid-life dissillusionment and the outrage at my disclosure that divorce is on the table among a whole host of other options.

She shared with me some of her own personal details openly and was very calm and rational about issues I find often send other people packing.

"What do you do?" I asked suspiciously. She laughed.

"I am a marriage and family therapist."

How did I know? I introduced myself and took her card. Michelle Sheridan-Milovanski, Peace of Mind Counseling. "When you're ready for a change," her card offers. Parco always delivers.

While some therapists stay quiet, Michelle struck me as a real straight shooter.

"I talk about all the crap and name it," she said. In her practice and with her own family, she offered, she has a "willingness to look at the real human condition."

I gave Michelle a gold star and she boldly placed it on her cheek. Clearly, she is brave, an important attribute in anyone who sits where she does, in a position of power, helping people with the difficult process of naming what they might want and maybe even having the guts to go for it.

Gold Star for Giving

2010-11-03T06:09:00.001-04:00

I was being cheap. Candy is expensive, and I know how much of it kids in Park Slope gather on Halloween. Within minutes, my kids take a quick easy walk around our courtyard and their bags are full. It took me hours of ringing doorbells, walking up to strange doors and having the nerve to say "trick-or-treat" to strangers to get even a fraction of their haul on the cactus-lined streets of Tucson, Arizona. Yes, that's right, I'll admit it: I'm jealous and a little bitter.

So it was, then, that I found myself at CVS reluctantly picking up a bag of candy then, realistically, a second. I shrugged at the people snatching up bags around me, feeling the need to defend the second bag, mostly to myself.

"Kids in Park Slope are..."

Someone jumped in to fill in the blank. "Hungry?" they said.

I laughed. "Greedy!"

My little candy-lover, Oscar, had already picked up a third bag, a package of Jolly Rancher fruit chews, and added it to our basket. "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaase?!" he begged with his eyes big and round. He knows I am a sucker, likely to overcompensate for my moments of begrudging. Just for fun, we perused the candy aisle to see what else we could see, to figure if our fast choices were good ones.

It was then that I spotted Marty, with a shopping cart full of candy. I eyed my own meager offerings and felt guilty.

"Wow," I said, "You're generous!"

He smiled a big smile down at the many bags of candy he was buying. I could almost picture him giving it out generously, personally to every kid.

"It's the only way to be..." he said.

We chatted a bit, Marty Glucksman and I. Turns out he is in the business of being generous, giving people rides (albeit for some cash) as the owner of All Seasons Car & Limo Service, 718/369-1234.

I had no stars on me, but I told him I owed him one and I always make good on my promises.

"I need one," Marty said longingly. "I never got gold stars in school. I was not a good student."

It made me sad that there is ever a ranking of who deserves gold stars and who doesn't, that Marty might once have felt passed over, even though he is so clearly deserving, so clearly good at rewarding others. I'm glad Marty will soon, finally, after all these years, get a big gold star!

Talents Abound If We Try

2010-11-01T06:09:00.000-04:00

I am always impressed with patience, as it is a virtue I sometimes lack, especially with my children. This mom was incredibly patient as she worked tirelessly to create a likeness of her daughter's little stuffed animal, Pinky. Little Coco was a taskmaster, as are all small bright children who know their own mind. Christine studied the image, tweaking it here and there with her pen like an artist hard at work on a masterpiece. Finally, she looked up at me and, seeing me smile, said with great surprise.

"I didn't know I could draw!"

I laughed and nodded in recognition. "My husband said the same thing, a few years ago when he 'copied' some images of SpongeBob for one of our kids' birthdays," I said. "He is really good, takes drawing classes and everything now, and he never knew. I always find it amazing what we find in ourselves after we have kids, when we are forced to do things for them that we might never have believed we could do."

Christine nodded, still amazed at her newly discovered ability. "I always thought I couldn't draw at all, I always said I couldn't."

"My father is an artist," I said, "and he always says 'anyone can draw...' We are just, usually, often, afraid to try."

Discovering latent talents is a gift. I gave Christine a gold star for her efforts, and one to cute Coco for hers. Our children have so much to teach us about trying new things, things we are sure we can't do, especially those who won't take no for an answer.

Trying to Talk About Mental Health

2010-10-27T17:51:00.000-04:00

In his work as a rock-climbing instructor, Philippe Fontilea saw a lot of kids with issues they were too afraid to acknowledge. Finally, last summer, he decided. "Change was going to happen," he said. "Everything that was happening didn't work, and this works."

And so was born Lets: Let's Erase The Stigma, a non-profit dedicated to erasing the stigma of mental illness by funding and developing educational programs, mentoring opportunities and research among high school and college-aged kids.

"We've all experienced it in some way," Philippe explains on his website, http://www.letserasethestigma.org/. "A grandmother with Alzheimer's. A cousin with depression. A younger brother with Autism. Or even you. We see it, but many of us don't know how or even want to help. The way mental illness has been portrayed in the media, arts, and literature (think: Psycho, Silence of the Lambs), there is no question as to why people fear or deny their given situation. The social stigma against mental illness has become so prevalent that even those suffering from it deny their condition or refuse treatment."

I met Philippe in his booth at the American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry Annual Meeting. Posing as a psychiatrist (not really, just as a member of the media), I met so many people trying, like Philippe, to institute preventative measures to ensure the overall health of kids in our communities, including the crucial area of health that often gets overlooked.

"Rather than wait until it's a crisis, let's talk about it," Philippe suggested. He is talking about it and establishing clubs in his hometown of L.A. in addition to New York and Washington, D.C. this year. And that's why I gave him a gold star.

Help Build Community One Gold Star At a Time!

2010-10-25T13:18:00.000-04:00

I got an e-mail from a woman last week who reached out to tell me about where I might find puffy glittery gold stars similar to the kind I had written a while back were being discontinued. She had gone looking for them herself and found them, and me.

"Today was the sort of day where I needed a gold star, as did about everyone in my office," Elizabeth Livermore wrote from her perch as an office assistant in Washington, D.C.

I was filled with joy upon receiving her e-mail. I have been waiting for a while to have help doling out stars, help recognizing people and rewarding them in this great but seemingly insignificant way, a way I see as increasingly crucial as lack of faith in ourselves and the world around us grows in spades and with it our anxieties.

Elizabeth has herself ordered a slew of gold star stickers "to dole out to people here in the D.C. area, where far too often people are driven by money and politics," she wrote. "Just wait til I catch a man in a business suit giving up a seat on the Metro and ending up with a gold star sticker to wear to work!"

I sent Elizabeth a virtual gold star and asked if I could share her story, if she wanted to share her experiences of giving out gold stars--including to those unwitting businessmen--when she gets them. She agreed to both and I can't wait to feature her commentary on giving out stars in the nation's capitol.

It is not necessarily easy to get up the gumption to give, to leave oneself open to the judgment or mockery of others. But I think Elizabeth and anyone else who takes the time out to reward someone for their efforts with a gold star will be surprised at the amazing response, the enthusiasm and graciousness with which the star (and the person offering it) is met.

At Jaya Yoga this month, the theme is Sangha, a Sanskrit word for community. Today, in class, our fearless instructor Judy spoke of the strength we need to find in ourselves in order to be open to the various communities we weave in and out of, from our offices to our schools to our religious organizations to the neighborhood cafes we frequent. "You need to have strong backs to have soft fronts," she advised.

I work so hard to find that strength in myself to remain open and love to hear stories of others' efforts. The aim, of course, is to build community, one glittery gold star at a time.

If you'd like to receive an e-mail version of my blog or find out how to give out gold stars in your community, e-mail me at stephsthompson@gmail.com

Big Eyes on the World

2010-10-22T10:41:00.000-04:00

I couldn't stop staring.

"I'm sorry," I said to the little baby girl's mother behind me in line at Parco, "she's just so amazing. Do you just stare at her all the time?"

The mother smiled and nodded. "She is incredible, everything is new to her."

Her big brown eyes stared out at me from below her knit cap, stared out then at her fingers and their movements, at the glass case in front of her housing all those yummy things she had yet to try.

I shook my head. "What's the line, when we stop finding everything a wonder?"

"Hopefully there isn't one, hopefully never..." the wondrous baby's mother said.

"I agree. It is sometimes a bit harder, though, we have to remember to do it amidst everything else."

Gold stars to maintaining a child-like wonder, to seeing everything old as new again even if it's not. Try.

Helping Conquer Fear

2010-10-21T05:52:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, the biggest success is inspiring other people to succeed.

This year, I am coordinating the Second Grade Swim program at the YMCA for my sons' school. Despite an hour and a half in cold over-chlorinated water, it is easily my favorite thing all week. I find it amazing to figure tactics to get kids who are scared to swim to be less afraid, to help their tense little bodies loosen and relax and enjoy the water. I love being their biggest cheerleader.

It is for both safety and sanity that kids should learn to swim. Floating in water, that feeling of weightlessness if you allow it, is amazing. It is only the gravity of fear that will keep them down.

This week, I focused on one little boy from the special needs class who, with a smile on his sweet dimpled face, nods no whenever first asked to do something. But I just smile and gently prod him.

He has been afraid for the last few weeks to put his face in the water. He watched enviously as other kids dipped down and back up, but, still, he was scared. Bobbing in the water, I started coaxing him, showing him how he could do it just so fast he wouldn't even know he was doing it. Over and over again, I dipped face first into the water, fast, blowing bubbles like a fool to show him how easy it was. He laughed at my silly antics and, sure enough, did it himself a minute later. All of a sudden, he was a show-off, putting his face down in the water again and again, amazed at his own ability.

My heart soared. His success was greater than anything I could do myself. To help a kid have confidence in himself, in his ability to do something he is deathly afraid of? That is the best reward. I wanted to give him a gold star but it seemed unfair to all the other kids, also trying their very best. I told him, though, that he won most improved for the day and gave him a big high-five. His little smile was my gold star.

Trying to Keep Native Culture Alive: Angela

2010-10-19T17:11:00.000-04:00

Angela was filled with pride as she addressed my son's fourth-grade class at the National Museum of the American Indian. She shared with us a beautiful hand-loomed Treaty Belt whose symbols offered up the laws set up by her Haudenosaunee people hundreds of years ago. But then her pride turned slightly to anger as she told a story of when she was six, picking blueberries with her mother and brother on native lands protected for them under long-ago treaties.

She told of coming out of the woods to find a policeman, a modern-day law enforcer, who didn't subscribe to the native treaty, who told them they had no rights to the berries. "We poured them on his feet and ran," she said.

Battles over berries and other things picked and fished and hunted on lands protected for Angela's people according to their tradition are being fought every day, in tribal courts all over, she said.

It is not an easy thing, balancing history and tradition with modern ways that render the rules of a beautiful culture moot. I gave Angela a gold star for trying, for teaching us with her personal story about the ongoing struggles in our midst.

Angela took the star proudly, being, as she is, from a culture of symbols. She felt acknowledged by the star and by the picture I took of her holding the many handcrafted items of her beloved heritage. As she offered her e-mail so I would send her a copy, she acknowledged her personal struggle to reconcile tradition with living in modern America.

She was married to a Jew for 27 years but recently divorced. "It was difficult," she said. "The Haudenosaunee is a matriarchal tradition, egalitarian..." Now, she is "trying to live as traditional a life as possible, my mother's way." I wish her much luck.

Trying Not To Get Robbed

2010-10-17T12:48:00.000-04:00

Sometimes, to be effective, you have to get creative.

I walked into a vintage store, Exquisite Costume, on Broome St., to find a 60s disco outfit to go with the afro I picked up at Party City for Halloween. Full disclosure: I have always been envious of ladies who sport afros, so I am finally going to fulfill my dream.

The clothes are beautiful, truly exquisite and bold, but a little pricey for a one-time wear item. As I looked around, I caught sight of a sign. It said, "Fashionable girls don't steal."

I laughed and said aloud to the owner, Stacy, and her friend Aaron, "That's awesome."

She nodded. "It really works, actually. No New York girl wants to be unfashionable."

Aaron agreed, and then she looked at him, struck with another idea. "We could put a sign in the dressing room that says, 'Skinny girls don't steal...' I think it would work."

Nice. I gave them both gold stars. "For trying not to get robbed..." I said.

I bought a blue shiny shoulder-padded jumpsuit in the $20 bin. Perfect.

Sometimes we can forget this when tackling a serious problem, but humor and a little creativity can take you a long way.

Communities Call For TMI

2010-10-14T09:03:00.000-04:00

A friend who had moved to a new city after fulfilling a major wanderlust called me one day, frustrated.

"I know everything about everyone, even stuff I don't want to know!" she complained.

I laughed. Sitting as a do at cafes, wandering around talking honestly and openly with my neighbors and randoms passing through, I knew exactly what she meant. Sometimes knowing things about people does create a sense of responsibility we'd rather not have, it makes us look at our own lives in a way we'd often rather not.

"I hate to break it to you," I said, "but that's called 'community.'"

I have recently shared what many feel is far too much in my column for The Brooklyn Paper, but I am steadfast (as is my husband) that being open about our issues, first off with each other and then with others so they might not feel so alone, is crucial. I have always been deemed, "the one who says what everyone is thinking but doesn't say...", a trait that has left me out dangling on a limb many times. But I am convinced that TMI, if there is such a thing, is what is called for now in our era of TLRI, or Too Little Real Information.

There is a danger in our communities that people are walking around in a daze, not acknowledging even to themselves what they think, let alone reaching out so that others might help and support. But, in sharing myself, I hear so many amazing people's stories every day, stories of painful divorces that lead to awesome self-discoveries, stories of people speaking honestly within their marriages about the challenges so that they might move forward in something other than misery, people goosing themselves to make difficult changes in the hopes of finding more fulfillment.

Yesterday, I began singing to myself, out of nowhere, "The Rainbow Connection," from the Muppets and I turned to the woman walking next to me on the sidewalk to share with her this random fact, to wonder why this song of all others.

Broken out of her solitude by some crazy lady, she shrugged. "I guess it's just that kind of day...a Muppet kind of day. Maybe you're feeling Fozzie, maybe Oscar the Grouch..."

I laughed. "He did to an amazing job, Jim Henson, at capturing different moods with his characters, didn't he, at capturing all the people in a community?"

I introduced myself to the woman, Leslie, and gave her a gold star, just for engaging.

We are all here together after all. There is no reason to pretend we don't see one another, to not smile and chat about whatever might be on our minds. Try it. It's amazing what can happen.

If you want to be sent GoldStar4Trying via e-mail, please send along your e-mail address to stephsthompson@gmail.com.

On Bravery

2010-10-12T16:56:00.000-04:00

I couldn't have made a better choice of where to spend my 40th birthday. This past weekend, I joined together with a group of warm, lovely people, trying hard each in their own way, in their own lives, to find peace and joy and happiness. They are brave souls, both the students and the teachers of the Memoir as Buddhist Practice workshop at the beautiful Omega Institute in Rhinebeck, New York. Amazingly, sitting cross-legged on cushions, all were willing to open up to total strangers about their greatest hopes and dreams, their tragic sorrows, who they thought they were and are, and who they might want to be.

I gave them each gold stars, which seemed not nearly enough. I wanted to give them what they wanted, their sought-after babies, their children lost to suicide, their parents long deceased. We all seemed, in our faces and in our voices, in our acknowledgment of one another, to want that. It is lovely to look around a room and see a sea of faces all wanting for you what you want, all rooting for you. It is, unfortunately, all too rare.

Leaving Omega and its warmth (despite the freezing temperatures in my tent cabin) would have been a challenge had it not been for the arrival of my smiling husband and children, who came to scoop me up before I could decide to stay forever.

"Will she be different Daddy?" my son had asked my husband nervously. Apparently, my husband thinks I did come out a bit different. "More you..." he said. That is perfect. I can only be me, it is all I can really strive to be.

We went from the Omega campus straight to Hyde Park. In a continued best-birthday-ever weekend, we traveled to the home of my childhood idols, Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt.

I could barely believe my luck when the tour guide offered up that we had arrived on what would have been Eleanor's 110th birthday. She is a Libra like me, and the difference she made in people's lives through her brave writing and communications with all people, both powerful and common, is truly an inspiration.

It was after 40 that Eleanor broke off from what others wanted her to do and found her own strength and voice. I give her, posthumously, a big gold star. Would that I could have had an audience with the great lady, but at least I have access to her great thinking in quotes, like this one I shall leave you with:

Courage is more exhilarating than fear and in the long run it is easier.

We do not have to become heroes overnight.

Trying to Get Past Prison...

2010-10-06T10:31:00.000-04:00

I barely heard him over the sounds of Kate Nash in my one working headphone ear, but somehow the voice broke through, sure and strong.

"Ya know the first thing I did when I got out of being locked up after 4 1/2 years? I spent a few months with my kids." He shook his umbrella for emphasis at his friend and then continued. "And you know where I was New Year's Eve? That's right, with my Grandma, 'cause that's important, that's where I should be, while I still have time to spend with her."

I took out my working earpiece and reached in my bag. If ever there was a time for a star, it was this one.

"I couldn't help but overhear, and I wanted to give you a gold star, for trying. I'm sure it's hard..." I said.

Isiayah leaned over and took his star gratefully. "Thanks!" he said with a big smile.

"What about me?" his friend asked.

I took out another star and handed it over to Malcolm. "Absolutely...it was just his story I heard," I explained. "I'm sure you're trying too."

The two men happily posed for a pic amidst the flourescent lighting of the F train as if they had received an Oscar.

Recognition of the efforts of the formerly incarcerated is likely far from common. More likely they get a kick in the teeth. Isiayah basically said as much as he went back to advising his friend, clearly a fellow former inmate.

"You've got to come out and make something of yourself," Isiayah coaxed. "I'm not going to lie to you, it will be bad, but it will get a little better, slowly." He paused then and shook his head. "It took me 8 months, but I finally got a job. And you have to try to stay away from the drugs 'cause that's what will put you right back in. It's hard to stop cause that's what we know, that's what we're accustomed to. It's hard to stop, but it's also easy: you just stop."

Malcolm was listening, hard, and nodding. He needed all the help he could get. I can only imagine how demoralizing it is to have all the cards stacked against you, to try in the face of so many closed doors, so much judgment and prejudice, when it is so hard under the best of circumstances to "make something" of oneself.

I waved to my new friends as they hopped off the train at Jay Street to pursue their various endeavors. I'll keep my fingers crossed that they can stay clean, stay out of jail and that people on the outside will give them both second chances, let them try, hard as it is, to change their habits. I pray they have the presence of mind to feel proud of themselves for trying.

Discovering Yourself

2010-10-04T17:33:00.001-04:00

I walked in to Naidre's and saw John helping someone in front of me, looking all serious. Now, he often acts like a hard case to crack, but I have managed, in the months that I have had the privilege to know him, to mostly make John smile, to harass him enough that he eventually is forced to laugh.

I told him as much when it was my turn to order. He immediately smiled, which made me smile in turn.

"See, there it is...now you're showing the dimples," I said.

He was all of a sudden back to serious. "I DON'T have dimples..." he said.

"I think you do," I said.

He shook his head, no, definitively no. Despite a co-worker having said the same thing, despite it being true, it was impossible that he should have dimples. Why? Simple: "My brother has dimples, and I always thought people who had dimples were dipshits..." he said, wide-eyed and serious.

I threw back my head in laughter. When I recovered, I looked at him sympathetically. "Wow, sorry," I said. "How old are you?" (I can ask this question still of people I know to be at least a decade my younger.)

"I'm 22," he said, looking perplexed, not understanding why it mattered. So I explained.

"It must be hard, at 22, to discover something new about yourself, to discover, in this case, that maybe you're a dipshit..."

Out came the wry smile, the dimples John can't really help but show. I pulled out a gold star and gave it to him, taking a number of pics to see if I could capture the denied dimples, harassing him as usual for my own entertainment and, I'd like to think, his.

I placated him with the notion that I, at 40 just this week, am still discovering things about myself that I have long denied, making realizations that I may be all kinds of things I don't want to cop to, have all kinds of attributes I don't want to acknowledge.

"You have to make your peace with who you are, even if it turns out you're a dipshit..." I ribbed him.

I jested but I think it's true. There is so much to know about oneself, so much one realizes as time ticks on. Sometimes there are things, positive or negative, that seem so obvious to others that we just cannot see, that we don't want to see. But it's important to accept ourselves despite the strange notions we might have built up in our minds about others who posess those same qualities. Shine thy mirror on thyself, I say, and try, try hard, to like what you see!

Einstein's Theory of a Good Life

2010-09-29T12:55:00.001-04:00

I often wonder what the key is to life. I sit in cafes or on sidewalk benches (like now, in front of BookCourt in Cobble Hill) hoping to glean good advice or even just glimpse bits and pieces of what others do for clues on what to do myself. I have taken, lately, to reading (or at least scanning) big biographies of genius thinkers, writers, artists, the great minds, in hopes that the ways they chose to live might provide some salient insights.

Last night, flipping through Walter Isaacson's tome about Einstein, borrowed from my father-in-law, I came upon a bit of advice Einstein gave to his troubled son and thought it worth sharing.

"People who live in society, enjoy looking into each other's eyes, who share their troubles, who focus their efforts on what is important to them and find this joyful -- these people lead a full life."

I agree wholeheartedly. I have, even without knowing Einstein's urging to do so, been doing this. I look into people's eyes every day, many times a day, I make a point of it in recent years, putting my own insecurity aside to really see others. Often, of course, such eye contact leads to a gold star giveaway.

Take yesterday, for example. Checking out Eli's many books at the Brooklyn Library at Grand Army Plaza, I smiled at the man behind the counter. I thought he had some new device that would allow him to check out all the books in one fell swoop.

He laughed. "No," he said, "if it were that easy I'd be out of a job..."

"True," I said, "so I guess we can be thankful modern technology isn't better than it is..."

I gave him a gold star for doing the job that we still, mercifully, need done by a human.

"Wow," he said, taking it gratefully, "I need to get my girlfriend some of these so that she can give me gold stars when I do something good!"

I smiled. "Yes. Or maybe you should give them to her when she does nice things...See, it can work both ways!"

Sharing, recognition, focus...these are the important things, the keys to life, if only we can keep them in mind.

Finding What You Need From Your Neighbors...

2010-09-27T14:24:00.000-04:00

I am looking for a web designer. I could, of course, go through normal channels, post something on Craigslist, look online...but, no. I have this idea of serendipity, of things happening by seeming "chance" only because they're supposed to.

So, instead of more active endeavors this morning, I sat in Parco. Sometimes, it turns out the person next to me can offer up what I'm looking for, whatever it might be. Not today. The girl sitting next to me shook her head when I asked her if by any chance she was a web designer or knew of any...

"Amazingly, I don't," she said. "I should, but I don't."

I thanked her for her effort to help, and headed out the door to yoga thinking, still, that there must be some way to find a web designer easily, today.

"Excuse me," I said, walking up alongside two young bearded gentlemen. The beards offered better odds, I thought, that they might know web designers or even be web designers. I didn't beat around the bush, I just asked them, point blank:

"Are either of you web designers?"

They seemed only slightly surprised to be asked the question but, alas, they both shook their heads, no.

"But we know a million..." one said.

"I figured," I said, explaining my facial-hair theory. Even before they knew they'd receive gold stars in exchange, Anthony and Dave graciously offered to take my information and pass it along to one or several of their million or so web-designer friends.

"See," I said, "I write a lot about trying to build community, and part of building community is talking to people who live around you to find what you need."

My new friends, clad in their gold stars, agreed. We'll see what happens. Hopefully, I can find exactly what I'm looking for just by stopping strangers on the street and putting them on the case. It should be just that easy, especially in Brooklyn.

A Smattering of Special Souls

2010-09-25T08:36:00.001-04:00

I am sometimes overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of people around me, all trying. I cannot decide who gets a star and who doesn't. Who I am to say? It is a small gesture from a single person, not nearly enough. There are so many stories. Here are a smattering of the special souls I have connected with over the last few days.

Kim was just trying to have a conversation in Parco, but little Gael was having none of it. I love it when people like Kim put the stars smack dab in the middle of their forehead, wear it proudly like a third eye, like a special power. Gael, nappy in his cap,

was nonplussed by his star. He wanted only the attentions of one woman: his mother.

I complimented Saskia on her beautiful turqoise necklace as we were crossing the street for more free food during Park Slope Restaurant Night. "Thanks!" she said with a big smile, "I made it!" Turns out she is a jewelry designer, trying to sell her wares online at http://www.sdvdesigns.etsy.com/ and all around. It's not easy. Just coming up with what name to use is a challenge. She's selling at the Brooklyn Flea today and at the Atlantic Antic on Sunday between Bond and Hoyt. "Good luck!" I said, as I gave her a gold star.

With necklaces on my mind, I turned and noticed Sue's amazing dragonfly. When I complimented her on it, she fingered it lovingly and got a funny look on her face.

"This is very special," she told me. When my mother was sick, she gave it to my daughter to give to me and said, 'When I'm gone, this will be me...'"

Wow. I love that. It is a lovely gift to give a loved one, a single object that can stand as a reminder of your continued presence in their life even when you cannot be around anymore. I gave Sue a gold star for sharing with me her special story.

It's funny that the necklace should be a dragonfly, a perfect symbol of the fleeting time we have on this earth, a reminder to follow our own path and pay attention to those we find along the way.

What We Don't Need...

2010-09-22T07:11:00.000-04:00

I love Brooklyn stoop sales, don't get me wrong. But passing them with kids is impossible. Despite having bagged up five full loads of little plastic things for the garbage, another three big Ikea bags for our own stoop sale and, somehow, still retaining a full complement of useless &*%4, the kids still wanted dollars from my wallet for more.

I met the gaze of the seller, whose eyes apologized, just as I do when I have my own sale.

"We all just have WAY too much stuff!" I said.

She agreed, which is why she was here, after school, sitting on the steps surrounded by things, not nearly enough of the things she needed to get rid of.

"I had too much stuff with me on vacation for two weeks, then I came home and realized it was only a small fraction of what I have and don't need..." I shuddered. "It's disgusting."

I gave Karen a gold star for her efforts to de-clutter. It is a crucial effort, especially in the cramped quarters most New Yorkers live in, without basements or attics to put things away, out of sight, out of mind. It is a good reminder, though, to be surrounded by all you have so that you don't get too carried away. My new rule is that something has to go out before something else comes in. I have a weak spot for sidewalk finds--books, shoes...I did pass on a bikini recently, although it looked promising. But enough is enough, even for free.

"Simplify," a friend advised me not too long ago when I said I felt overwhelmed taking care of all I had. And he is right, of course. Stoop sales are a good start, although with them comes a little guilt: your neighbor likely doesn't need this stuff either. Oh well. And so the world's stuff goes round...

Rejecting Perfection...

2010-09-20T14:36:00.000-04:00

I walked in, even though I shouldn't have, to Eric Shoes on Seventh. I was in a mood for change, a fresh start, a mood that often leads me to looking for new shoes. Don't ask me why, it's a complicated equation I have never quite figured, but I often feel that new shoes offer me a new perspective, a new vantage point from which to view the world.

"They're perfect," I heard a woman say to her friend as she sat down and started pulling off a pair of boots. Quickly, though, she amended. "Well, they're as perfect as they're going to get..."

I laughed out loud, causing the woman and her friend to look at me.

"Sorry," I said, "but that's great, I love that, and it's so, so true."

In life, like in shoe stores, sometimes we have to be satisfied with nearly perfect, realizing that the extra angst and effort it might take to find the really perfect thing (if it exists at all) is hardly going to be worthwhile, will likely make you loathe and resent the "perfect" thing should your arduous journey ever connect you with it.

Ah, if only I could acknowledge this more often with a smile, make my peace with it like this other Stephanie, who accepted her gold star happily, as happily as she was planning to head out of the store with her new perfect-as-possible boots.

Eric, the owner, always loose with a laugh and wry commentary, got a star too, for making people like us Stephanies happy girls, granted, at a price.

As I looked around, past the many pairs of boots I did not need, I lighted upon the one pair of shoes I had already decided I "needed" this season: high-heeled clogs that just so happened to look perfect (yes, PERFECT!) with the loose hippy dress I was already wearing. I had paired it, a little too early in the season, with new vintage cowboy boots. The shift was an easy one. I could, and did, wear them right out of the store. I would look fabulous for grocery shopping at Fairway. One never knows who one might see, or meet...

I didn't even balk too much that the price was far more than I ever spend. I often find shoes on the street, a fact that led me to average out total shoe expenditure and come up with a great rationalization for the purchase. That and the fact that my upcoming birthday is a milestone only such sexy shoes as these might help me endure.

When I wear them, I will be reminded to remind myself not to be such a perfectionist. To try is paramount, to push oneself always further, past the point of reality, is a fool's pursuit. There is something to be said for being satisfied, or so I'm told.

Fearless Orange

2010-09-17T07:22:00.000-04:00

"I love your shirt" I said to a woman I was pressed against on the subway yesterday, headed to the city for the second day in a row of doctor's appointments, check-ups to check that I am headed to 40 in good health.

The shirt was a bright orange, ruffled, fabulous. (The crowded subway car, sadly, offered little opportunity for picture-taking.)

"Thanks!" the orange-wearer said, smiling and pulling out her headphones. "My boyfriend says it's garish, and the only reason people compliment me is because it stands out..."

I shrugged. "But that's the point...you are bold enough to stand out, to not give a #@$% what other people think. People admire that."

She nodded, boyfriend be damned. "It's refreshing, right?"

"Absolutely!" I said, looking around at the morose faces. "Especially on the subway..."

My fellow orange lover smiled and put her headphones back in, got re-absorbed in her book. I didn't want to bother her by continuing the conversation further. I, did, though, quickly hand her a gold star as she stepped off a few stops later. "Thank you!" She said heartily.

I didn't have time even to thank her back. The boldness embodied in her shirt was a good reminder on a strangely fear-provoking morning, on what turned out to be a strange tornado-filled day, to try to push back the panic and move through the day on my own terms, to face head-first whatever came my way.

Conversations abound around me all morning about bedbug infestations, time-sucking train delays, preparations for impending storms, and the worries had started to creep in. In reality, I've had a bedbug scare before on which I spent roughly $1,000 on extermination and dry-cleaning of imaginary bugs, so I know all too well what to do should it actually happen. (Frankly, I refuse to stop picking things up off the street, it gives me way too much joy.)

As for train delays, the woman ahead of me's dire warning of "massive problems with the train" as I walked into the normal-for-rush-hour crowd on the platform was, as I'd guessed, totally unfounded. The train came within a minute.

And the rain? My husband and younger son's warnings to "be prepared" for the storm that blue skies in the morning did not at all foretell, proved fruitless. A rainjacket or umbrella would have done nothing to protect me had I been out in the gale-force winds that hit Park Slope. Luckily, using my brain, I "prepared" by staying inside my friend's house, away from the windows, as all hell broke loose outside, all around us.

Gold stars go out to those who suffered losses during the storm, the likes of which I've never seen except in the movies, in The Wizard of Oz.

"God is not happy with us," my little orange-shirt-clad Oscar said, shaking his moppy head as we drove through the tree-strewn streets of Park Slope filled with shocked people.

Hard to know who or what's in charge. But one thing is for sure: There is so much outside of our control, and there is often very little we can do except try, try to stay calm and cool-headed, try to develop our own certainty, our own boldness, our own orange-shirted bravado, in the face of uncertain circumstances.

A Puppy's Potential for Community Building

2010-09-15T07:01:00.000-04:00

The little pug came scrambling along the sidewalk toward us excitedly, pulling its owner along. I love puppies and, of course, so do my kids. As we all stopped and stooped down to give and receive love and hugs from the little fur-ball, I looked up at its owner in apology.

"Sorry," I said, "You never get very far very fast with a new puppy, do you?"

She just smiled. "No, but it's okay. It's fun actually."

I was glad to hear it. Sometimes, puppy owners in a hurry can seem mildly if not aggressively annoyed at the attentions poured on their new charges. But Tricia relished the opportunity it afforded her.

"I've lived in this neighborhood for two years, and I've never met so many people," she said. "Eddie is a big rock star."

I shook my head. "That's amazing," I said. "People want to connect in a community, but often they don't know how. A puppy makes it so much easier."

Tricia nodded in agreement. I often think about this, wandering as I do in search of people to reward, people who might reward me with insight, that it can be a serious challenge sometimes to break the ice, to make the bold move of looking someone in the eye and saying even so much as a friendly hello.

Sadly, in our society, especially in a big urban setting, doing such a thing can often be construed as strange unless you have a reason to engage. And, even then, when people are supposedly engaged, ordering something from a waiter or a barista, or coming across people who want to pet their cute dog on a leash, they often seem to miss the opportunity to remember that they are being offered a gift in that moment, a chance to interweave with another human being, a real living breathing body with whom even a brief connection can be magical, awe-inspiring.

As Oscar dangled a rubber snake over Eddie's head, Tricia warned him: "He'll chew that up..." She laughed. "He chews everything, including my hair."

Clearly, it was a small price to pay for all that Eddie has brought her, all that he--and she--have brought to the community. I gave Tricia a gold star for having the guts to take on the responsibility of her little bundle, and to take full advantage of her role of puppy owner and use it to establish a stronger sense of belonging in her community.

The Many Ways to Mindfulness

2010-09-11T08:41:00.000-04:00

When I sit in temple, it is often with a strong sense of hypocrisy. Judaism is a small part of my life, one I am never quite sure I want to focus on at all, mostly because I have a visceral opposition to wholehearted beliefs that often serve to separate people rather than bring them together. These are philosophies, not truths, as no one knows much for sure and no one, surely, should use their beliefs against others.

I am asked often why, then, I have my children in Hebrew School, why I show up on the High Holidays and other times throughout the year, times that I can remember well as important moments in my own childhood. The answer I come to every time is that I feel it is important to carve out time in one's life and in the lives of our children to think and talk about the bigger questions, the ones no textbook can answer, the ones we spend our whole lives figuring if we choose to face them at all.

The student rabbi at Kolot Chayeinu, Molly Kane, spoke on Rosh Hashanah about the coming year, asking us congregants to think hard about what we want from it. She guided us to practice "Mindfulness, not fear" in the face of God's awesomeness and dread.

I love that. Preaching fearlessness is so crucial. It is this kind of advice that made me choose this particular temple. They are not mired only in the scripture and psalms, but their modern approach mirrors the best in other religions and life practices, their wisdom intended as a way to help one live a more examined, fulfilling life.

As I walked with my children to the family service in the afternoon, the kicking and screaming about going to temple having finally abated but the walk deemed "boring," I spoke of this "mindfulness" Molly had spoken of, about how the commonality between all great thinkers (Da Vinci, Thomas Jefferson, Einstein) was actually never being bored, never taking any little thing for granted but, instead, looking at what is in order to see what could be.

"We have to notice everything, question every little thing in order to learn and create new things," I said.

The rest of the walk was filled with them, somewhat sardonically, pointing out every little thing they saw on the buildings and on the sidewalks as we moved along, like molasses. I began to question my own advice...But, really, paying attention is the greatest skill I can help teach my children, the greatest lesson I myself continue to learn in any way possible.

I am not completely sold on one practice, as no one thing can ever quite do the trick, I'm afraid, and it seems smarter to take a bit of what every culture has created over time to help answer the unanswerable questions. Of late, in addition to temple, I have been splitting my spiritual time between researching my daily Facebook tarot reading on sites including http://www.biddytarot.com/, and taking wisdom from Ayurvedic practices suggested to me by a great bartender we met in London who grew up on the island of Mauritius.

Ayurveda is an amazing intuitive 5,000-year-old Indian practice of balancing one's mind and body through diet, excercise and spiritual meditations, a "Science of Life," the "art of living in harmony with nature," according to Lissa Coffey, a psychotherapist, sociologist and best-selling author who is a pervasive media presence translating the ancient practice into modern lifestyle terms. I took her quiz at http://www.whatsyourdosha.com/ despite much ribbing from my brother-in-law, who was himself exploring a highly digestively disruptive cleanse to get back on track himself.

We are all of us seeking if we're smart. I give big gold stars to Ms. Kane, Ms. Coffey and anyone trying to help people figure how best to move forward, how best to manage our lives in a meaningful mindful way.

Beginning Again

2010-09-09T07:23:00.001-04:00

I saw a Dad of one of Oscar's classmates in the drugstore the day before the first day of school, searching in vain, I knew, for elusive Flair pens.

I introduced myself, my school-year self, "Oscar's Mom," and shook my head. "They're impossible to find, no one carries them except Staples."

He agreed. "I know. It's always really hard..."

I smiled. "Well, as I see it, it's a way to get readjusted to facing the difficulties of the school year..."

He smiled back in appreciation. "Nice reframe," he said.

I laughed. "Yes, well, it's what I do."

As he waved and walked away, toward the door, likely to Staples, I realized all of a sudden: that is what I do. In the process of talking with other people, I look to reframe situations for them and for myself, to talk out how we might put a more positive spin on things that can sometimes seem just simply annoying. And, oh yeah, for playing along, I give people gold stars. It had been so long, I almost forgot.

I ran after him, Towey's Dad, a.k.a Hugh, and gave him his gold star. For trying, of course, not just trying to find Flair pens but trying to get back into the school-year mindset and all that raises up in us as parents about our abilities or inabilities to help our children be the very best they can be. It is a challenge for sure.

In elementary school, it is the parents who carry the bulk of the responsibility for figuring things, like what exactly a Flair pen is and why they're necessary. Hopefully, in some ways, we can begin the process of handing over some of that responsibility. I sent Eli and Oscar through the CVS in search of some other supplies--baby wipes and liquid soap--but they came back empty-handed. I understood. The search for things in stores is often overwhelming. I myself nearly gave up on the soap. But at least they could then understand my plight, if just a little bit.

In line, finally, fully set (minus the Flair pens), I saw a young teenager buying her own supplies. I sighed.

"Aah, it'll be nice when my kids can buy their own supplies..." I said.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, yeah, it's so fun having to buy my own..."

I laughed. "Well, I guess it's all who's perspective you look at it from," I said. I gave young Tarah a gold star.

"Hopefully," I said, "It will be the first of many you receive this year!"

She smiled a big genuine smile. "Thanks!" she said.

There is something to be said for new beginnings, for getting ready for the start of something potentially great.

L'Shana Tova to all those who celebrate Rosh Hashana, Happy Fall to everyone!

Putting a Positive Spin on Summer

2010-09-07T09:09:00.001-04:00

It is confusing to call this the last day of summer, as the kids here in New York go back tomorrow for only one day before getting off the rest of the rest of the week. Still and all though, today is the day school supplies must be purchased, that we must shed our lazy routines of summer, our "what's next for fun..." mentality and get down to business.

I face this day with great nervousness and excitement as I do getting ready for all new things. There is worry that the year will not be perfect, that I will not help my children be the absolute best they can be, but also a great deal of hope that so much will be learned, so much explored, so much good will arise out of the simple act of trying.

We are often so hard on ourselves for what we have not accomplished, what we did not do during the summer, instead of focusing on all the things we did do, even if much of that was simply relaxing and unwinding from what the more prescribed seasons require.

The first day of school can be so stressful for both parents and kids as people beseech you again and again, "Did you have a good summer?" We lucked out a couple years back and found our heads--unchecked all summer--filled with lice the first morning of school. Instead of joining neighbors in the first-day-of-school photo, tromping along with everyone to face the eager questions about the preceeding months' accomplishments, we were home, combing out our hair with Pantene.

The kids didn't seem to mind and I, for one, realized when appearing on far-less-stressful day two of school, that no one cared any longer about my summer. The question had been asked umpteen times of others, it was done. I was off the hook.

Last year, against my better judgment, we did go to the first day of school, having no legitimate excuse. But my mindset had changed. I realized that it was just a brief moment, a necessary but silly excercise to even ask the question "How was your summer?" let alone feel the need to answer. It is like how so many, even I, ask people, "How are you?" and don't really expect an honest answer.

I am terrible that way, very literal with language. I often feel I have to answer the question honestly. But I don't, or at least I don't have to dig deep into my soul to figure the ins and outs of my summer, the great and the terrible moments, just to respond to a fellow parent's polite inquiry.

As my older son, Eli, pulls together pictures and mementos from his summer with which to decorate his writer's notebook, I can look back and see all the awesome things we did. I laugh when I look at photos of the kids smiling and hugging knowing that I had bribed them with crusty baguettes to get them to stop wrestling long enough to pose sweetly in front of Monet's inspiring waterlillies. Reality often differs from that image we look to portray to others. I, for one, try to be cognizant of that, to marry the two as much as possible and not try to pretend everything is perfect when it's not.

But it is important to take a lesson from pictures, from the need to say a hearty "yes!" when asked if one's summer was good: there is so much to be grateful for, so much in one's day that is good when we do our best to focus on it.

Gold stars go out to parents and kids for putting on a smile and a positive spin on summer in the first days back to school. Along with the No. 2 pencils and those godforsaken flair pens that I can never seem to find, a good attitude, an openness to trying, is crucial.

Check out my new weekly parenting column in The Brooklyn Paper, "Fearless Parenting." Tell all your friends!

Perceiving France & England

2010-09-04T08:51:00.000-04:00

All we know comes from what we see or, as Leonardo da Vinci so aptly put it, "All our knowledge has its origins in our perceptions."

I guess that's why I think travel is so important. It is so easy to sit in one's own home, to watch programs or read things we personally choose because they do not tax what we already think, to spend time with people who feel exactly as we do. It is easy to stereotype in our imagination, to say all the peoples from a particular region are the same. Until, that is, we actively perceive differently.

I am lucky enough to have travelled the last couple of weeks around France and across the English channel into London, to have perceived with my own eyes and allowed my children to perceive through theirs, the magical ways in which people from vastly different places are both the same and different, from us and from each other.

I gave out no gold stars on my travels. I was warned early on by my young French host, Felix, who we had loved hosting for six months in Brooklyn last year, that people in Europe did not see the gold star as the ray of light most Americans did, that instead they remember, all too clearly, that it marked people not so positively in WWII.

In Normandy, where we visited our young French friend Jeanne and her lovely family in an old schoolhouse by the sea, it was brought home to me how recent WWII feels, how devastating the loss of life and the tangible memories of medieval times a mere half-century ago. Visiting Caen and the remainder of its medieval structures, then moving along the beautiful farm-surrounded roads to the D-Day museum and cemetary along the coast, it was hard not to painfully perceive the realities of how the Allies came together to preserve personal freedoms for the whole of the world, how the French appreciated so much the arrival of Americans on their soil to help save their country and their culture.

Their culture is a beautiful one to have saved with its profusion of flowers everywhere (especially around Monet's home in Giverny, which gave rise to the whole of Impressionism)and the freshness of local foods like fragrant runny Camembert brought from the open-air market. Strangely, though, items I would go to buy, things sold in tourist shops as typically French, were often labeled in English, made in America or, often, in China. I chuckled to myself thinking of all the "French" things in my home, all the "American" things coveted by the French in theirs. How funny it is that the grass is so often greener, that what you don't know always seems better somehow.

I transcended the language barrier with one shopkeeper as I picked up an overpriced rubber magnet in the Loire region's Amboise of a man whose legs were open to make the shape of the Eiffel Tower, who wore a beret and carried a baguette under his arm. We laughed at its ridiculousness, at the ideas foreigners have of people in another place. But some things are true. Many French do travel every morning from home to buy fresh baguettes, it is a custom my family and I greatly appreciated as our hosts in Normandy and Felix's grandparents in the Loire laid out said fresh baguettes with fresh jams from the gardens their dining tables overlooked. Yum.

But Leonardo da Vinci took nothing for granted, not that French all eat baguettes, not even that it takes keeping legs straight in order to balance. It is how he figured all that he figured, invented new only from devising what had already been divinely devised. We were awed and amazed by all we saw and read of da Vinci's genius as we toured his final French home,Chateau du Close-Luce in Amboise, where Francis I installed him in 1516, at the advice of his sister, Marguerite de Navarre, so he could finish the Mona Lisa, St. Anne and St. John the Baptist and get paid 700 golden Ecus a year "to think, dream and work".

And think he did. There in the gardens surrounding the castle, IBM has brough to three dimensions the extraordinary scientific discoveries and invented machines da Vinci devised four centuries ago,from the paddle steamer to the airplane. We could have stayed there forever. It is no surprise da Vinci was inspired in Amboise.

We switched gears as we barrelled through the channel tunnel to London. Though we thought language would be easy again, we were wrong. Every culture--even those that supposedly all speak English--has its idiomatic phrases, its accents. In some ways, it was harder to communicate only because we weren't expecting to have to work at it.

London has been greatly changed over the last decade, not the least its architecture and foods, which both reflect a modernism likely influenced by the greater ease of travel between cultures that the EU has provided (despite England having clung to its currency.) We had great Italian food, amazing French pastries, Moroccan fare, all within the shadow of what the great British Empire created so long ago to protect its aristocracy.

We noted from one of the top walkways of the Tower of London that the surrounding buildings once created to keep out peasants who rose up to protest decrees of the King were filled with lawn furniture and barbecues, now part of the expensive housing stock of Central London that a British expat friend of mine in Brooklyn assures me can only be afforded by "Americans and rich Euros." I guess, in modern ways, we continue to keep down those without means.

We have returned to Brooklyn enriched by all that we learned, with a few baubles by which to remember our travels and remind us of the fluidity with which things--and people--should be able to move about and be comfortable, to thrive, even to grow. I will watch my little 2 euro French succulent from the Caen market with more care, preciously, as it traveled across the sea to its new home on my kitchen window sill.

Remembering Leila Ferioli

2010-08-14T08:21:00.001-04:00

I would see Leila Ferioli all the time in my travels around the neighborhood. She was one of the first people to whom I gave a gold star, whose eyes lit up at the idea of it, who wore it proudly.

We would most often stop to chat, about boxing, about getting projects started, about life. She would always say something nice. "Look at you..." she'd say, eying a dress or shoes I was wearing. We talked often about fashion. She was, she told me, starting a t-shirt company.

One day, not too long ago, I came out of the house all dressed up, nowhere in particular to go except to get a cup of coffee, to visit my friends at Naidre's, to ponder my many projects before picking up the kids. I ran into Leila and she admired the outfit. I can hear her voice now, impressed. "Look at you!" she said. "Where are you going?"

I laughed. "Um, nowhere," I said. "But sometimes you've got to look good to feel good..."

She nodded knowingly. "You gotta fake it to make it..." she said.

"Too true," I said. We laughed.

I thought of this the other day and began to smile, then remembered with sadness that Leila is gone. She passed away recently, a great heartache to her friends and to the Park Slope community in which she was an active part, moving through with a smile and a kind word for everyone.

I've been talking to Leila's friend Bill at Parco, who has taken her dogs and is tirelessly helping with the sad work of putting together a funeral, of celebrating a life well lived, well appreciated by so many. The service, in Brooklyn Heights today, will doubtless reflect the many zealously-lived moments of Leila's time here on earth. May she rest in peace.

Keeping Up Community

2010-08-13T21:22:00.000-04:00

Fear can be paralyzing, and we are, all of us, wittingly or not, so often afraid. If we are lucky, we reach out in those moments of fear to others, to family, to friends, to doctors and religious leaders, even to strangers, to help us, to guide us. No one can tell us what to do but, hopefully, we can find solace in a hand, in a pair of sympathetic eyes, in a hug, as we face what it is we have to figure.

I meet so many brave people each day who inspire me, who help take me out of my own spiral and remind me what it's truly about. The last few weeks, as I have been searching for ways to put shape to the many projects that have been simmering in my brain, to figure how to build a business that will bring together many brilliant minds toward the common goal of crucial community-building, I have encountered so many helpful humans.

Looking for office space in Red Hook, for example, brought me to Red Hook Realty's Rachel Shapiro and Ray Hall, the head of Security for Pier 41 Associates, the owner of much of Red Hook's waterfront property. The two exemplify the small-town community attitude of Red Hook.

"We work in harmony," Ray said, hugging Rachel and telling her, "You rock my socks...you're cool like Kool-Aid!"

Rachel knows the neighborhood and the people in it like the back of her hand, and Ray--with his brother Earl--runs a non-profit youth organization, Red Hook Rise, which uses basketball games as an incentive for teens to read. With a smile, in a sing-songy way that offered a window into his DJ voice, Ray repeated the organization's mantra: "We play in unity for a better community."

Brooklyn's community ideal was a topic that had come up days before when I met Georgie, a Brooklyn boy born and raised and "never leaving." Together we sung the praises of the borough from Coney Island to 12th St. Bar & Grill where he sometimes works. His infectious grin and great giving attitude reminded me of why I was drawn here from Arizona. It was the kind of attitude that the characters in Saturday Night Fever had, that had stuck with me as authentic and true and very, very appealing.

Could it be John Travolta's walk, the earnest cleft in his chin, that brought me here?

It is mine to figure why I am where I am, to ask the right questions and pay attention well enough to find my proper path. But I cannot always do it alone.

Parco provides me, often, with people who can help. Like yesterday, when Reiki Master/Energy Healer Linda Gnat-Mullin sat down beside me and, after a bit, looked up and chimed in with her incredibly insightful theories of people's "hidden patterns," the lies we tell ourselves to disassociate with the dangerous deeper truths. But it is important, this delving, crucial even if we want "to be who we came to be on this planet," she said.

I gave Linda a gold star, thanked her for her help. It does, indeed, take a village, one where people learn to share knowledge and information and, sometimes, solace.

Ode to Marshmallow

2010-08-08T06:57:00.000-04:00

Dog-sitting is a tricky business. I purposely borrowed our good friends, The Gospers', dog, a sweet cocker spaniel named Marshmallow, to determine if in fact The Thompsons should take the plunge. A few days in, I'm still unclear on what to do, am beginning to think maybe dog-sharing is the best thing for now, but one thing is perfectly clear: I have a lot to learn about my own fears and need for control. Marshmallow gets a gold star for forcing me to face them!

It all crystalized on our morning walk yesterday, as Marshmallow took off running down the sidewalk, me trying in vain to keep up and not yank on her leash. Once in the park, I knew she wanted to run free, could according to the rules, but I kept her leashed.

As I passed another woman with her own little dog, off her leash, free, I explained guiltily, defensively, "She's not my dog, I'm afraid to let her off the leash..."

The woman smiled. "Well," she said, "this is my dog, and I'm afraid to her off the leash too." She shrugged. Clearly, she was beating back her demons for the sake of the dog. Good for her.

I commended her. "You're a braver woman than I," I said.

I followed Marshmallow's lead to the water, pulling her back and away from her potential new puppy friend diving in happily. I didn't want to have to deal with a wet dog, to deal with how she and the puppy might interact. I couldn't always control her. She seemed to have her own mind about other dogs, to sniff them and then, sometimes, antagonize. Could I trust her? It was hard to tell.

The other dogs swirled around freely, off leash. Finally, a man, crouched down in the field next to the pond, encouraged me. "Come on," he said, "it'll be fine."

It was all I needed. I felt bad for Marshmallow, knew what I was doing was wrong and, still, it was hard to give myself that extra push. This man's calm, confident voice did that for me.

I smiled, "Ok, Ok..." I said, crouching down myself to unhook the lead.

As we watched Marshmallow run free, tail wagging, tongue lolling happily to the side, I looked at the man.

"Thank you," I said. "I wanted not to be worried but..."

He waved me off. "I don't usually say anything..."

"You could tell I'd be receptive," I said. He nodded.

Soon, of course, Marshmallow was swimming and then out, rolling around in the dirt.

"Oh, yeah, now I remember why I didn't want her off the leash..." I said, laughing. I looked at the man, my new mentor. "Don't worry, I won't blame you."

Marshmallow played a while, nicely, getting the excercise she needed. Then, with a wave to our new friends, she and I set off onto the trails I usually travail alone. I could feel my heart sink deeper into my chest every time she would take off running, out of sight. But, then, I would call her, squeeze her little squeaky toy, and she was back, running full speed ahead straight for me. Every time, I would think to myself, 'A little trust goes a long, long way.'

It is a good lesson for dog-ownership surely, for parenting too, for life: you can't always control a situation. You have to let go, and believe.

Thanks Marshy Marsh, my new furry friend, and other brave owners of urban dogs, for helping me see how much work I have yet to do, how hard, still, always, I have to try!

Shortcuts Help Us Try: Duncan Hines

2010-08-05T10:22:00.000-04:00

Last week, I happily attended an event at the Cupcake Cafe in Chelsea. I almost never eschew an invitation for free food, and cupcakes for breakfast seemed an indulgence one definitely deserves during the doldrums of summer.

The event was the live judging of Duncan Hines' Red Carpet Cupcake Challenge in which a panel of distinguished judges, including Cupcake Cafe owner Ann Warren and a collection of foodie editors such as Betsy Andrews from Saveur, munched away at finalist cupcake concoctions based on the baking mix, among them Devilly Good Chocolate Peanut Buter Truffle Cupcakes and Elegant Pina Colada Cupcakes.

I wrote about packaged-goods marketing for more than a decade and I am, as a result, often a skeptic. But Duncan Hines is my go-to birthday party cake mix, the one I rely on as my base when I nervously try (often in vain) to recreate Pokemon's Pikachu or an inchworm, or a campfire or, last year, badly, a block of Legos.

So it was with mixed emotions that I put the question to the cupcake queen, Ann Warren, whose detailed, flowery cupcakes crept up around her fabulous bakery amongst those of the packaged-mix contest entries.

"Is it weird to have Duncan Hines here?" I said.

She shrugged. "It's fun," she said, wiping at the crumbs around her mouth from doing the hard work of judging, "and, you know, a lot of people use Duncan Hines and then do these elaborate other things, with all these other ingredients, it's amazing."

She was on to something, I knew from my personal experience. Sometimes you need a starting point, a base you can trust and then build upon. Starting from scratch, trusting only yourself, is hard, sometimes so hard we do nothing at all. I have to remind myself sometimes and remember to remind others, if they are so in need, that it is not always crucial to reinvent the wheel. That others who have come before us, like traveling salesman, food critic and book author from the '40s Duncan Hines, sometimes have great ideas that we can get behind to make our lives a little easier.

While we don't want to get too complacent, while reliance on convenience foods has, as we've seen, created a too-strong taste for unnecessary salt and sugar, for processed flavors, in moderation these things can be good, especially if they get us to do things like bake. Baking, I'd argue, is a metaphor for giving, for love, even from a box. It is a joyous event, a community builder, if you will, if, in fact, you share said baking with the world.

During the school year, many times a month, I can be seen walking down the block with baked goods for one or another fundraiser, to feed visiting authors or my kids' classmates and teachers and faculty. The plates on which I place these baked goods--cupcakes from a Duncan Hines base topped with my own simple buttermilk frosting (butter, powdered sugar and a little milk, a little vanilla or chocolate if I so choose) or banana bread or oatmeal cookies with some chocolate chips thrown in--are well known in the office of PS107, they always keep them for me.

So I give out a big gold star to inventor Duncan Hines and to the contest entrants who took the time and energy to give it their best, to bake their way to fame, or at least try. The winner, Katie Rousonelos, whose Red Velvet "Red Carpet Glamour" recipe will make it to the Emmy's, held her face in her hands and cried as the Duncan Hines' folks finally reached her via Skype. It was awesome. Sometimes, most of the time, trying pays off. At the very least, you can say you tried, and that definitely counts for something.

2010-07-28T18:16:00.000-04:00

Commitment is hard. It is hard enough to make the most basic decisions in one’s day, what to wear, what to do…even at the office, I used to sit, staring, for a while before I figured how to juggle the day’s work, the week’s. Now, with far less structure, it is often overwhelming.

So it was that when I saw my friend and neighbor Victoria, asked her what was new, and she told me that she had an “appointment” with friends, it seemed a strange way to phrase it, but not overly so. It becomes harder and harder, at pace with the outgrowth of exponential forms of communiqué, to actually see others, to commit to doing so, so calling it an appointment seemed apt. But, then, she explained. It wasn’t just verbiage. She and two friends actually were meeting up, had actual “appointments” to get tattoos.

“Yay!” I said. “So…are you getting a …”

She rolled her eyes and nodded yes. “Of course.”

We had talked so often of her dragonfly tattoo, ever since I had gotten mine and she had said she was partial to the same image, had thought about adding it to the one she already had. But she was nervous, still and all, despite the appointment, despite the support of friends.

“I don’t like pain…” she said. And she was still unsure where, exactly, to get it, how big…lots of decisions yet to make before the deed was done, before she even got to the pain.

I gave her a gold star for good luck, for trying, and she put it on her chest. It shone brightly next to the gold dragonfly charm on her necklace.

“It’ll be great,” I said. She had wanted it for so long but, sometimes, I know, right before we get to the goal, we thwart ourselves, we stop short of reaching the final stage we’ve long fantasized about. Cause what then? What’s next? We have to come up with a new goal, something else to satisfy.

Speaking of goals, I had been meaning for a while to make my way through a book I’d bought, Cafe Life New York, An Insider's Guide to the City's Neighborhood Cafes, to make it to the various spots it outlined. I decided, yesterday, to commit. I started, first, with Harlem, a neighborhood I was long overdue in visiting.

I drove up the East River Drive, beautiful, especially when uncrowded, and soon found myself circling around Society Coffee Lounge on Frederick Douglass Blvd and 114th looking for parking.

I finally double parked and walked under the scaffolding, inside. It was a while before anyone wanting to chat sat down at the big square communal table, long after I’d finished my killer shrimp and grits.

The man felt compelled to explain why his phone was speaking out despite having headphones plugged in, something his girl friend (girlfriend?) had pointed out as strange. He had downloaded an application for hands-free listening to text messages, where a voice of his choosing would read out the messages.

“Wow,” I said, “this is getting scary.”

He had nodded, taking off his sunglasses, eager now to discuss technology and its affect on people, on society.

“I’m all about interaction,” he said passionately. “And this…this” he gestured at his device. “This doesn’t work for that, not really.”

I nodded in agreement. “It’s a big topic for me,” I said. “In the end, though, I don’t think it changes things. People still want to love and be loved, they still want this…” and I gestured to them, to us, to people around sitting face to face, talking.

He has been in Harlem ten years, long enough to see the major changes unfold. He shrugged off any naysayers of the gentrification, the influx of whites.

“It’s better that we’re all together…” he said.

I agreed wholeheartedly. “Much harder to hate that way.”

I’m glad I got to Harlem, glad I got to sit with Nigel and Casey, chat live and give them their gold stars. It is a commitment, community, keeping up one’s “appointments” even with strangers. And it’s an important one.

Back to Work...

2010-07-26T12:46:00.000-04:00

I have been woefully absent, not necessarily from giving out gold stars but from reporting on my efforts. I should have been writing every day, as I have learned much in my travels from Maine to Chicago to Iowa.

It is clear that while people may be surrounded by different terrain, have different accents or different cultural norms, they are the same in that they appreciate being rewarded for their efforts, they love it when someone else notices that they are trying.

From the gentleman gripping tight to the armrest on the puddle-jumper from New York to Chicago to the one who sat next to me as I gripped myself and cursed mightily on the little plane that dipped and dropped all the way from Iowa City to Chi-town, I encountered a lot of instances of people needing and people giving.

Summertime is like any other time in that we are so very focused on ourselves, on what we have to get done in order to complete our tasks, to get to the fun. So much of the time, if we are not careful, such self-focus makes us oblivious to others. I know I am a culprit, caught up in my own head so much so that I don't think in a moment of others' thoughts or feelings.

Back in Brooklyn, faced with a multitude of new faces, the absence of others (gone like I have been to escape the city in the heat) I am presented anew with opportunities to get out of myself and give out gold stars. I am always amazed at the smiles brought out simply with a kind word, a noticing of someone's...something, anything. It's just important to notice.

This morning, my lovely husband's 40th Birthday a fond memory, kids happily ensconced in camp, I am clearing out and cleaning up, getting ready to get back to work, writing and rewarding others, at least for a few weeks, before we get on a plane yet again to foreign lands. It will be fun to see if people in France and England get the gold star thing...We'll see!

Much More Than Just Cornfields: Iowa City

2010-07-19T13:15:00.000-04:00

I never had any desire to come to Iowa, had never thought much about it. I think that’s true of a lot of people, which is why Iowa is great. It is authentic. It is not burdened by a tourist board version of what to expect from the State, of what it is. It just is.

“We grow three crops here: corn, soy and writers,” said playwright and University of Iowa professor Kate Aspengren to the crowd of eager writers at the kickoff of the Iowa Summer Writing Festival weekend I attended.

I had passed many fields filled with corn and soy on my way in to Iowa City from the airport in Moline, Illinois, fields I had seen from the air as we landed. The intense greenery had made me giggle, plots empty as far as the eye could see being such a distinct and dramatic change from the Big City from which I’d flown. That the two coexist mere hours away from one another by air is amazing.

I had put my friend and former boss, a native of Iowa and the tour guide for my trip, on the job of seeking out an old turquoise pick-up for me upon my arrival. He had not found any but as we drove, I found not one but two on our path. I'm still in the process of considering whether or not to pick one up for real, to drive it home to Brooklyn filled with the awesome rusty vestiges of the lives lived here.

As Ms. Aspengren had noted, the University of Iowa was the first to offer degrees in creative fields like writing and music. That heritage is alive and well in town, as the arts are well represented, more books and music and art than most cities have across a far larger span. A piano sits in the pedestrian mall outside my hotel, beseeching passersby to play, which we did.

A man stopped to listen.

"Beautiful..." he said. "How long have you been playing together?" We smiled and laughed.

"This is the first time," I said.

The man, Mark, a self-named "spiritual poet," commented on us, on how "alive" we were. And, indeed, playing piano on the pedestrian mall, practicing my writing "voice" in the terrific class I took with professor Gordon Mennenga, I did feel very much alive. I gave Mark a gold star for his appreciation of our efforts and for his own efforts, for his meditations and examination of his own and others' lives.

Iowa City in general gets a HUGE gold star, not the least for its bread, which is thick, grainy, buttered and lightly toasted to absolute perfection, the best I've ever had, and for the sheer genuine nature of its people, like the waitress who served us the famous oversized pork tenderloin sandwich and shrugged when I asked if we could get a mix of fried cauliflower and mushrooms. "I don't give a shit..." she said.

For those and many other reasons, I will definitely be back.

Chicago Hope

2010-07-12T07:25:00.000-04:00

The news was playing as we scooted in to the black car, on the way to the airport. It was 1010 Winds, guaranteed to make you sad and stressed. I didn't say anything, though, as I sometimes do when trying to protect my children from the harsh realities of the world, digested for what reason I am never quite sure. As much as those close to me might disagree, I don't actually like telling people what they can and cannot do.

As it turns out, the driver was indeed sensitive to our needs for, after a short while, clearly having cottoned on to where we were headed, the news turned into music, a particular song he thought we might enjoy. All of a sudden, tales of terrible things were replaced by Frank Sinatra belting out: "MY KIND OF TOWN, CHICAGO IS..."

I laughed. "Thanks!" I said. Turns out the driver had never been to Chicago, was an East Coast man like Sinatra himself, had lived 60-some years in Park Slope. He regaled us with memories of Brooklyn days past, of the heyday when the Dodgers played, lived locally among their fans. His enthusiasm showed in his voice and in his eyes, that darted back to make contact in the rearview.

It was a great send-off to the town where I went to school, where my mother is from and now lives (the view above is the one from her balcony), a city that I was married in and lived in as a newlywed, playing house, preparing to be an adult. (I am still preparing...)

On arrival, a dragonfly greeted us and led us downtown on the highway, a harbinger of the friendly reception of Chicagoans in general.

"What are you doing today?" the girl at Starbucks asked me, as if we were old friends.

Shopping, as I like to do, I encountered Meliqua at the Marshall's checkout. She understood my addiction. As she rang me up, she shook her head.

"They took my first three paychecks," she said sadly, but her frown quickly turned upside down as she told me enthusiastically, "but I have a lot of great shoes!!" It was a great line, one I couldn't help but reward with a gold star.

I miss Chicago, the friendly bar scene, the big hangover hot spots for breakfast and the beautiful skyline. From the lakeside as I ran yesterday, looking up at the city once consumed by fire, rebuilt, my 9-year-old history buff reminds me by the best and brightest architects who donated their services after the tragedy, I was struck by how amazing cities are, how full of hope and possibility, how full of people, all trying in their various ways. Chicago is my kind of town, it's true.

Combatting Lonely Liberty: Olga

2010-07-09T05:10:00.000-04:00

I was caught out, stereotyping again. Luckily, stereotypes are so often true.

"I couldn't help but overhear...and it's so, so true...," the woman at the next table at Parco said.

The tables are so close together that one can never even pretend privacy and I'm certainly not quiet, but still. I hadn't even paid enough attention to see who was there before I started on my rant about the beauty and challenges of the Mexican culture to my friend and French roomie, Jeanne. The upshot was that the culture was so warm and lovely but that people there, from a young age, were forced from circumstance to be extremely crafty, to do whatever it took to take care of themselves.

"The little kids there, on the street, would come up with all kinds of elaborate ruses to sell us 'chicle'..." I recalled, picturing as I said it the little kids, younger than even a young me, running up to us on the streets of Nogales, coaxing and cajoling me to pay top dollar for their little packets of Violeta-flavored gum that actually tasted like the flower it was named for.

That was the moment when Olga had piped up. It turns out she is from Cuba, came to this country in 1967. She could relate to what I was saying about the forced necessity of fending for oneself in cultures where corruption reigns. She told me stories of people who had come here to America and, out of habit, had stolen things unnecessarily, recognizing only afterward what they had done so instinctively, out of habit, out of having to.

"We are so lucky to be in this country..." Olga said.

I smiled but couldn't wholeheartedly agree. Of course we are so lucky in so many ways. But it is the warmth piece I had mentioned about Mexican culture, Latin American culture in general and a trait prevalent in so many otherwise difficult countries, that is often so lacking in this puritanical place. We have the self motivation bit down, surely, but where, I wondered aloud to my new friend, "Where is the community? Where is the connectedness?" That, I'm afraid, we are so often lacking, in spades.

Olga tries in her own way to keep her culture of connectedness alive. Her son, for example, lives with her well past the age most Americans might tsk tsk that he isn't pushed out on his own. Why do we push people we love into forced isolation? What lesson are we trying to teach exactly? Independence is a hallmark, a trait the good ol U.S. of A is predicated on, but it is so often taken too far.

That's why I gave Olga her gold star, for trying to maintain the best aspects of her culture, for joining in the conversation, for trying to connect. She was so pleased, and thanked me profusely before giving me the address of her apartment around the corner.

"Come over, anytime," she said. Aaah, how I wish we could all be so kind and warm-hearted. Liberty can be so lonely.

Bravely Being Who She Is: Anthea

2010-07-06T10:59:00.000-04:00

"I love your hair," I said, holding the door for her as she walked out of the cafe in Booth Bay Harbor. I am partial to afros, especially big ones.

"Thank you!" she said heartily. "But it's not really liking me today, it's not behaving."

I looked again. It looked great to me. "What's the matter with it?" I asked.

"Not enough poof..." she said.

I doubled over. It was a great line. Looking around us, seeing the mostly coiffed hairdos in Maine, I would say her poof was plentiful. But it was all relative. To her, it was not enough.

"I have to give you a gold star for that," I said, "for wanting MORE poof, for not having to tame yourself, to try to fit in."

She laughed and pointed at herself. "There's no way I'm fitting in here anyway," she said.

We introduced ourselves. Anthea Butler was, not surprisingly, in Booth Bay from out of town, from Philadelphia, where she is an assistant professor of religious studies at University of Pennsylvania.

I knew how she felt. My poof was likewise larger than the normal New England hair around me, my outfits more New Yorker than Mainer. But I, like Anthea, was trying to be myself rather than fit the image of the place where I was. It is not always easy.

Like with religion, we have to decide who we want to be, which is hard enough, and then have the guts to stand up for who we are when others might have much to say about it, might try to dissuade you from being different because of what it might mean about their own decisions.

Anthea and I talked briefly about religion, I about my putting my kids in hebrew school despite not exactly being a devout Jew, she of her status as a "dissenting catholic."

"Well," I said, "people are always going to choose something...we need to believe, right?"

Anthea agreed, nodding her head with what I would say was a great deal of fabulous poof!

2010-07-01T06:20:00.000-04:00

"Do you want to see something beautiful?" asked the man in the hat behind the table of beautiful jewelry I could already see was all my style.

He held up the mirror then, as if to show me myself.

"Nice..." I said, blocking the mirror with my hand.

As usual, I was frustrated at the Montsweag Flea, arriving late subconsciously on purpose as to not frustrate myself further by seeing the best items, the ones cheap enough to buy but too big for my Subaru. Every year I threaten to buy or at least rent a truck to bring home all the goods and chattel I could easily collect at low cost, certainly far lower than in New York. And it is all my style, rusted and worn, perfect in its imperfection.

My new friend here, Mark, could help me. What he sold was small, could easily fit in my bag, even if I bought a lot of it. And, from the first, I could see he was a consummate salesman.

"Oh, that's very feminine," he said of one silver filigree bracelet. "That one," he said, pointing to a bicycle chain bracelet, "is a great balance between feminine and masculine, vulnerable but strong..."

I laughed. At $75, it could be the perfect balance, but it was out of my price range. I loved, though, how Mark was able to see me, to try, if only to sell me something I liked. It is a skill some possess, that of seeing, and he clearly had a knack. And I'm not saying that simply because he told me I had to have been a Queen in a former life.

I took mock offense. "But I am a Queen, now...in my own mind," I said, laughing. The jewelry I bought from him, a necklace, an anklet, four bracelets, a ring and a silver diaper pin, will certainly make me feel royal, luckily, at a royal subject's price.

And that's why I gave Mark a gold star.

Maine-ly Perfect

2010-06-29T22:13:00.000-04:00

Aaah, Maine. The entire state deserves a gold star.
Nothing quite says summer like a lobster roll and some clam chowder at our favorite Booth Bay eatery, The Lobster Dock. The girl behind the counter deserved a gold star for making us feel better about the 20 minutes we stood in front of the big board, surveying our options. It's hard to choose when you get somewhere but once a year and look forward to it the rest of the days.

"I've seen people take longer..." she sympathized. "It's a big menu."

Vacations are fabulous but not without their challenges, not the least of which is the idea that every moment should be fabulous, picture perfect. There is so much on which to decide, so much you imagine should be wonderful and so many of your regular worries and stresses that you have brought with you, your baggage in your baggage.

It feels as though all should drain away except the beauty when you are looking at some of the misty watery vistas of Maine, and yet... The "shoulds" are what we "should" get rid of. Somehow I feel as if I should be magically sporty and fearless when faced with the outdoorsy adventure opportunities of Maine and, yet, my most treasured moments are spent in the bookstore at Booth Bay, or the candy store, at the flea market or one of many favorite antique stores, reading on the porch, looking up to see the clammers digging in the mud down the hill, with my children running in the grass catching fireflies. (OK, they are usually inside watching cable, but we won't talk about those moments:)

I have in our few short days here given out a fair number of gold stars to sunny Mainers, cheery even in the rain and humidity. "Is it the 27th or 28th?" asked the adorable older woman working at the co-op art gallery, trying to write the date. "I want to make sure I don't miss even one precious day..."

She is so right. There is so much to appreciate here, so much beauty to behold. We should and will in earnest try to leave our neurotic New York selves behind...I think it might require lots of lobster and a fair number of trips to the DQ.

Balancing In Order to Build: Mark Vetter

2010-06-26T07:10:00.001-04:00

I had turned to him and made him a control group of one, trying to come up with a name for my soon-to-be-complete headed-for-the-sock-drawer novel. Poor Mark. If nothing else, he deserved a gold star for that.

"What do you do?" I said.

"I'm an architect," he said.

I smiled. The first time I began a novel, many years ago, not really in earnest (I think I got to about five pages), the male protagonist was an architect.

"I love architects, I think of them as the perfect middle ground between vision and precision," I said.

Mark nodded. "You have to get to the state of balance every time," he said. "It's a political game where you have to weigh 20 different forces and acknowledge each one of them."

Funny, as he talked, I realized why there are so many architects depicted in film. There is an inherent metaphor in the career itself that speaks to the balance we all must strike in any relationship, in any attempt to communicate and come to resolution with others, to create something bigger than the sum of the parts, something that will stand the test of time.

"An architect has to be selfless and selfish at the same time," Mark said. They have to "listen to others about what the design needs to do, but if they don’t keep it harnessed and under control, it’s chaos. Everybody got their own needs met but nothing got resolved."

For this great feat, this Rubik's Cube, as Mark refers to it, architects get paid very little. For the amount of schooling and how hard they work, they are ranked right up there with chefs and priests, two other careers forced to balance passion and practicality, forced to come up with something, even if it's just a theory, that can help people live happily.

I asked Mark straight up if he gets rewarded for navigating the minefield between a client's greatest desires and reality. "Are people happy, after you have built them their dream house?" I said.

He barely skipped a beat. "No," he said, "they're never happy. Of course, they continue to want more, they say, 'Next up is the weekend house...'"

Helping people reach a happy place, actually building it, is so, so hard. That's why I gave Mark Vetter his gold star.

Savoring the Impermanence of Places, Things: Uncle Earl's KC Groves

2010-06-24T07:28:00.001-04:00

I met KC Groves at Parco one morning a few weeks back. She was happily, naturally engaging in a conversation about good books, taking suggestions from my friend Emma. She seemed like a local, but she was actually just passing through, back from a tour in Germany ("great food, well taken care of...") and now on her way to a bluegrass festival, DelFest, in Maryland, with her band, Uncle Earl.

After the festival, she said, "I'm going to hit the Appalachian trail." I was envious hearing of her travels. She smiled.

"All I do is travel, and I always think 'could I live here? Maybe this is where I should live...'"

It made sense, then, why she fit in so well in the corner here at Parco. She was trying Park Slope on for size.

I laughed. "I always think that too!"

I shared with her my own thoughts of the area where she was headed in North Carolina where I had travelled with my family along the Blue Ridge Parkway years earlier. I had met a lovely woman at a junk shop in Mt. Airy. She had given me a little succulent as a gift after I had given her a gold star.

"'Hens and chicks,' she called it..."

KC nodded. "Yes, Semper Vivum," she said. "Always alive."

I cringed. "Yikes. It died..."

We laughed. Gifts from strangers are often temporary, as are travels to faraway places. But it is important to learn to appreciate them in the moment, to savor them. KC definitely seems to do both, she's definitely trying, which is why I gave her a gold star. Later, listening to her great band online, I realized I should have given her another...they are awesome!

Rolling with Summer...

2010-06-21T14:59:00.000-04:00

Today is the solstice, the first day of summer. It is the first day of the week, the first day of a new season, it is a transition day on which I should give out a lot of gold stars. The first go to my friends Anne and Mike for having us over to their glorious roof deck for the first of (I hope) many evenings enjoying the sunset over Brooklyn.

Change is necessary but hard, that is for sure. My children have four more days of school and then are off for the summer, on vacation, in camp, out of their regular routines into new ones and, often, none. It is a nice break but, as a friend told me earlier about when her child goes down for a nap, breaks can become breakdowns, moments where there is not enough distraction from the things that plague and worry us.

Summer can be fabulous, fun, a time to do all those things you've dreamed of doing. But the list of those things can get long, the ability and means to do them not so much. I hear complaints nearly every summer weekend if people here haven't gone exciting places, done interesting things, taken advantage of all a city like New York and its surrounding environs have to offer.

"I'm doing some easy parenting," a neighbor told me recently as he sat on a bench in my apartment building's courtyard, his son running around in the grass. Maybe it was just me, but it sounded like a judgement of himself, one I offer up all the time of my own parenting when my kids aren't actively engaged, one I hear from so many others when every moment isn't fun-filled and action packed. We are so hard on ourselves, never more so when opportunities abound, when it is totally up to us (not the school) to take charge of the curriculum.

This summer, I am bound and determined to enjoy, to appreciate all we do (and don't do) and to appreciate that everyone needs a break. Years after the school-year schedule no longer applies to me personally, just my kids, it still feels like the end of things, a wrap-up before a brief hiatus, before September begins everything anew. I try to remember from past years, September comes all too soon. Hopefully you'll remember that too! Gold star for trying...

Teaching Kids to Care: Ms. Marissa

2010-06-18T13:35:00.000-04:00

I send my boys to a public school, PS107 in Park Slope, that is a little bit of heaven in the big bad city. It is filled with a faculty like Ms. Marissa, a princess for the day (it's her birthday tomorrow!) and a princess the whole year through in my eyes because she looks out amazingly well for my little Oscar.

Ms. Marissa got her gold star today for getting through the full hard year of teaching five- and-six-year-olds with great patience. She, like the rest of the 107 team, while imperfect as the rest of us, love each and every one of the children in their midst with all their heart, they care about them immensely and wish for them the best. That is no small thing.

When I worry for a moment, especially at the beginning of the year, if I am doing the absolute best thing for my children by sending them to this particular school, if they are learning the most they can learn, getting the most out of the school environment that they can, becoming the greatest people they have the potential to be, I start making a list of the problems, my concerns. And then, every year, I remember: this is a phenomenal community of the kind you cannot pay enough for. The reason why? The people that surround my boys, the people I entrust them to for many hours a day, care, they really, truly care. I can call many of them on their cell phones in a bind and they are always willing to help.

Such recognition relaxes me. This is what I most hope my kids can learn in their lives. More than math or science or nutrition, things I or the Internet could fairly easily teach them, I rely on a school to teach them about the necessary giving and receiving, the sharing and listening and compromising that is required in relating to other people, to the world.

If and when I have suggestions for changes, I know I cannot just complain, I have to act, I have to engage in the conversation with teachers and faculty about the problem and I have to be willing to take on whatever extra work fixing said problem requires, to figure if it can realistically be fixed, if ever and how. Of course, I often decide I do not have the time or energy to fix things as I would ideally see fit to. Or I realize that I am sending my children out into the world and, once there, I can only hope they take the lessons they learn at home and apply them in those places outside my control, that they come home and start a conversation with me if what they are told outside seems to grossly differ from what my husband and I have tried to impart.

So I let a lot go. I often I bite my tongue and realize that we live in a world full of imperfections and so will our children. The problems that French philosopher Montaigne outlined in the 1800s are ones we still grapple with today so I have no illusions that change is easy.

But I try, with my children and with their teachers both, with myself, to cheer successes, to see the glass half full. It is hard, granted, but necessary. This, I feel, is the best way to ensure the overall well-being of my family and my community. Look, in the end, it is selfish: if I support them, the teachers, inevitably, support my children, they look out for them in a way they might not if I were not on their side. That, I think, is a fact of human nature. Thank you Ms. Marissa for looking out for Oscar! I know it's not always easy...believe me, I know.

Massaging A Life: Trish Salazar

2010-06-16T13:31:00.000-04:00

Maria-Elena, the barista at Parco who applauds every time I give out a gold star, had alerted me to her friend and neighbor standing there, to her "really cool job."

"What do you do?" I asked.

She smiled, somewhat sheepishly. "I massage people, in the Hamptons."

I laughed. "Nice, I love that!"

Turns out, as we sat and talked, that Trish Salazar has built a clientele organically, patiently allowing her skills to speak for themselves. And people have clearly taken notice, rewarding her with business and opportunities and with spreading the word about her to their friends. She is modest, that much is obvious, but she is also warm and genuine and awesome with a killer smile, all great traits to make people feel at ease on the massage table, to allow people to get the most out of their hour.

"You made my day, I love you!" she enthused as I gave her her gold star.

No surprise, that is my favorite response, the one I hope many people feel even if they don't say it quite as boldly. Trish is bold, I loved her too! We talked for quite a while, sharing the ways in which we are both working hard to figure our lives and careers, to put plans in place but also to find the patience to let life unfold in the magical ways it does when we are not trying to exert total control. It is a hard balance for sure. Plan and there is no room for spontaneity, don't plan and you risk having nothing going on.

Trish is wrestling with what direction to take, grappling with it, so to speak, but ever so gently and calmly. Just talking to her I felt like I was relaxing, the tensions flowing out of me a bit. She squeezed my shoulder as she walked out of the cafe and I thanked her for the free brief massage...

I'm definitely going to reach out to Trish for a massage! She said she could come to me or I could visit her, at her house with her neighbors' chickens out back. "Fresh eggs..." she beckoned. I'm definitely going, sometime soon, before her plans take her elsewhere, to the Hamptons, or before the magical things she is ready to allow whisk her into a different world, or keep her in the same world, appreciating the view.

Words and Smiles Remembered: Matt

2010-06-14T14:25:00.001-04:00

As I sit here writing, I am staring at an hourglass my son, Eli, picked up at a stoop sale this weekend. The words ring in my ears from years of soap-opera watching: "Like sand through the hourglass, so are the Days of Our Lives..."

Sappy, sacharine and so, so true. Recently I had the great pleasure of hosting a very old friend in my Brooklyn apartment, someone whom I have seen only at high school reunions over the last 20 years but who, according to my scrapbook, figured large especially in the fourth, fifth and sixth grades.

Matt Knox wrote me a letter in 1981 from his vacation in Santa Ana, California. I found it recently as he sat in my kitchen, in town from his current home in fabulous Manhattan Beach, California to promote his awesome online home-improvement and construction classifieds, DiggersList.

In it he told me "when you grow up you should be a marige (sic) counselor, or maybe a therapist. You do a good job talking to people."

He laughed as I read it out loud. "I said that?" he marveled. Neither of us remember the advice I'd given to warrant the comment, suffice to say it was helpful enough then that he appreciated it. So glad. The stakes were lower then, for sure, "marige" a far way off. But our problems are always hard to us at the time no matter how silly they might seem in hindsight.

It was as if no time had passed as we caught up on each other's lives, the various endeavors that had brought us through the years to now, to this moment when we are both working in our separate ways, on separate coasts, to help people do what they want to do, to achieve what they want to achieve.

He was high when he arrived here on the sheer exhiliration of offering interviews all day on what DiggersList can do. He smiled big even as he showed my kids on the Internet a ski jump like the one he didn't quite make it over, the one that had him in a cast for months and that has turned him into a bionic man (one afraid forever that he will set off the alarm at airport security.)

His big smile was the thing I remembered most about Matt, the thing that captured me then and now and is, likely, what captured those who had the good fortune to talk to him all over the New York media.

The connection we'd forged back then had stood the test of time because we are, of course, the same as we were. I still talk to people all around to try to help and learn from them how to help myself. I have no degree, but neither did I in the sixth grade when I chatted with my friend about how he might forge ahead in his relationships. Matt is as engaged with the world and the people in it as he was then. And that's why I gave him a gold star and good luck in all his endeavors...

A Trip to Coney Island

2010-06-12T13:59:00.000-04:00

I always love going to Coney Island. The idea that there is an ocean beach a half-hour subway ride from my apartment is amazing to me, let alone one that stands as a monument to history (its first carousel was built in 1876) and that offers a glimpse into the great ethnic mix of the borough of Brooklyn. The first trip of the season did not disappoint.

The six kids my friend Kelley and I had with us -- mine, the three she babysits and a friend's son -- were great sports on the train. With clouds looming, we were all prepared for the potential of a wacky misadventure.

Once there, though, the clouds thinned, parting way finally to full sun, and the kids played happily while Kelley and I were actually able to converse. A group of Arab boys played a rough game of soccer nearby and there were a few other stragglers, but mostly we had the beach to ourselves. I looked up and noticed a man had his lens trained on my friend's son, so I hopped up to introduce myself. One can never be too careful. Turns out, he is a photographer, Leslie Jean-Bart, from Haiti, who takes pictures of shadows and was trying to capture the shadows Harry sent on to the sand. Cool.

We exchanged cards and a mutual agreement that Coney Island was awesome. I ran up to my blanket to get Leslie his gold star.

The kids had buried one another, built a million tunnelled sand castles, ate corn dogs and caught some jellyfish that we watched swim around the bucket for a while, our own personal aquarium.

When they began to tussle, we took a walk to the pier to see what we could see. Last time, I had seen a fisherman catch a Skate. This time, a bunch of Asian women and their young sons were catching crabs with raw chicken as bait! They sweetly showed our group how to toss out the baskets into the ocean and then pulley up the rope.

Max caught a pregnant crab, which the young boy showed his Mom and then threw back into the Atlantic. There were too many of them to give gold stars, but we thanked them profusely and kept walking.

When we turned around to head back to our blanket, both Kelley and I gasped in unison: the dark clouds were fast descending behind us. Time to run! We got to our blankets and gathered our things and made it on to the subway just as the torrential downpour began. Misadventure averted. It was a mission well accomplished, a Coney Island day to remember. Gold stars to all those who work to keep the great landmark alive!

Happy Couple, or at Least Trying: David and Andrea

2010-06-10T10:05:00.001-04:00

I ran into David in front of Red Horse. Actually, I ran into his dog, a beautiful black labradoodle, or she ran into me, jumping up and kissing me, wagging her tail. I had had a similar greeting from another labrapoodle the day before.

"I think labradoodles love me," I said, happy for the elated attentiveness of my new fluffy friend.

"They're very friendly dogs," he said. "She loves everyone."

I laughed. "So, I'm not special after all?"

He kindly amended. "No, no. I see that she is much friendlier with you, definitely..."

"Thanks," I said, "thanks for that..." I love people who play along.

I asked him where he was from. France. I have been doing my own personal research of late as to why the many Europeans who live here in Brooklyn live here. His reason walked up just then, Andrea.

"I was here for film school, then I liked it and did the program, and then we met and we're very happy, and so... here we are." Andrea is from Spain.

I smiled and mentioned a notice I'd seen in a cafe for a documentary called Happy Couples. "They're looking for happy couples..." I said.

Andrea smiled. "Kind of naive, isn't it?"

David shrugged, smiling, needing to amend again. "Maybe we're not happy..."

Perfect timing to whip out their gold stars.

"What are these for?" Andrea asked.

"For trying," I said.

"For trying to be a happy couple?" Andrea said.

I nodded. "And for trying to live in a country other than your own, for actually owning a dog, which I am too wimpy to do...for everything you do."

Andrea and David are trying on so many fronts, including talking honestly to strangers like me! That's why I gave them their gold stars.

Looking Great Naked: C.J.

2010-06-08T13:07:00.003-04:00

When I ran into C.J. recently at Macondo, a great Latin restaurant on Houston where he is a waiter, I asked him straight out if he remembered me. He looked at me and then recognition quickly showed in his eyes. He pointed and laughed. "Hey, you're the star lady!" he said.

I laughed. "Yes, how are you?"

"Good, good, funny, I remember that," he said with a laugh. But, apparently, he didn't remember the reason. I do. I talk to a lot of people, but C.J.'s story stuck.

See, I was sitting at the bar of Macondo one night before writing class, before my friend arrived, and I had nothing to do but eavesdrop. C.J. and the bartender were talking about some event and the bartender shook his head.

"Dude," he said, "don't go naked, it's just NOT a good idea..."

C.J. stood back, away from the bar and gestured at himself. "Hey!" he said, "I look great naked!" He said it with utter conviction, upset that anyone might suggest his being naked, anywhere, could be a bad thing.

I think I spit out a fair amount of my mojito and the two guys looked over. "Don't mind me..." I said.

I said nothing until C.J. arrived at the table a bit later where my friend and I had been seated. It was a high bar table and C.J. was on the other side.

"Hey," I said, laughing, "Now I'm curious." He had looked confused.

"About the menu?"

"No," I said with a smile. "I mean, you say you look great naked..."

I couldn't help myself. It was too easy. He blushed. "Oh, you heard that?" he said.

I had nodded. "I did. But, really, I think it's great! I think it's awesome that you think you look great naked. It's important that people feel great about their bodies." That's when I pulled out a gold star and gave it to him. It was one of my first.

When I regaled C.J. with the story recently, he blushed anew. It was funny. But pride is so often a good thing, something that we have a hard time appreciating in ourselves, in our children, in anyone. But it is important. It keeps us trying.

And that's why C.J. got his second gold star. For the pride he initially showed and for being a good sport as I harrassed him, not once but twice.

Truths in Times Square

2010-06-07T12:39:00.003-04:00

"Strong, strength," his big voice boomed out at me. It's hard to be heard in the middle of Times Square, but he managed.

I smiled at him, looked down at my tickets. "Not the play," he said, "you."

I laughed. "Hey, thanks!" I said. See, I thought, I should never wear short dresses into Manhattan. But I very obviously like talking to strangers, like to draw them near, to hear what they have to say, so attention is not all bad. Here, I had found my angel, someone who could see my strength (even if he was just judging it by my legs.)

We chatted about the theater. I was going to see Red, John Logan's play about the artist Mark Rothko.

He shook his head, "You should see Race," he said, referring to the David Mamet play, the second on my husband's list.

"Really?" I said, "Is it great?"

He leaned in conspiratorily. "I heard it is...that the performances are great, that it really gives a perspective on both sides."

"See, that's the problem," I said, "the reason I didn't buy tickets to something about race...I'm skeptical. I think it's really hard for people to be honest about these things. It would have to be incredibly well done to offer anything new."

He nodded in agreement. "But I heard it's good."

"Good to know...too bad I already bought these," I said. "So many plays to see, not enough money, not enough time..."

He smiled. "You have time," he said. "You're going to be around a long time," he predicted.

I laughed. "You think so?"

He nodded. "Yes. You're taking good care of yourself."

I gave him a gold star, didn't even get his name. I like it sometimes to keep my new friends anonymous. We were only meant to touch in the moment, to come together briefly, to make each other feel better.

"Thank you," I said, "thanks a lot."

I left my new friend nervous about my play choice, but I needn't have worried. Red was fabulous, insightful, strong. There is a strength to good writing, a force. It is hard to conjure, but when you hear it you know. It feels like the truth.

Learning, Trusting, Living Well: Gloria

2010-06-04T14:20:00.004-04:00

Summer antiquing is in progress, and last weekend I dragged my hubbie over to a little flea market that has sprouted up next to the train tracks on Love Lane, a little street in Mattituck, Long Island, whose name fits its quaint little shops perfectly.

Poking around through various odds and ends, jewelry and side tables, civil war memorabilia and old magazines, the dribs and drabs left over at day's end, I happened upon a pretty turquoise glass vase for $10. The price was right and it would fit in my already-stuffed-with-stuff apartment.

The gentle-looking older lady sitting nearby began to offer up some details about it. She didn't know much, she said, it wasn't that old but...I waved her off. I'm not one of those people who cares about an item's pedigree, I just have to like the way it looks.

She shook her head. "There's a lot to know, though," she said. "I learn a lot just from listening to other people..."

I smiled and looked at her with new eyes, realized how intelligent she must be to know all that she doesn't know, to be listening to other people, to still be looking at everything for what she can learn about it even after living a good long time.

"That's awesome," I said. "I love that. And it's so true. It's amazing all there is to know..."

I loved her spirit, loved her even more when she told me about her store and then told me if I wanted to go there, I could call her when I got there and she would tell me where the key was hidden, that I could let myself in and leave the money for whatever I might want.

It is amazing on the North Fork, the trust, like with the veggie stand down the street from my in-laws that goes unmanned much of the time, with only a tin can where you can place the money for whatever you pick up. Many antique stores leave their wares outside all the time, trusting that no one would take them, not without leaving cash.

I paid for my vase and got her card, purpley-blue with a big yellow sunflower. Gloria Suttmeier, Sam's Gram, it said, and also The Flower Lady - Antiques-Collectibles-Garden Delights.

Gloria herself is the delight and she clearly takes delight in others. And that's why I gave her a gold star.

Retail Therapists: Karen and Latrina

2010-06-03T06:29:00.005-04:00

The gates of boing! were partway down and the sign in the window said, "Gone crazy." I pushed forward into the store anyway, hopeful, as I was desperate for a last-minute baby shower gift.

"Come in, come in, don't mind the mess," said the owner, Karen Paperno. She pointed to something that didn't look at all messy.

I smiled. "I like your sign..." I said.

She smiled back. "Yeah, well..."

I met Karen quite a while ago, at the beginning of my gold star project, in Parco. She was wearing an incredibly beautiful scarf then, and we had talked about how important it is, even when you're not exactly feeling it, maybe especially when you're not feeling it, to put your best fashion foot forward. I had given her a star and she had put it right in the middle of her forehead happily. It seemed to suit her, as it did this time when I gave her a star for letting me in to the store, crazy or no.

She, as always, looked fabulous, sporting an exquisite necklace and a perfect summer dress. She immediately knew the Miracle Blanket I asked for and found me one in a suitable color for a baby boy, wrapping it sweetly.

"It's hard to run a business..." I said, looking around, watching her work, imagining all that went into buying and merchandising all the items in not just this but also her other location, boing boing, elsewhere in Park Slope.

She shook her head. "Absolutely. And even though you do the hard thing, the hard work, you don't always take the time to appreciate what you've done, to reward yourself...there is always 'what's next.'"

She looked up at me and pointed to her star. "I guess that's what you do..."

I laughed. "I try!"

Talking to Karen reminded me of a conversation I had struck up with a gussied-up girl on the subway the previous day, a girl whose gold belt inspired me to go over to her and add to her gold. She looked great.

Turns out she worked at Uniqlo and we got to talking about how busy it was in the store, how popular the current Costello Tagliapietra line has been for the chain.

"That's great!" I had said. She looked at me like I was crazy.

"Not really," she said. "It just means I have to stay later because the store is a huge mess..."

My mouth formed an O. Right. When you don't own the store, you don't reap the benefits of its success usually, you just have to work harder. That's why I gave Latrina Troutman her gold star.

Any way you slice it, owner or no, sometimes, a lot of the time, working in a store can make you crazy. But it is all for the greater good: retail therapy is reward for so many, myself included. So, thank you ladies

Have you received a star from me? Want to share your story? E-mail me at stephsthompson@gmail.com.

Capturing the World: Isak

2010-06-01T09:56:00.004-04:00

The sheer number of different kinds of people represented in Brooklyn is staggering. Among the 2.5 million souls who brave residence in the city's largest borough--that is 35,000 per square mile according to 2008 census statistics--there are 93 different ethnic groups, 150 nationalities and 136 languages spoken.

My friend Isak Tiner, an amazing image-maker, decided to mark this incredible gathering of greatness all in one place, training his camera on just one microcosm of it, the incredibly diverse faces of the children at his beautiful daughter's school, P.S. 58 in Carroll Gardens.

Among the nearly 200 images he shot and posted on the wall in the lobby of the school are kids that span the globe from Sweden to Guatemala, many of them mixes of a variety of heritages that they can draw from for their own unique sense of self. One actually eschewed the moniker of specific place, using instead the more encompassing description of "Planetarian."

I met Isak a long while back when he and his beautiful daughter, Imann, bounded into Naidre's with a spirit I hardly see. By the time he left, with a gold star smack dab in the middle of his forehead (an image he quickly e-mailed to me), I was sold: I wanted him to take my picture. How could I not? I hated photographs of myself but this man, clearly, could see things others could not, I could tell from his eyes and it was confirmed when I went on his site, Pink Parrot Pictures, and saw the photographs he has taken. My blog photo is one of his from a great, fun day we spent shooting at my house shortly after our first meeting.

I love that Isak has put his great eye to helping the kids of Brooklyn appreciate where they are from and the places from which those around them might hail.

"By placing these faces together, we've given everyone a chance to stop and actually see each other...to try to understand how deep and rich everyone has the potential to be," he said.

Isak stops and sees people every day around Carroll Gardens, riding regally on his awesome bike, sometimes stopping to capture the beauty he sees in people, in places, in the world.

And that's why I gave Isak Tiner a (second) gold star!

Nearer to Calm Now Thanks to She

2010-05-27T14:14:00.002-04:00

I go to yoga to get balanced, to find some sense of inner calm that might help me get through the day or, in my case, since I only do it on Thursdays, through the week.

I arrived ready to get to a great place, readiness being the necessary state for a practice to potentially actually work. Outside Jaya, the studio where I go, an amazing aroma invaded my nostrils.

"What is that?" I asked. A woman I had seen relaxing and elongating near me many times offered that the scent was hers, a combination of essential oils including Vetiver, lavendar and chamomile.

Turns out, creating such intoxicating aromas is what she, Laura Kauffmann, does, through a company she created called She.

"From the first moment of opening the bottle it immediately has a calming affect," she explained of the mix that had moved me, that she promised to make me for the following week.

Not that dabbing essential oils could replace yoga (and who would want to) but Laura is working to create aromatherapy to enhance the affects of a good yoga practice, aromas that are based in the philosophy of Chinese Medicine.

In class, our teacher, Judy, offered up today the question from Rebecca Sonit's A Field Guide to Getting Lost, "How will you go about finding that thing the nature of which is unknown to you?"

I thought about it. There are so many ways, not least of which is gaining calm and focus through the nasal passages. I often remark on the scents of those around me, will do anything in the urban setting to ensure that the more noxious of fumes don't overwhelm the nicer ones. My new She essential oils should help...

And that's why I gave Laura a gold star!

The Indomitable Force: Annabelle

2010-05-26T17:27:00.003-04:00

She ran in, a blur of orange and bright sunny yellow. She ran directly for the fridge in her happy yellow sandals, opened it right up and grabbed her juice box. This was a girl with a plan. I smiled and stared at her beautiful bun, her sassy outfit and her sweet smile. Every pair of eyes in Red Horse were on her. I looked up at her mother, at the ATM, perfect in her striped dress and amazingly matched shoes, pregnant and fabulous even in the heat.

"Wow," I said. "She's amazing." She smiled a smile that said, "it's hard to mother amazing..."

When I went to sit outside, Annabelle joined me and we chatted a bit, about her booboos ("I fell," she admitted) and other things of importance to a three-year-old. Her blue eyes stared in awe at my gold stars. I happily gave her lots of them, and the one more she wanted after that.

Her mom shook her head at her audacity, her stubbornness. I just smiled. "It's a pain now, for you," I said, "but it will serve her well in life."

No doubt, Annabelle is going places and her mom, Jessica, is helping her along, putting her own fears aside to help her awesome daughter gain crucial independence, to learn to trust in her own awesomeness.

And that's why I gave Annabelle and Jessica their stars. And why I'm thinking of hiring Annabelle as my new publicist...

2010-05-25T09:43:00.005-04:00

When I met Eric, he told me he was a carpenter. My eyes lit up.

“Ooh,” I said with a glint in my eye. I had already put him to work on many projects in my mind. I told him as much, began to fantasize out loud about the bookshelves I wanted built for my bedroom.

He put up his hand to stop me mid-stream and shrugged. “I mostly take people to IKEA, help them pick something out and put it together. It costs less, it’s less work…I might not make as much but it’s faster.” He smiled sheepishly in a way I have now come to recognize.

“I don’t need ALL the money, just some,” he said. It was then that I whipped out the gold star, his first one.

But I got Eric to build me those bookshelves. He bypassed the easy route and did the hard thing, he really built something.

And that’s why I gave Eric his second gold star.

I went to IKEA with Eric. I was, as I expected it to be--no offense at all to the Swedish—grossly underwhelmed by the quality. I love books, I wouldn’t do that to them, couldn’t. I asked Eric if he wouldn’t consider maybe, actually, building me something.

He rolled his eyes, but he rolled up his sleeves and, voila! Eric built me these beautiful book shelves, custom, angled to match the ceiling (if there was any question they were made exquisitely to fit.) There is even a pullout shelf for my keyboard, as he designed to spec!

I smiled at Eric as we stood staring at them, the product of a great gold star moment.

“So?” I said. “How do you feel? Pretty good, huh?”

He rolled his eyes, smiled sheepishly, and then nodded. Sometimes, I would actually argue, maybe ALL the time, hard work is its own reward. See what we can build if we really try? I never cease to be amazed. Thanks Eric, for all you’ve done…and will do…for me and others. It is work that will last a lifetime, or two or three.

Making the Best of It: Dapper David

2010-05-24T12:00:00.003-04:00

It was a beautiful night in the park, the name of the benefit, Dancin' In the Rain, having ensured that it actually didn't rain as it had the two previous years for the Prospect Park Alliance's Party for Playgrounds.

Lots of dressed up people were milling about the Prospect Park Audubon Center at the Boathouse, a beautiful venue for a party, an auction to raise funds for the park's many great playgrounds. I could have stood there all night under the tent surrounded by colorful upside-down umbrellas, staring at the little lake and the bridge beyond, but that I needed a drink.

I neared the bar inside and was greeted by arguably one of the most charming sheepish grins I've ever seen from the bartender, who seemed to have arrived from central casting, clad in a bow tie and a paper hat that might have been silly on someone else but was, on him, somehow perfect.

"Wow," I said, awestruck. "If anyone can rock that hat, it's you..." I said.

His smile softened into a grateful look as he shook his head. "Really?" he said, wanting to believe but skeptical. "Thank you so much! I hate this dumb hat..."

I laughed. "But you wear it so well," I said. "Maybe on somebody else it's stupid, but you manage to make it look cool."

Clearly I had struck a chord. He shook his head again, as if I was an apparition, one he had tried to conjure but couldn't quite believe had actually appeared. "You're sweet..." he said.

He gave me a glass of white wine and I gave him a gold star, and made him pose until I'd captured the look he'd first given me, the "I-know-they-made-me-wear-this-stupid-hat-but-I'm-incredibly-awesome-anyway" look.

Sometimes, oftentimes, we are forced to do things against our will. Sometimes, oftentimes, we have to do things we don't want to do. But then we have to work with what we have when what we have (or have on) isn't what we'd choose. If we can smile in those moments, still feel our awesome selves, like David? Then, we're golden, no one can touch us.

And that's why I gave David a gold star.

A Dance Party at Party City: the Senzala Gang

2010-05-21T17:30:00.006-04:00

I love the Atlantic Center mall. It is always an adventure, a reminder of what can happen, what is possible, in an urban environment. Pulling into the parking lot recently, I saw two policemen and a policewoman pushing a police car. Surprise must have registerd on my face 'cause the policeman closest to me smiled and responded to my unasked question.

"Budget cuts," he said, laughing. "We ran out of gas..."

I wasn't quick enough to whip out my gold stars. When I parked on the lower level I tried to run up and find them, to take their picture, to capture the hilarious moment, but it had passed.

I moved along to Party City, my intended destination, and loaded up on decorations for a concert I was helping out with. In line, a long line, The Gap Band's 1982 hit You Dropped A Bomb On Me played loudly around and, all of a sudden, I was surrounded by swaying, dancing bodies.

I started laughing as the group, one of them holding a package of balloons, swirled a bit more and stopped when the song ended.

"That's awesome," I said, "you guys are great!"

Yes, they were. Turns out there was a reason: they were professionals, a group of Brazilian Capoeira teachers from Senzala. It was their graduation event that evening.

I love dancing in the aisles, I do it as much as humanly possible. I wish more people would do it. It's fun, it feels great. If you let yourself go with the music, just move, it's energizing, enlivening. It can help you get through the impatient moments while you wait for the angry woman ahead of you to stop yelling at the hapless store clerk. Clearly, this group knew that. They couldn't help themselves.

"We like good rhythms," Fernando explained with a shrug. And, lucky for me, they're not afraid to show it, and to show others how to enjoy good rhythm too. They are bringing their beautiful culture to our city, awarding those that take the time and energy to learn.

And that's why I gave Fernando and the rest of the Party City Dance Team--Sylvia, Bruno, Thiago and Mestri Toni--gold stars!

Finding the Fight: Diego

2010-05-20T06:24:00.004-04:00

“You are driven by your convictions, you have to fight for what you believe…” he said strongly, stopping where he stood behind the counter to gesture boldly with the black Lucky Brand skirt he had tried to sell me a moment earlier, that had just come in. It’s what Diego, prevailing over the Smith St. Lucky store, learned in Peru, from being raised around revolution.

We need his spirit here, we need a revolution, we need to stand up and fight for what we believe in. He is right. I am wimpy. I give up too easily from arguing what I believe should happen with the really hard things, believing it too hard to change things, to change the whole scope of the greedy capitalist system. But he is damn right, I stand corrected. (And, for the record, I don’t say that very often.)

And that’s why I gave Diego a gold star!

It started harmlessly, our conversation, like all conversations. But I don’t let it rest easily, and others seem shockingly willing to follow my lead, happy to have the chance to say what’s really on their mind. It is awesome, I love it. We went from talking about the peace sign that Lucky has popularized, to the idea of how self-centered we all would be if reared in the wild, not taught to share, to the sad, sad fact that there will always be divisive, opposing forces in the world.

I shook my head, fingering the cool brown leather mesh belt I coveted but couldn’t bear to spend $48 on. “Such a bummer,” I said. “Why can’t we all just learn to get along?”

He smiled his big bright smile, a smile that might possibly be able to make it all better. “Not going to happen, sorry…” he said, his accent accenting his words, softening them.

But, Diego, what of convictions? Sigh. Our convictions so often take only our own selves into consideration. It must go back to the idea of self-centeredness. It had come full circle: we are at the center of our own universe I do believe, call me Buddhist if you will, like Diego did. It is always easy, then, to make The Other remarkably, reductively Other. But better not to, of course. Better to see them, to reward them just as you do yourself (or should). Better to give them a gold star.

Willing to Travel for Colson: Yonatan

2010-05-19T13:33:00.003-04:00

When I saw Yonatan sitting on the bench outside Colson Patisserie, the fabulous french bakery he owns on the corner of 9th St. and 6th Ave. in Park Slope, I had to stop.

"You know, there are a ton of cafes closer to my house but yet my children will have none other than Colson croissants on the weekend, and make us walk the extra blocks, otherwise there is big trouble," I told him, mimicking some of their complaints of other cafes' attempts, "not flakey enough...too doughey."

He smiled a big sweet dimpled smile. "They obviously have great taste..." he said, then, "No, really, that makes my day, thank you."

Well, his croissants make my kids' weekend days, his espresso and baked oatmeal or an oatmeal cookie (if I'm feeling very bad) very often make mine before I head to the Y across the way.

And that is why I gave Yonatan Israel a gold star!

It is amazing, actually, how many cafes have cropped up in Park Slope, how much competition there is. And, yet, so many seem to survive, seem to draw a particular kind of person or to be placed in exactly the location so that lazy New Yorkers need not even cross the street on the way to the Subway.

In this city, we get very used to things being convenient, to being able to find the best of everything right within our reach. Sometimes, as with my kids' love of Colson croissant, we are compelled to travel a bit for what we want but we are ever hopeful when that storefront comes open across the street or a single block away that it will be something that we absolutely love and need and that it will prevent us from having to go further afield.

I often say most New Yorkers' "neighborhood" is no bigger than a five-block radius. Colson just makes it as part of my hood. Lucky me! Turns out, though, even if I should ever move, I'd have to travel there anyway. It is worth it, I must say!

It Takes A Village...

2010-05-18T06:18:00.009-04:00

I have been toying with adding pictures and names on my blog for a while, but had wondered if people would really want to be featured, focused upon? Turns out, some do, some really do and some don't. But the simple act of imagining that people might actually be buoyed by the recognition has given me a renewed sense of the project, helped me understand how important it is--both for those that want to see themselves and those who don't--that there is some acknowledgment of people's efforts.

Because I am energized about the idea anew, believe wholeheartedly in the power of the gold star sticker to make someone's moment, their day, their week, I am overwhelmed: shouldn't I give a gold star sticker to everyone I see? Who am I to choose? Why is it just me?

Sitting in temple the other day, a rare thing, I was delighted and amazed by the Rabbi's story of a little village whose citizens were told that someone among them was the Messiah.

"It could be any one of you that was brought here to save the world..." the story went.

The Rabbi told of how this powerful idea resonated throughout the village, how everyone started to treat everyone else with much more respect, how they started to treat even themselves with much more respect. The idea changed the village into a special place, far better than before, a place where people actually believed in one another's power to raise each other up and, because they believed it, they actually made it happen.

I was so excited to hear the story. It is, I believe, the same message I am trying to send with my project. Each and every one of us has within us the ability to raise up another, to raise up ourselves, if only we believed we had been granted such a power, if only we thought it possible.

I can tell you from my daily travels, in both words and the deed of disseminating the gold star, that it is entirely possible, relatively easy in fact if we put our mind to it. Yesterday alone, pulling myself out of a funk, I began to reach out, to yank myself headlong out of my shell by giving out a slew of gold stars.

I gave one to the man who sold me 10 records for $5, mostly Barbra Streisand. (I bought them nearly as much for the pictures of the ever-changing Babs as for the music.)

I gave one to the awesome writer/party planner behind the counter at S'Nice whose two favorites on the menu were the same as mine: the Curry Cauliflower Wrap (yum!) and the Quinoa Salad. ("No picture, please," he said.)

I gave one to the fabulous owner of Brooklyn Mercantile, Tamara, who was happy to engage in a conversation about the ills of technology, our passive-aggressive backlash to the idea of having to respond to people right away, and the pathetic Capitalist notion of planned obsolecence that has us paying top dollar for low quality. Her shop is a testament to her beliefs, filled as it is with high-quality items at relatively low prices and classes on how to make things and fix things you already own.

Strangely enough, on my way home, I ran into Janine, a seamstress who teaches at Brooklyn Mercantile, who is about to teach a class on how to take an existing item of clothing and turn it into other things, a dress into a skirt, a skirt into a bag, etc. Her young daughter, Orly, held in her hand an empty paper towel roll.

"Are you going to make something with that?" I asked. "I bet you're really creative, like your Mom, I bet you make lots of things..." I said.

I looked up and Janine was rolling her eyes. Under her breath she whispered in her beautiful English accent, "She knows how to make a mess..." Hilarious. I, of course, whipped out a gold star for both mother and child. They were on their way to the pet store to pick up a bowl for three new goldfish and, it turned out, I had one upstairs, long empty from housing a living thing. We have not had luck with fish and I don't plan on having any tear-filled toilet-flushing ceremonies anytime soon.

When Janine left with the fishbowl, free of charge, having offered me a discount on much-needed arm covers for my couch, I felt a million times better than I had in the morning. Here, right around me, was a community, one in which I was fully participating, in large part because I do believe that any one of us could be the one to help, that we all are, in fact, able to help one another.

Popularizing People Being Nice: Randy & Roadify

2010-05-17T12:01:00.004-04:00

“We’re trying to harness goodwill and generosity for a practical purpose,” he said, “trying to popularize the idea of people being nice to each other.”

I loved that idea, loved Randy’s energy. He is the head of marketing for Roadify, a community-based transportation alert system that is enlisting people to “give to get,” to give information on parking spaces and bus schedules in order that they might get information on parking spaces and bus schedules when they need it.

Helping people help other people to help themselves? That's a no-brainer.

And that's why I gave Randy a gold star.

Randy and the Roadify team, including Roadify creator Nick Nyhan, are trying to build on their ideal that “people will help each other if given an easy way to do it.”

I am myself a big believer in that idea, agree that it has to be easy. “If it’s easy, yes, they will do it,” I said. I wrote too long about convenience foods, the short-cuts that we are all willing to pay for, even at the great cost of our health or the environment, to believe that selling people on doing the hard things, the things we should do but don’t want to, is at all simple.

But Randy is willing to work hard to help figure how to make it easier for others, that is obvious. He has community organizing in his blood, with a background working on AmeriCorps then on the Obama campaign, where he met Nick. He just finished reading Bill Clinton’s book, Giving. He himself is so passionate about the concept of giving that he has thought about tattooing the word “Give” on his body... Clearly, then, it is a true mantra, not just a mission statement. Would that his sincere efforts pay dividends, for Roadify, for Randy himself and for the world.

People Who Connect People: Andy

2010-05-14T14:20:00.004-04:00

Standing in the Verizon Wireless store he runs on 9th St., Andy is like a party host. There is a couple hanging out on the couch, eating lunch.

"Are these friends of yours?" I asked.

He shook his head, no. "People hang out here, I don't know why," he said. "People have a bizarre connection to their phones, I don't know why." He might not understand it, but he shrugs and smiles and makes people feel at home while he helps them connect.

And that's why I gave Andy a gold star.

For Figuring Chemistry: Go Julie!

2010-05-14T09:59:00.003-04:00

She came in to Red Horse for an iced coffee, her eyes a bit glazed over.

"I just finished a four-hour Chemistry exam..." she said. She is studying pre-Veterinary medicine. 'Nuff said.

That is why I gave Julie Brenner a gold star.

Julie used to work at Dizzy's, a Finer Diner. That is where I met her. I remember when she decided to go to back to school, how excited she was. She loves animals, they love her. It's funny, the idea of chemistry, the kind of chemistry she has with dogs, that people have with one another.

I was amazed once when a woman in my writing class shrugged at the idea of trying to figure out why two people might have connected and said in a blase fashion, "It's just chemistry..." Just chemistry? Chemistry is incredibly complicated. I give Julie a lot of credit for trying to figure it.

She looked at me with her incredible eyes and said simply: "The key to chemistry is making sure that the equation is balanced..." As if that's easy. We all strive for balance, right? Making sure it happens is the hard part. Julie is working on that, hard, in her life, in her relationship. Very impressive.

A Beauty-Appreciating Barista: Jesse

2010-05-13T17:24:00.005-04:00

"Is it hot in here..." he said, leaning in toward
me with narrowed eyes and a sexy smile, "or is it just
you?"

I rolled my eyes, wise to his ways and turned to the
other barista behind the counter.

"He says this to all the girls, doesn't he?"

She just shook her head. "No. Jesse makes every one
of us feel special in a different way. He
makes us all feel beautiful. Because he thinks we're all
beautiful..."

And that's why I gave Jesse Auguste a gold star!

It wasn't Jesse's first gold star, not by a long shot. I have given him many and he probably has deserved many more! He serves me Americanos or very special Soy Matte Lattes with beautifully-designed foam nearly every day with a beautiful smile and a quip.

He reminded me of when I gave him his first gold star, many months ago, on a day when he had received a parking ticket, actually a more severe parking sticker, on his car. Instead of staying angry, letting it get him down, he had decided to own it, peeling the sticker off and sticking it on his white t-shirt. When I saw it, I had laughed uproariously and handed him a gold star. Nice work, turning something upsetting into something funny, something you could laugh about with customers and friends. This kind of thing is why people wait in long lines at Naidre's, why everyone loves Jesse.

A Star for a Smile...

2010-05-12T23:07:00.004-04:00

Andrea spreads sunshine with her bright smile.
"Part of my Hinduism is an obligation to be happy," she said.
It shows, her efforts to "make the world a more noble place."

That's why I gave her a gold star...

I met Andrea a few months back at the corner grocery, where her exchange with the clerk could best be described as exuberant. The clerk had noted how Andrea always made her day with her smile and her optimism. I had to step in and give her a gold star. After all, she was obviously giving everyone she encountered so much. She remarked to me then that she herself had thought often of giving out gold stars, especially on the subway, when people seemed to need one so badly. She loved the project, loved her star. She needed it more than I knew, having just been laid up in her apartment for quite a while after an injury.

I invited Andrea to a party I was having the next day and she came, and she lit up the place. Everyone kept telling me, "I met your friend Andrea, she's great!" We tried to get together a bunch of times after that, to no avail, but today it finally worked. As we sat at Naidre's, she talked of one of her favorite blogs, Maitaispicturebook.blogspot.com, a glamorous site focused around a sophisticated French woman's love of all things Hermes.

But still, despite such aspirations, despite her beautiful elephant bracelets and her funky designer frames, she said, "the gold star you gave me is at home, it is one of the things I treasure most. I can't sell it on eBay for even a penny," she laughed, unlike one of Maitai's Scarf Fur Collars. "But it has intrinsic value, it reminds me that I was acknowledged for being myself, for doing something I do naturally."

I love that! And now, Andrea has another gold star, this one right on her P.D.A., a mobile reminder that being her fabulous self should be always be its own reward!

Word Play...

2010-05-12T06:38:00.005-04:00

I am never more reminded of why I live where I live, why I live in the Big Bad City, than when I ride the subway. Take yesterday, for example. I picked up my kiddies from school a bit early for a doctor's appointment in Manhattan. Don't ask. I have been remiss at making Well Visit appointments the year in advance necessary to get in at the Brooklyn office and camp health forms are due, so...I am forced to travel. No matter. I like the excuse to get my kids into The City from the Brooklyn burbs every so often.

We stopped at the deli for snacks and Eli had his book, Oscar the iPod I had brought along, just in case of boredom. I actually had the chance to read on the subway with my kids...Man, I love that they're getting older. I couldn't read, though, distracted by the many people and conversations all around me. One in particular stood out. How could it not? The kids were yelling across the crowded subway car at one another, joking and trying to get attention, as young punks are wont to do. As a few girls got off, one, who had stayed on, shouted at them a word that, luckily, my kids, if they'd been paying attention, would have thought was referring to a fluffy kitty cat...Of course, I knew better, was mildly shocked at the usage of it, by a girl no less. I looked around, as usual when I need to share, to see who else had been paying attention. A young girl sitting across from me met my gaze and smiled. I laughed.

"Well, I'm glad my children don't know that term yet..." I said. She laughed.

I thought about it, though, about how the subway always provides an important reality check on the way kids talk, on the words they think are okay to use. If she had checked Wikipedia, this young girl would have seen that her use of the common cat reference, her use of it as a shout out to her girlfriends, could be considered rude, or, to quote, "Most dictionaries mark the anatomical meaning as 'vulgar' or 'offensive' and its use is frowned upon in polite company."

To be fair, however, I'm sure she didn't care. Quite the opposite. But it made me think. Why was she using this term? As I watched her, plugged in to her music, her face held up high and proud, her eyes closed, pretending not to know the boy down the car who kept prodding her with false nicknames, it occurred to me: words are power. And, in many cases, when you have so little power, it is words you can turn to. They are cheap, cost nothing in fact, and by using them in a new way, in a way that shows others you will not be cowed by anything they call you, by any particular body part people might define you by, you can own what you are. Or, at the very least, pretend to in public.

I went about my business, making sure my kids' baby Goldfish didn't spill all over the subway floor. I had told them they could eat, even though it was against the rules, as long as they didn't make a mess. I am a bad mother that way, always allowing rules to be broken when I understand that my careful actions will avoid creating the problem the rule was meant to address. Oscar, at 6, always chastises me for this, like when I cross against the light, even when I see it's safe.

As I sat there, another girl got on and began to speak loudly, clearly for the benefit (or so she thought) of others, of us. Before too long, she too used that powerful P word in easy reference to a female pal. I shook my head and looked over at my friend across the aisle.

"Really?" I said. "This is why I ride the subway, to see what new words are newly popular, how they're being used..."

She laughed. I'd like to think these girls are hearkening back to the 1500s, finding it in their hearts to tap into the historical definition of the word they're using as it might have been first used, as "a term of endearment for women." I'm going to say it's that, see the cyclical nature of language as a positive, hope that the use of this term gets them somewhere good. Words can get you somewhere, I think, if used well.

I gave my new friend, the one who listened when I had to talk, a gold star as she got off the train. "Thanks!" she said, excited. I never fail to be surprised by the happy unsurprised response people have to receiving a star. It's nice to have an ally and, in this case, I took a pass on making it my kids. Eli, for one, has enough words in his current arsenal to bleep. He is like a censor, choosing the phrases most likely to be loathed by me and bleeping out the really bad ones. But there is no mistaking his meaning. I can imagine, before too long, he'll know this one that's being bandied about freely. It will enter his universe. Whether he will understand its meaning is unclear. After all, do I? Apparently not.

Far-Sighted Failure...

2010-05-07T13:14:00.004-04:00

It is so easy to stop seeing the people right around you. I am guilty of that, and my choice of gold star giveaways has underlined that the last few days. As it turns out, I had failed to reward neighbors and friends who have been standing on the sidelines, hearing about the project, reading the blog, telling others about it. They, in fact, had never even received a star.

A friend turned to another friend at coffee the other morning, as we sat on the corner in front of Colson's on a beautiful blue-sky day, and asked her point-blank, "Have you gotten a gold star?" That friend had, she hadn't.

My jaw dropped. "Is it possible I haven't given you one?" I asked, incredulous but realizing it must be true as I reached into my bag. No, I hadn't, ever, not once in the year-plus I have been talking incessantly to this friend about it, asking for her counsel as a mover and shaker, a get-things-done gal.

"Wow! I'm sorry..." I said. She almost didn't take it, didn't want it if she felt she had asked for it. But I hadn't really thought she would want one somehow, or I thought I had given her one and would look silly giving her one again...Either way. I rectified it, forcing it onto her hand. She definitely deserves it and I had been horribly remiss.

It is a common problem, I'm finding. Another friend and neighbor who has told me she reads my blog and likes it, after hearing that another neighbor had received a star and had been asked about it by a lot of people, looked at her and asked, with a slight tinge of envy in her voice, "What did you get a star for?" She had received it because she is trying, of course, I see her every day helping out at our kids' school, rushing around in the same swirls I am, making an effort to be both person and parent, to make it work. I hadn't ever given her a gold star.

It occurred to me that this other woman, this other hard-working mother of two, a songwriter, wife, daughter, always rushing like mad to get all she needs to get done done, always trying, hadn't received a star. Here I stood in the lobby feeling amazed. How had this happened?

So many people right around me have not received stars. I find that it is an easy metaphor for what happens in real life, not just in this project: we forget about what is right under our nose, we fail to notice it and appreciate it. Pathetic.

It is fitting that this idea should arise on Mother's Day. My family has just served me oatmeal and a smoothie and coffee on a tray in bed as I write this blog. I have demanded these things, made sure to voice my desires after last year's debacle where I joked that "I got nothing for Mother's Day, but my husband got a nice long lecture!"

The point of days like these, silly Hallmark holidays, is that they force us to stop and take notice of all the things that people do that we take for granted. I teased Oscar, my youngest, that I was going to play the role of him on Mother's Day, whining, "I want...I want...Gimme, gimme, gimme..." all day so he could see how it felt. I want him to stop and take notice of all the things I do, not to make him feel guilty, I do (most) of these things because it's my pleasure, but because it will be an important thing in his life to recognize the efforts of others, especially efforts made on his behalf.

Sometimes, I think, it is easier to be kind to strangers. It is, at the very least, far less complicated than figuring ways to reward those around you all the time. I'm glad I have had a reminder of that. I guess I needed it. As I drag my kids around the park to find birds shortly, a gift I am demanding they give me, I will certainly spend time reminding them that we have to remember those close to us in our lives, those that we see every day, and not take them for granted. Giving out even proverbial gold stars to people in your life is so, so important! Happy Mother's Day Moms! Enjoy your moment in the sun...

A Thank-You to Great Writers' Children...

2010-05-06T13:21:00.005-04:00

Good literature, at its best, lets us in to the real thoughts in a writer’s brain, offers us access to the imaginings a regular non-writer-person might never admit, even to the dog.

I have been saved by such literature, by the mere notion that those things I think sometimes, the things that might be dinner-party-don’ts, might in fact be shared by others. These books, those of Erica Jong and John Cheever and William Styron and James Baldwin and Jerzy Kosinski and Susanna Kaysen, have allowed me on many occasions to breathe sighs of great relief that all is not always what it seems, that the facades we often face are simply that, that I am not the only “crazy” one.

I have been thinking about this notion a lot as I attempt to create my own honest work of writing, to put together my own novel. I have been appreciating even more what it takes for an author to acknowledge their thoughts and feelings, even the seemingly unseemly dirty details of their lives, and been amazed at their perseverance despite the toll such admissions might take on their families, their husbands and wives, their children.

So it was with great interest a few weeks back that I came across a direct display of that toll right on my Facebook page. A number of months ago I had come across writer Molly Jong-Fast on Facebook and, seeing that we had some mutual friends, I did what any aspiring writer does these days: I friended her. To my great delight, she friended me back. I have, as of yet, been too wimpy to friend her mother, Erica Jong, as I am still getting my sea legs networking with writers whose work has greatly affected me, fearing…I don’t know what.

Well, on this particular day, April 20, Ms. Jong-Fast had written on her status that she “apologizes for her mother’s comments…” I had to look it up to see what she was apologizing for, given that Fear of Flying, the 1973 bestseller that belied women’s supposed frigidity, had likely long ago ceased to be an embarrassment. I found it relatively easily, the media world being what it is. Clearly, this reference was to some comments Ms. Jong had made about Oprah in a blog post about Kitty Kelley’s new book, comments that were pretty harmless if not at all PC.

Nonetheless, I could understand how a daughter might indeed want to separate herself from such comments, to ensure that her own “friends” and friends might see that the thoughts therein expressed did not reflect her own. As I read through the comments to the post, it got even more interesting. There in front of my face was another daughter of one of my favorite authors, Susan Cheever, who posted her own complaints of parental word-permissiveness.

Ms. Cheever noted: “And I apologize for MY mother’s and my father’s too…”

Among the other 10 or so comments were a number from Erica Jong herself, including one in response to Ms. Jong-Fast’s admission that “I love you Mom!” that said, “I love u too. We can disagree and still love.”

I shook my head. This was more than slightly surreal for me, a weird window into what it is like to make one’s feelings public through the written word, in all the many forms available to us writers these days.

Despite wanting to enter the conversation, I kept quiet. Who am I, after all, but a fly on the wall of these more well-known writers’ trials and tribulations and triumphs? It did warm me quite a bit to know that these women whose lives are so affected by their parents’ honest admissions are themselves writers, bound, if they are at all honest, to put their own progeny into a quite similar bind. It is not at all unlikely that their children will be likewise commenting on Facebook or whatever social media is popular in a few years, about the embarrassing thoughts of theirs that get shared.

I mulled the subject again last night as I ran the bake sale for an amazing under-attended event at my sons’ school last night featuring Alexandra Styron and Bliss Broyard discussing the memoirs they've written about their fathers. Ms. Styron bravely shared a passage of a book set to come out next year about the great William Styron, a writer who dared to take on the tough topics of slavery, the Holocaust and his own paralyzing depression, and who changed many lives in the process. Her story of her father, of course, intimately involves her and the affect the more frustrating aspects of being a brilliant writer had on her, on her family and, of course, on her father himself. I almost burst into tears about 15 times during her reading, one of the first she's made on the book, which even her mother hasn't read.

Ms. Broyard, daughter of book reviewer Anatole Broyard, likewise nearly brought me to tears talking as she did just as openly about her father and the "secret" they learned only on his deathbed, that he was actually part black, had abandoned sisters and family nearby for fear that he would be outed.

These women inspired me. I am humbled by the art that brings about, sadly, a sometime shame. But it is, I feel, for the greater good that great minds share even the darkest thoughts. I remember this as I write, and I hearken back to a much smaller me, dwarfed by the stack of books I brought weekly to the checkout at my public library in Tucson, Arizona, the stack that I hoped against hope the librarian would believe I could read in the time allotted. I could, and did. I am understanding of the toll it may take on the sons and daughters of those people, but those words cheered and consoled me and continue to nearly every day. Gold stars go out to writers and their families for all it takes to have the guts to share, and help.

Is Everyone an Artist?

2010-05-05T07:20:00.003-04:00

I always get into great conversations at Dizzy’s, with the guys behind the counter. Monday was no exception. I had remarked to my pal, again, about a photograph I coveted, one of a narrow walled street in Morocco with a sliver of blue sky ahead. Something about it gives me hope.

“I don’t know,” my friend said, shaking his head, not wholly convinced the shot was worth the $250 pricetag. “I guess, with photography, I’m not convinced…a lot of people think they’re artists but…”

I knew where he was headed, where a lot of people go. There is so much judgment about “what is art,” “who is an artist…”

I shook my head, defensive for art forms of any kind, feeling like I always did with my Dad at MOMA.

“I suppose art is in the eye of the beholder,” I said.

Anyway, I told him, I had just come from my sons’ school, from an amazing African dance performance where every single third grader—even those I had coaxed unwillingly into the pool at points, those I had heard on many occasions offer up ‘I can’t’ with doing things or creating things—had participated, and not just half-way. Each and every one of them had swayed and swished around the fourth-floor “stage” with great pride and beauty. It was a sight to behold, a real achievement of artistic endeavor. The performance greatly affected both the participants and the audience, it was obvious. The dance teacher and the PTA president who had the great presence of mind to hire her both got gold stars.

“See,” I said, “I am confident that we all have artistic talents, if only we are encouraged to try, if we are not shot down with the idea that only some people are real artists…” I shook my head.

“Did I offend you?” he asked with a look of concern.

I laughed. “I don’t get offended. It’s just a question of whether I still like you…”

Luckily, I still like him because he acknowledged shortly thereafter that his judgment, like all our judgments, came from a personal place, from a place where he had been overly judgmental of himself for not liking certain things or not discerning what did or didn’t speak to him. That I understand. I have learned to walk by a lot of things in a museum that do not speak to me, that do not pull me in or provoke me to thought, even if it’s a Rembrandt. I have learned to change the station if the music doesn’t move me, even if it’s Tchaikovsky.

I try not to be overly judgmental, though, of what I don’t care for just as I try to judge myself less for my own artistic efforts, as I try also not to put fear into my children about their own potential artistic talents. My hubbie has taken up drawing and goes faithfully to class every week, working painstakingly on pieces he is proud of when they’re done. Oscar brings home How to Draw books from the library and tries his hand at getting a likeness for sharks, cars, what have you. I play the piano joyfully by ear, even if I can’t play chords well with my left hand, even if it doesn’t sound like Mozart. And my kids have courage with their own efforts, be it piano, drums, guitar or mixing on their fabulous music teacher’s computer.

If only as an outlet for their own thoughts, their own feelings, as a way to express themselves, as outlets for us to express ourselves, these efforts are so valuable. I think the message might be sinking in that art in almost any form is of value, value beyond a monetary number.

The other night, Oscar brought home Tomie dePaola’s The Legend of the American Paintbrush, about an artist who is tapped to find the colors to bring the sunset down to earth in his painting, someone who is challenged by his gift, who often wishes he could make other more regular choices, to be like everyone else. I thought of my Dizzy’s friend, of his belief that not everyone chooses to be an artist, to go down that road. I can see that, agree even. It is often a hard road. My kids and I chatted after the book about the responsibility of the artist, of how important it was for him to use his great gift.

Oscar nonchalantly shrugged and offered up his thoughts: “Art changes people’s lives...”

I smiled. "I agree," I said, and I do, wholeheartedly, I think that about art in every form, from the most crude kids’ drawing to a great novel.

On Tomie dePaola’s website, which references the more than 200 children’s books he has written, there is a quote, from political artist Ben Shahn, from a comment he made to dePaola in the summer of 1955. It offers only that “being an artist is not only what you do it is how you live your life.”

I would argue that there is an artist in all of us, that our lives can change others’ lives through so many forms. I gave my Dizzy’s friend a gold star. I think it’s great just to try to discuss these things, to figure them in our own heads. And I gave a gold star to a man sitting next to me who was pitching a new art installation to Dizzy’s owner, who will also get a gold star when next I see him for offering opportunity to local talent. Maybe he'll give me a discount on the photograph…

A Big Win

2010-05-02T06:30:00.003-04:00

On our way to my older son Eli's baseball game yesterday, he and I began to chat.

"So," I said, "your team is doing great this year!" I enthused.

He stopped and looked up at me quizzically, his face scrunched into the classic "duh" expression.

"We haven't won one game..." he said.

Oops. I laughed, caught out for not having paid close enough attention.

"Well, you've had fun, right?" I said.

"Yeah," he said.

I shrugged. "I really don't care about winning or losing," I said.

He shrugged too. "Yeah, me neither."

I struggle with this all the time, this idea of not caring, of not wanting to make besting the competition a huge, important priority. I know that it is a fact of life, that most situations demand that there be a winner and a loser, but I cannot reconcile myself to it. It just feels too terrible. Why can't we all win?

I thought of this as I sat on a blanket in the shade, barely glancing up at the game as it was played. I have more than a little A.D.D. and I find it hard to focus when I look at a field full of moving people. At least, that's my excuse. I try to catch the times that Eli comes up to bat, if he should catch a ball in the field. But I don't want to look too closely. If he should strike out (which he sometimes does) or miss a ball (which can happen) I feel bad for him but I don't want to let on, don't want to give him any sense that it matters. Cause, in the scheme of things, it really doesn't.

There came a point, though, after a long, long while of sitting, relaxing, that I picked up on a new vibe. The team had been losing pretty badly, the other team far more fiercely competitive than ours, the coaches chastising players in a way Eli's gentle coach would not. We laughed over on the blanket, calling our team the Bad News Bears. But none of us seemed to mind. It's all for sport, all in a day's fun.

But the teammates started whooping, so much so I that I was actually compelled to rise from my blanket and see what was up. It was close, it turns out. Eli's team had come from behind and actually had a chance to win. They were all abuzz, excited, slapping each other on the backs, mini versions of Major Leaguers, doing what they imaged Major Leaguers might do.

I went back to my blanket perch, but with renewed focus on the game. Within a minute, a boy I know from Eli's school, a sweet, sweet smiling kid who has had a very hard time, whose Dad died suddenly last year, who has been held back a grade, whose baseball jersey can barely button over his big belly, slammed one hard, well into the outfield, well into victory.

I won't soon forget the smile on his face as he rounded the bases, as he came into home to the high-fives and hugs of his teammates. I was up in a flash, on my feet, and, with tears in my eyes, I hugged this kid, this kid I have in the past coaxed across the pool, up from his back on the ice skating rink, a kid who, despite his girth, is incredibly graceful and athletic, who has incredible promise and potential. He had won the game for his team and it was so, so great.

As I jumped up and down, screamed to Eli's teammates what a great job they had done, cheered them as they cheered themselves, I had to laugh at myself, at what a hypocrite I was. Sometimes, winning does matter, it means a lot, it is a huge reward for efforts expended and it makes people feel great, gives them hope for the greatness they can achieve if they try.

I gave this boy who had helped his team to victory a gold star, quietly, surreptitiously as I didn't have enough for all. But he deserved it. He should remember this moment. I tried not to notice the disappointed faces of the other team, their angry coach. Sometimes, you just have to see the bright side of a big win.

Gold Star to Gardega for Selling Himself!

2010-04-29T11:59:00.007-04:00

He sighed loudly as he sat down, again, on the bar stool next to me at Union Square Coffee Shop. He'd been sitting there for a while, the sigher. I'd noticed him only sidelong.

I looked up from my computer screen.

"Sorry," he said, though clearly he wasn't, not at all. "I had a really long day."

I smiled, recognizing a fellow chatterer when I saw one, and turned toward him on my stool. "Sorry," I apologized, knowing myself what one can feel like after a long day.

"No," he said, shaking his head, "it was a good long day...really productive."

I laughed. "Then I take back my sorry, and offer up congratulations instead."

He motioned at my computer, at the W. Somerset Maugham novel, The Painted Veil, open beside it. I hadn't been able to decide whether to read or write as I ate my amazing Sesame Chicken Salad, maybe my favorite meal in all of New York.

"Are you writing a book?" he asked.

I laughed. "Trying..."

He shook his head vehemently. "There is no trying, only doing..."

Ha. He had no idea what he was walking into with that line. I reached over and took out my stars.

"Well," I said, "it just so happens I reward people, just for trying." I handed him a gold star, not even knowing what he'd worked long and hard on all day, but knowing that, like me, like all of us, he was trying.

He took it happily, with a big smile and great enthusiasm. Turns out, he has been trying, very hard, and doing well, as an artist. Not an easy task, not at all. He has actually made it, he told me, onto Page Six. We talked about the idea of the successful artist, of how one seems a turncoat, a prostitute of sorts, just by making money at what one does, just by being rewarded monetarily. He was reconciling himself to the idea, though, since, he offered up, "Normally, I couldn't even afford a taco..."

What is wrong with selling one's art? With making money for one's passion projects? Why does it seem we have to feel ourselves "whores" for trying to make a living doing what we love? If prostitutes love what they do, all power to them.

It is a big subject recently, the artist as hustler. I have actually seen not one but TWO documentaries on the subject in the last year. The first, Con Artist, by filmmaker Michael Sladek, came out last year to tell the story of artist Mark Kostabi, an '80s Andy Warhol-like sensation, a real, talented artist who took his talent for determining what art collectors wanted as far as possible to great fame and fortune for a time.

Strangely enough, last Saturday night, as we sat waiting at Sunshine Cinemas for the start of Exit Through the Gift Shop, a documentary about street artist Banksy that also explores the great "con" of modern art, who should walk in but Mr. Kostabi himself? He sat on the other side of the theater and we didn't bother him, but it was an interesting case of serendipity.

So too was my sitting next to this fine artist, Alex Gardega (www.gardega.com), himself struggling with the ascendance of his star, reconciling what's real. Certainly his daily toiling on beautiful, haunting images, in oils, in watercolor, in glass, is real, and is really worth something, worth a lot. Whether or not he ever makes it on to Page Six again...