Where have all the station wagons gone?

Posted on August 23, 2010 | 10 comments

I’ve never paid much attention to fashion; not for clothes or hairstyles. I’m not particularly mindful of trends when it comes to restaurants, or music, or vacation spots. And I’m only vaguely aware of what’s on the New York Times Best Sellers list. I shouldn’t be surprised then, that when I set out to buy a new station wagon it turned out I’d missed an automotive trend.

I was still driving a station wagon, a 1998 Subaru Legacy. The fact that it needed struts, at twelve years old, was compelling enough to convince us to finally replace it. There was spirited discussion about whether or not we needed a station wagon (if we ever truly did). When we bought the Subaru we didn’t know how many kids we’d have, or what kind of sports they’d be into. It seemed logical, if not inevitable, that we add a station wagon to our transportation mix. Now here we were, twelve years later, parents of an only child whose soccer cleats never required more than the space her feet occupied. Nonetheless, we couldn’t ignore the desire to have a car with enough room to bring home purchases from the occasional trip to Ikea.

Our other car is a Prius. During its peak cruising season it can hit fifty miles per gallon. The only way to get that kind of mileage in a second car was to purchase another Prius. We agreed that our second car should have more cargo capacity than the Prius, with the best possible mileage. I subscribed to Consumer Reports online (a blog post for another day) so I could research our options. Searching for good gas mileage and cargo capacity, for under $25,000, produced a short list with nothing that they considered “station wagons.” As a result, we are now the somewhat abashed owners of a 2011 Subaru Outback Crossover Wagon.

A crossover wagon is, apparently, more than a station wagon, but not quite an SUV (a trend I couldn’t have missed if I were blind). The industry can call it what they want, but when we stood in our garage, trying to admire our new Outback, my husband looked at me and said, “I think we just bought an SUV.” We’re vaguely embarrassed, and a little ashamed of our new car. We drive our Prius proudly and feel a little hangdog in the Outback. However, on our recent trip to Lake Placid, the Outback averaged 33 miles per gallon, which is better than some of the smaller cars that Consumers liked. It’s a good thing, because we’ll be driving that Outback for a long time.

My father taught me that a car should be driven until it dies under you. And even then, there can be life after death. When the engine went on my old Chevy (oh, pardon me, Chevrolet) Duster on the Mass Pike, it wasn’t dead enough for my dad. He insisted it would be fine once we had a new, used engine put in it. I let him manage that, and subsequently sold it to my younger sister for a grand, so I could move up to a used Toyota Tercel.

My father is still driving his beloved 1988 station wagon. I don’t remember the make or model. It doesn’t really matter because whatever it is, they don’t make it anymore.

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Everyone’s a little bit snobby

Posted on August 16, 2010 | 5 comments

I’m just back from a vacation in Lake Placid with my husband’s entire family. The weather was wonderful and the hiking was fun. And while I’m sure my mother-in-law is waiting with bated breath to see what I’ll write about the week, I’ve decided that what happens in Lake Placid, stays in Lake Placid. There was, however, one interesting discussion that bears further exploration; the difference between being a snob, and an elitist. We did not reach consensus (or perhaps we did, and I can’t recall it because I was besotted, thanks to a 1983 Chateau d’Yquem Sauterne with which we were toasting our gathering). Strangely, though there were half a dozen iPhones in the group, and as many laptops, at the time, no one thought to look up the meanings of those words.

According to my trusty paperback edition of The Merriam Webster Dictionary (circa 1994) a snob is, “one who seeks association with persons of higher social position and looks down on those considered inferior,” and elite means, “the choice part; a superior group” (and “a typewriter type providing 12 characters to the inch,” which has no bearing on the discussion, but I’ve thrown it in to see if you’re paying attention). It seems clear from those definitions that if one feels no pressing need to associate with those higher up the class food chain, then they may well be the elite, which does not, however, preclude them from looking down on those they consider inferior, hence they are also snobs.

I embrace the philosophy originally espoused by Groucho Marx (though often incorrectly attributed to Woody Allen) that I don’t want to belong to any club that would have me as a member. I guess that makes me a snob. But then, I maintain that we are all snobs; we all look down on those we consider inferior to us. If we consider them inferior, then we must, by definition, be looking down on them.

One of my favorite modern musicals, Avenue Q, has a song called, Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist. I encourage you to read the lyrics for yourself, as a quote taken out of context here might cause a flap, but the point I’m making is, it might just as well be called, Everyone’s A Little Bit Snobby.

There’s no doubt that the word snob has horrible connotations. Most people accused of being a snob would probably object strenuously, while glancing around to make sure no one overheard the accusation. Instead, maybe we should just embrace our inner snobs and comfort them with the knowledge that there’s always someone who is snobbier than we are, thereby making us look positively well-adjusted.

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Cat people will understand

Posted on August 2, 2010 | 5 comments

Cats are limited in their ability to express affection for us. Mainly, they rub their bodies against ours, particularly their cheeks where their ‘happy’ pheromones are produced (or exuded; I don’t claim to know much about cat physiology). They knead their paws on us, with claws extended, and sometimes, in their excitement, they nip. In none of those instances do they mean to hurt us, but if you aren’t trimming their nails regularly, and they still have their teeth, both of those signs of affection can be a tad painful. Leaving aside the obvious sophomoric human parallels to the above, that’s pretty much it for a cat’s ability to express affection for a human.

Some of you are lucky enough to have cats who will let you pick them up and snuggle them. I’m terribly jealous of you. Of our two cats, one will tolerate being picked up if it’s necessary to be moved from point A to point B, but the other will run if he even suspects that’s what we have in mind. Since he’s usually wrong about our intent, it’s also difficult to pet him, unless he initiates contact.

That cat, the male, is at his most loving when we’re in the bathroom. He loudly demands attention when we are either sitting on the pot, or have just stepped out of the shower and are dripping wet. Personally, I’d rather pet him while sitting down than immediately post-shower when his fur will get stuck all over me. Despite my aversion to cat fur on my wet skin, however, whenever my cats ask for attention, I am prone to drop everything and respond. (Cat people will understand.) Imagine then, how painful it must be to have to give up your cats, for whatever reason, to the uncertain future of a shelter.

A woman I know was recently forced, by medical circumstances, to take her two cats to a shelter, after she had tried, unsuccessfully, to find a home for them. After a week or so, she contacted the shelter to find out how they were, and if they had been placed with a new family. They told her that one of the cats had had a horrible time adjusting, stopped eating and drinking, and cried constantly. After several days, she’d apparently made herself so sick that they’d had no choice but to put her to sleep. I know the shelter in question, and they’re wonderful people, so I’m sure they did what they felt they had to do. The woman, however, was horrified, and promptly returned to the shelter to retrieve the remaining cat.

My heart breaks thinking about that poor woman. She is never going to forgive herself for what she will always think of as being responsible for killing her cat. Instead she’ll spend her days coughing and trying to catch her breath, while her remaining cat rubs against her asking for attention, which she will be unable to resist providing, thereby exacerbating her inability to breathe. Cat people will understand.

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Writers get no respect

Posted on July 26, 2010 | 8 comments

I’m writing a book. You’re writing a book, too? I’m not surprised. It seems that everyone and their uncle has written, is writing, or wants to write, a book. I say good luck to all of you. Now that I’ve been at it for a while, I understand how hard it really is to do. I’ll hazard a guess that most writer-wannabes will never get farther than, “It was a dark and stormy night,” even though they could, if they could just find the time.

I’ve worked with words my entire adult life. As a marketing person I’ve written all kinds of things; web pages, brochures, white papers and press releases. I’ve compressed countless pages into PowerPoint presentations, and incorporated oodles of questions into FAQs. I’ve edited technical manuals and books. Why, back in the day, I even wrote copy for print ads (remember when software was advertised in magazines?). These activities never seemed to increase my cachet with upper management though. Why? My observation is that business people (in high tech) don’t view the ability to write as a talent. At best, it’s a commodity service. After all, they can write. They could have done that ad, press release, brochure, what-have-you, if they had to. You learn how to write at a young age, there’s really nothing to it.

I contend that artists don’t have this problem. Most of us readily acknowledge our artistic limitations. I would never claim that my ability to draw a stick figure puts me in the same league as Picasso (although some of his stuff is downright childish). If your special talent involves drawing, painting, or designing with Illustrator, you’re probably consistently praised for your work. I always found it particularly galling when I’d present a finished piece, something that incorporated my copy and the designer’s artwork, to the boss, who would look it over and say, “Looks good.” Looks good? Did you read any of the words?

If they did read the piece at some point in the process, it was inevitable that they would spend time re-writing it. These were important people, with lots of important things to do, who still, apparently, had time to spare to do a quick rewrite. On one memorable occasion, I used the word ‘massive’ in a press release. The CEO and I went round and round in an email exchange arguing the relative merits of that word. I finally wrote, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Massive is the word I want to use there.” His response, “Oh, okay.” He just liked to dust it up with the writer – because he could.

Software developers never have this problem. One thing that high tech business honchos know is that they don’t know how to write code. I should have listened to my mother and learned how to program. Then if I said, “I’m writing a software program,” the response would be, “Yeah? How about those Red Sox?”

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The end is just the beginning

Posted on July 19, 2010 | 4 comments

There’s a lot of advice on the Internet about how to sell your manuscript. However, like everything else you find in the only library I know that doesn’t use the Dewey Decimal System, you have to consider the source before deciding whether or not it’s good advice. After you’ve done your information triage and think you’ve mastered the basics of breaking into publishing, it’s time to add your own common sense to the mix. That’s why I’m giving myself the luxury of writing about sending out my very first query letter, even though those in the know suggest you avoid blogging about your writing.

The rationale seems to be that if you’re blogging to promote your publishing aspirations, editors and publishers will be put off and count it against you. Common sense, however, dictates that if someone in a position to help you with your career is actually reading your blog, you are so far ahead of the competition that you might as well consider yourself a success and retire.

The first order of business when trying to sell your manuscript is to write what the business calls a query letter. This is like the cover letter you send with your resume. The resume may be chock full of applicable experience, but if the cover letter is poorly written, the resume may never be seen. That’s thirty years of experience tossed aside because you forgot to proof-read the cover letter, or you used the wrong title for the recipient, or were too personal, or too aloof, or who knows what else.

The same goes for the manuscript that you’ve worked on for the past year, or years. The rule says that you need to describe the story in three sentences. Those three sentences need to convince someone to read the first three chapters of the work you’ve slaved over for what seems like forever, no matter how long it’s been.

You’d think that would be easier for me than for most, since I’ve spent my entire adult career creating elevator pitches for software. An elevator pitch is a description of your product that you can share in the length of time it takes to go from the first floor to the top, in an elevator, in a short building. It turns out that a YA novel about a pregnant teen is actually harder to compress into three sentences, than enterprise software that lets your databases speak a common language. But with a little help from my friends (thanks, Lisa), I’ve done it.

They say that editors and agents get multiple hundreds of submissions a week. Of those, they read a handful of query letters, and of those, a subset of introductory chapters. It’s hard for me to get too exercised about the possibility that they’ll make it to my blog and ding me for writing about the process.

Today I put my first query letter in the mail. I’m proud of myself for having come this far. And I’m not embarrassed to say that I’m my number one fan. If no one in a position to publish it loves it, well, I won’t love it any less. And I certainly expect to find a way for you to buy, er, read it someday, no matter what. But don’t start saving yet. This may be the end of my first manuscript, but it’s the beginning of a process that could take a couple of years. I hope you’ll stick around.

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Posted in July

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To pledge, or not to pledge

Posted on July 6, 2010 | 1 comment

There’s been a big brouhaha in my town lately about whether or not it should be mandatory to say the Pledge of Allegiance in school. The high school student leading the charge, to make reciting the Pledge mandatory, has gotten quite a lot of coverage for himself, and our town, in the local press. Not surprisingly, it appears that there already is a law concerning this very subject, the upshot of which is that it’s up to each school’s principal to decide whether or not time is allocated for this activity. While I am impressed by any young person’s willingness to hustle on behalf of a strongly-held belief, I get nervous whenever this subject comes up.

‘Round about third grade, I stopped reciting the Pledge of Allegiance. I don’t honestly remember why. It could have been that it was the mid-sixties and there was something in the air. Or maybe I just didn’t like being told I had to say it. Whatever the reason, the school didn’t like it, so they called my mother. I don’t think my mother cared very much one way or the other, but the call from the school coincided with a visit from my beloved New York grandmother. She cared very much. I thought she would be proud of me, but alas, that was not the case. She was very, very disappointed.

I don’t, however, think anyone was unduly surprised. I started actively questioning authority at a young age. I wasn’t capricious; I was vigilant. I asked for clarification when things were unclear, or the authority figure contradicted himself. I pointed out inequities in portions, time allotment and seat assignments. I refused to be blown off if I didn’t understand something; I held the communicator responsible for making herself understood. This persistent behavior led to my being voted ‘Most Argumentative’ of my senior class in high school (which had, as I recall, upwards of 800 graduates). I was flattered to be singled out, but I didn’t see myself as argumentative. Apparently we didn’t have a ‘senior superlative’ for ‘hyper-vigilant.’

When I was little, it’s possible that my unwillingness to recite the pledge was driven by my early doubt about the existence of God and, therefore, I objected to saying the Pledge. My stance as an atheist was solidified when I was twelve. In response to my assertion that I didn’t believe in God, my Hebrew School teacher told me, “You’re too young to know what you believe.” If there had been any doubt in my mind before, that clinched it, I became a full-blown atheist.

My grandmother passed away right before I graduated from high school. To this day, I feel a small twinge of guilt when I think about her response to my third-grade rebellion. Painful as that memory is though, I wouldn’t do anything differently today. I still tend to stand quietly during the Pledge of Allegiance, worrying about how the rest of the world perceives us, and wondering if God really does exist. But I fully support your right to recite the Pledge. The fact that you and I can agree to disagree is what it’s all about anyway.

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It’s never too late

Posted on June 28, 2010 | 5 comments

I attended a friend’s Bat Mitzvah this weekend. She’s in her mid-70s. For the uninitiated, a Bat, or Bar, Mitzvah is the Jewish service that marks a child’s passage into adulthood. It is also what you call the individual involved; Bat/Bar Mitzvah means ‘daughter/son of the commandments.’ Traditionally, this happens on, or near, the child’s thirteenth birthday. But, as evidenced by my friend’s accomplishment, there is no age limit on the practice.

To prepare for the service, one learns to chant a particular section of the Torah, the Hebrew Bible, or for those so inclined, the Old Testament, in Hebrew. To chant, however, one must not only read Hebrew, but must also learn how to read the trope, the little marks that indicate what the melody is at any given phrase. This is not for the faint of heart. It requires many months of study with a tutor, and hours of practice. For traditional B’nai (plural) Mitzvah, that studying usually happens while their peers are doing homework, playing after school sports, or watching television. This is why the days leading up to the B’nai Mitzvah can be accompanied by some resentment on the part of the honoree (and perhaps why the relieved parents often throw a big party when it’s all over).

As if all that studying isn’t enough work, the B’nai Mitzvah also write a D’var Torah, a talk about the section of the Torah they chanted. I’ve heard some spectacular D’var Torahs delivered by thirteen-year olds, none more impressive than that of my own daughter, but the more mature B’nai Mitzvah bring a perspective to their analysis that comes only with age.

Many of the older women who pursue becoming a Bat Mitzvah, are from a time when most temples did not allow girls that opportunity. That was a privilege, and a duty, that belonged only to boys. As time went on, and the women’s movement picked up steam, girls were allowed to have Bat Mitzvahs, but they were often relegated to Friday nights, and instead of reading from the Torah itself, they read a Haftorah, a portion from the Prophets, a work that complements the Torah. That was the experience my sisters and I had when we were girls. Today, both boys and girls read from the Torah, on Saturday mornings.

Individuals who become B’nai Mitzvah later in life are driven by one or more common desires; to explore their spirituality on a deeper level; to be closer to their community; to study Hebrew and enhance their appreciation of the prayers. For some women it may be as simple as reclaiming that which is their right. Whatever their motivation, I greet the new ‘adult’ members of our community with the same pride I would feel for the more traditional set. To my friend, and all the older members of our community who came before, a heartfelt Mazel Tov.

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Posted in June

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Hold the pepperoni

Posted on June 22, 2010 | 3 comments

With the exception of the mortgage on our house, we live a debt-free life. I was raised to believe that if you can’t afford to buy something outright, then you can’t afford it at all. As a result, I’ve never had a car payment; I never pay interest on my credit card; and my husband and I have been socking away money for our daughter’s college education since she was a baby. We’re as fiscally responsible as they come. Why, then, you might ask, do we, and others in our situation, continue to worry about money? The answer is both simple and imponderable: healthcare.

Statistically, more people are driven to bankruptcy by medical bills than anything else. Horrific illnesses and accidents are rarely foretold, and are, therefore, difficult to plan for. That means that in order to ensure that you can weather whatever unforeseen disasters come your way, you have to plan for the worst case scenario. (If that doesn’t take the joy out of buying a new car, nothing will.)

The process of reviewing our financial portfolio starts out innocently enough. What do we envision retirement looking like? What do we need to amass money for? In our case, we expect retirement to look a lot like life looks now, without the job part. Based on that, the question is, will our investments, social security, and whatnot, be enough for us to live on after we retire, even if we retire at 65? That seems like an optimistic retirement age when you consider that, actuarially speaking, I’m expected to live until 94, and Andrew until 92. (I’m guessing that a deeper dive into my misspent youth might cause the actuaries to adjust down a bit, but we’ll worry about that another time.) Clearly, the longer we work, the brighter the financial future gets, but when dealing with imponderables, it’s best to avoid bright light.

After a thorough review of our portfolio, we’re comforted to know that we’re wealthy enough to have pizza every night for dinner if that’s what we want to do. Unless… What happens if one of us has an unexpected, uninsured illness? If we live the pizza lifestyle, over twenty years we will have spent $109,500. That would surely be enough to cover a medical expense or two. When you start looking at your spending habits in that light, it becomes clear that you’ll never have enough money.

If it’s true that we’ll never have enough money, it begs the question, why bother to worry about it at all? So we spend $15 here, $15 there. What the hell, it doesn’t matter, until it does. Better hold the pepperoni.

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A cousin by any other name

Posted on June 14, 2010 | 11 comments

I’d like to take a quick, virtual poll. If you have a brother-in-law, do you refer to their wife as your sister-in-law; or a sister-in-law’s husband as your brother-in-law? I’m not certain, but I don’t think that’s the way we’re supposed to do things here in the good ol’ U.S. of A. Those in-law spouses have no direct relationship to you. They are the nomenclature equivalent of an appendix, purely vestigial.

When I refer to my brother-in-law’s wife as my sister-in-law, I typically hasten to explain, “She’s not really my sister-in-law; she’s married to my husband’s brother.” This clarification can cause my husband to become impatient, and roll his eyes at me, because he’s thinking, ‘does it matter, who cares?’ But there are people who care. They’re the same people who will point out that you’ve mispronounced gorgonzola. This is a risk I’m not willing to take, hence my need for full disclosure about the relationship.

It will come as no surprise to you (you are, after all, reading my blog) that I love to tell stories. Many of them involve family members. When I introduce the characters I like to identify who they are in relation to me. I could take short-cuts and, for instance, refer to my husband’s cousin as my cousin, thereby saving two syllables, but what happens when someone asks, “Is that on your mother’s side, or your father’s?” I’d have to backtrack and explain that it wasn’t really my cousin, but my husband’s cousin. That takes a lot more syllables than the two I originally saved.

Other cultures have words for all these relationships. (Trust me on this. I remember writing a paper about it for a sociology class in college.) Why don’t we? I might not be as bothered by this if I didn’t have a child, but I do. And her relationship to my appendix of a brother-in-law’s wife is ‘niece.’ That person is her Aunt. If my daughter has a name for her relationship, why don’t I?

And while I’m on the subject, why do some parents insist that their children call me Mrs. Mintz, and others are fine with their kids calling me Judy? First of all, I’m not Mrs. Mintz. If I were any kind of Mrs., it would have to be Mrs. Kleppner, which is my husband’s last name. Since my last name is Mintz, that pretty much makes the whole Mrs. thing a non-starter. The really surprising thing is that the title ‘Ms.’ hasn’t made more inroads than it has. My daughter’s unmarried female teachers are Miss. So-and-so, not Ms. We’ve had plenty of time for Ms. to become mainstream, what’s the hold up here?

While you ponder these questions, I’m going to go research what I’m supposed to call my cousin’s children’s children. There aren’t any yet, but I want to be prepared.

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You never know

Posted on June 7, 2010 | 4 comments

One winter evening, a couple of years ago, we were driving home along the access road next to Route 2 in Arlington, when we spied something lying at the side of the road. As we went past I gasped, “It’s a person!”

Andrew slammed on the brakes and backed up until we were several car lengths beyond the person. He got out of the car and ran forward calling, “Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

I, on the other hand, stood behind the safety of my open car door, yelling, “Do you need help? Are you drunk?”

Somehow we had the presence of mind to call 911, my husband having visually determined that the guy was breathing. What we didn’t do was touch him. And when I say ‘we,’ I mean Andrew. I never got much further than a few steps away from the car, while begging Andrew to come away from the guy.

When the policeman arrived he determined that the guy was as drunk as the proverbial skunk, and poured him into the back of his cruiser to deposit at the police station. The policeman told us that by stopping we probably saved the guy’s life because he was in a great spot to be run over.

That was cold comfort for me. Don’t misunderstand; I’m glad he wasn’t run over. But while our presence may have kept a car from flattening him, it wouldn’t have done him any good had he been: bleeding, choking on his own vomit, having a seizure, a heart attack, an aneurism, etc., etc., etc.

I’m not proud of the way I reacted.

As part of the generation of Jews born on the heels of the Holocaust, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time mulling over what I would have done had I been a non-Jew in a Nazi-occupied territory. I always thought that I would have hidden Jews in my attic, or worked with the underground to sabotage the enemy. I believed that I’d have risked myself rather than imply complicity by silence. Now I’m not so sure.

When I saw that man on the ground I didn’t think, ‘I must rush to help him!’ I thought, ‘What if has a gun?’ I completely forgot that I was in a nice, upper-class suburb where guns rarely, if ever, intrude. My fear was completely unfounded, and thoroughly paralyzing.

I’m much more forgiving in general now. I know that while people may not always behave the way we’d like them to, that doesn’t mean that they don’t wish they could.

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