Is it my imagination or does everyone seem to be at cross
purposes these days, lambasting one another for their tightly held ideals,
political views, and opinions?  Has
social media made it appropriate—if not convenient—to start political debates
that go nowhere fast?

Count me out.

Put simply:  I read
Facebook for the updates on what everyone had for dinner, cute kitten pictures,
funny memes, and George Takei’s thoughts on life.  If you’re going to spew about this candidate
or another—or God forbid, any of their spouses—please keep the vitriol to
yourself, because I am just not interested. 
Consider yourself not “unfriended but “hidden.”

I know for a fact that a few of my fellow Stiletto wearers
feel the same way based on what they have posted on their own pages.  And one, in particular, agrees with me on
this point:  you’re not going to change
anyone’s mind, so just leave it alone.

I read a fascinating interview in O Magazine last night that
really drove this point home for me. 
Donna Brazile, a woman who has worked on dozens of Democratic political
campaigns and who helmed Al Gore’s presidential campaign, and Mary Matalin,
spouse of Clinton friend James Carville but a staunch conservative, are best
friends.  Crazy, right?  Well, turns out that they do discuss politics
and other charged topics but they both know that their hearts are in the right
place and that their opinions stem from individual lives lived with sincerity.  They discuss topics but never try to change
each other’s minds and if they are to be believed—and I have no reason not to
believe them given the frankness of their answers—they do not go for each
other’s jugular if they disagree.  They
have dinner together, they travel together, they drink together, they even
dance together, yet fall on completely opposite sides of every imaginable
political issue.

Mature, right?

The one thing that struck me about the interview
was that the women still had high standards when it came to good taste and
manners.  They felt that discussing politics
without bringing respect and politeness to the conversation was the height of
rudeness, something their mothers would not condone.  Stirring the pot at a cocktail party, in
their opinions (and mine), was just in bad taste.  Finding a proper forum—and having a
discussion with the proper decorum—was what made a good debate.  Yelling, talking over someone, or spouting
negativity in the name of supporting one’s ideals…not so much.  And this applied equally to face-to-face
discussions and those that take place virtually.

I am a fan of social media. 
It makes life for someone like me—an extrovert who works alone and at home—more
enjoyable.  I love seeing what everyone
has to say about what they’ve got going on in their lives.  What I don’t love is talk of politics of any
ilk, particularly when it is filled with half-truths, disparaging comments and
an assumption that if you’re on the other side of the debate, well, you must be
just plain dumb.  (And this applies to
both left-leaners and right-leaners.)  We
all bring our own life experience to bear on our beliefs and that doesn’t make
them right or wrong—just ours.

So, if I haven’t commented on Facebook your definition of
socialism or redistribution, or given my opinion on how 5 trillion dollars can
be cut from the federal budget, or discussed how I feel about birth control and
who should pay for it, it just means that I’m staring at a cute photo of a
kitten tucked into the warm cocoon that its mother has made for it.  Or that you’ve been “hidden.” Don’t worry:  once the election is over, we’ll all be friends again and you can unhide me, too.

Maggie Barbieri

I tripped over the skateboard in the front hallway and
cursed under my breath thinking about what I would say to child #2 when I
finally saw him.  “Get that damned
skateboard out of the hallway!” was my first choice, something that would be followed
by a litany of other crimes against humanity he had perpetrated with his
strewn-about cleats, sneakers, and pieces of sports equipment.

Then, I stopped myself.

Yes, I’m the same woman who has been bemoaning the fact that
child #1 leaves for college in less than two weeks, and about how fast it all
went.  The same woman who laments that
she wishes she could stop time and get her babies back.  I stopped, put the skateboard back where it
was, and took a deep breath.  In a couple
of years, unless Jim and/or I take up skateboarding, there will be no more
skateboards in the front hall, no Converse All-Stars to trip over, no crumbs
strewn across the countertop in the kitchen after someone makes a sandwich or a
snack.

You can’t have it both ways.

You can’t complain about the trappings of childhood while
feeling bereft about how fleeting it is. 
When I think about it that way, the minor annoyances that living with
children bring—no one walking the dog, stuff everywhere, dirt underfoot—now seem
as trivial as they should be all the time. While they are growing up and
getting older—as they should be—they are still residents here and with that
comes a lot of stuff, some of seemingly annoying, but for now, I’ll take it.

A lot of my Stiletto brethren have gone through the process
of letting go, so my question today is: 
how do you make it easier to get through the happiest times in your
child’s life while dealing with your own sadness? In other words, how do you
not ruin everything with your own selfish musings on how quickly childhood
goes?

Maggie Barbieri

From the
cat who literally swallowed the canary (and then threw it up on your aunt’s
antique Persian rug) to the dog who ran away, we at the Stiletto Gang put our
collective heads together and thought: what could be better than walking down
memory lane with thoughts of some of our favorite–and not-so-favorite–pets?
Join us for the next two weeks as we reminisce about the animals we loved and
those who loved us.

For most of my childhood, my mother didn’t work.  Then, one day, she went back to work at an office
in the Bronx, leaving just before I and my three siblings left for school in
the morning.  Fortunately, my grandmother
had just left her job at the local convent and was burdened with the task of
getting the four of us off to school. 
But if you’re a regular reader, you know that Mom and grandmother had a
great system for lunches (all made on Sunday; grab and go from the freezer on
each weekday) and the bus stop was only across the street.

What could possibly go wrong?

Enter Dusty, the recalcitrant golden retriever.  Lovable, yes. 
Obedient?  Hardly.

My grandmother opened the door of the house one lovely Fall
day in the mid-1970s and ushered the four of us, all clad in our plaid
Catholic-school uniforms, across the street to the bus stop, watching us from
the protective comfort of the storm door. 
As the door slam started to slam shut, Dusty emerged from whatever hidey
hole he had set up for himself and ran past her, taking all hundred pounds of
her with him, racing down the steps.  It
was bus stop time!  The best time of the
day for a two-year-old golden retriever. 
Nothing would stop him in his quest for a place at the bus stop with the
kids.

Maga, our grandmother, lay prone on the sidewalk in front of
the house.  This was a woman, however,
who had left the comfort of her Irish cottage in the early 1920s and sailed for
America, forging a new life and new family for herself, so this was not a woman
to be trifled with.  She made a valiant
grab for Dusty’s collar but he wasn’t wearing one and off he took, down the
street, our collective groan no match for the sound of the bus trundling down
the street. 

I looked at her in horror. 
She looked back at me.  The
mission was clear:  get Dusty back in the
house before the bus reached our stop.

Did I mention that Maga couldn’t drive?  Hence, the horror.  If I missed the bus, I would have to walk two
miles to school.  If I had to walk two
miles to school, I would be late.  And if
I was late, well, Sister Loyola would not be pleased.

I dropped my book bag and took off down the street toward
the lawn where Dusty frolicked; when he saw me, he was overjoyed at the thought
that I would skip school to play with him. He ran and jumped and chased his own
tail, all the while I stood in one spot in the middle of the street, my pleated
wool plaid skirt and weskit not suited to playing with a dog.

After a few minutes, Dusty wore himself out and came over to
me, throwing himself to the ground at my feet, his tongue lolling out of one
side of his mouth.  I looked up the street
and saw the bus pull to a stop, everyone else getting on, staring at me
wide-eyed from their seats as the bus pulled away.  My heart sank.

I grabbed the dog around the neck and pulled him the entire
length of the street, his back feet digging into the asphalt as I begged,
pleaded and cajoled that he help me get him to the house.  It took the better part of a half hour, my
hysteria mounting the whole way, my grandmother standing by the driveway,
helpless.  We finally reached the house
and I dragged him inside, my grandmother swatting his behind with a copy of the
Daily News and screaming at him that he had made me miss the bus. 

He didn’t care.

I ran outside, gathered up my book bag and looked around
frantically hoping to spy a neighbor on their way to work or the grocery
store.  The neighborhood was desolate and
I was at a loss.

Next door lived my favorite neighbors.  They had five sons and one daughter, and
their youngest son was my best friend in the whole world. His older brother,
second in line, was not.  To him, my best
friend and I were just snot-nosed kids (by this time, he was in his twenties
and we were tweens), something that he made crystal clear when we were admiring
his brand-new, all white Ford Mustang. 
“Don’t touch anything!” he hollered when we got close to the vehicle,
the one that would take him to his new job as a high-school teacher.  As I stood on the front lawn that day, I
heard the familiar rumble of the Mustang’s engine as he revved it, preparing to
peel out of the driveway and head to school.

I tore across the front lawn, throwing myself in the direction
of the car, screaming “please, please, please!” as I got closer, hoping that he
could hear my frantic cries over the roar of the engine.  He looked up and saw me and while I could see
a threat of indecision cross his face—should I or shouldn’t I—he decided to
stop and see what I needed.  “A ride,” I
gasped.  “I need a ride.”

Of course, he was late for school.  Weren’t we all that beautiful day?  I put my hands together and begged him for a
ride, something that took far longer than it should have, given the circumstances
(crying tween girl, non-driving grandmother). 
He finally relented and opened the door for me with one condition:  I couldn’t touch anything in the car.  So, we rode to school, me sitting on the edge
of the white leather bucket seat, my hands crossed on my lap, desperately
trying to hold on as he sped toward St. Catherine’s.

I made it to my classroom just before the first bell. (And
by the way, Bobby—I touched your dashboard. 
Three times.  When you weren’t
looking.)

Dusty only lived two years (he died of a congenital birth defect)
but he had two years filled with such capers. 
He was not a dog for the faint of heart, but he lived life to the
fullest, taking any opportunity to frolic and roam and wander.

We all need a little Dusty in our lives.

Maggie Barbieri

A friend of mine is moving into a co-op in New York City and
has been asked by the co-op board to provide four letters of recommendation to
prove that she is, in fact, a good neighbor. 
She has asked me to write one of the letters because beyond the fact that
we were “neighbors” all during high school—our maiden names both starting with
“Sc-“ made it so N, my friend, stared at the back of my head for four years—she
moved into our neighborhood ten years ago and stayed here until recently
deciding that she and her husband wanted to be back in New York City.  I’m biased—she was one of my best friends
until our respective paths separated us for many years—so what can I say beyond
the fact that she doesn’t drink, smoke, do drugs, or have crazy parties?  That she’s the smartest person I know?  That she and her husband speak so softly that
I can often not hear what they’re saying? 
That her leisure pursuits consist of running, reading books that require
a forklift to get off the bookshelf, and playing with her cats?  Or that if you ever find yourself in a real
pickle—say with a diagnosis of Stage IV melanoma—she’s the only person you want
at your side besides your spouse?  All of
those things seem irrelevant to what the co-op board may want to know about my
friend, but I’ll include most of it anyway. 
I don’t know how often she takes out her recycling or if she’ll be
needing a parking space or even if she cooks curry at weird hours, but I know
she’s a good person and someone you’d want living beside you to celebrate the
good and weathering the bad.

The requested letter of recommendation got me thinking about
recommendations in general.  What do we
really want to know when we ask for recommendations?  Generally, is the person a hard worker?  A suitable neighbor?  An upstanding citizen?  But more to the point, what should we want to
know? For instance, when I was looking for a new babysitter, what I should have
asked, besides the obvious (have any children died on this person’s watch?),
was “will this person clean up after themselves after making a thick ragu of
beef, veal, and pork with onions to spare?” 
Or, will this person say to me, a new mother, that she knows more about
childrearing than I do and to learn from her? 
(Trust me, that’s something you don’t want to hear after commuting two
hours and working a ten-hour day.)  What
about the new marketing manager that you’re hiring?  Ask that person, “will you make promises to
people that you cannot keep without me pulling every string and three straight
all-nighters?” rather than “How many copies of book x did you sell during your
tenure at your former company?”

These are the intangibles, the things that I wished I had
the foresight to ask.  As a closet
perfectionist (ok, maybe not so closet), I try to anticipate every last thing
in order to be prepared, but what I have found is that I can never anticipate everything,
and even if I come close, I’m usually off by a detail or two.  So, I’m now just trying to go with the flow,
something that doesn’t come naturally to me and that feels like I’m wearing an
ill-fitting dress when I try it on for size. 
I wish my friend’s co-op board was doing the same, but for obvious
reasons, I guess we’re glad that we’re not.

What are some of the things you wished you had foreseen,
Stiletto Faithful?  What is one question
you wished you would have asked?

Maggie Barbieri