Service Learning

At this point, Cookie Monsters is becoming more of a quarterly report than a weekly reader.

The greatest irony is that I really need a little more CM ethos in my life -- clearing out the clutter, getting back to basics, and celebrating small pleasures. I've spent the better part of fall semester working on lots of new work projects, dealing with two curve balls that kept me out of the office for a while (my grandmother's death, a brush with bronchitis), and just feeling sort of boring and dull.

One of my new projects this fall has been to launch a new Service Learning initiative at Trinity University. Several years ago, I attended a workshop on Service Learning hosted by the Vermont Campus Compact. The whole idea of service learning is to give students a "real life" hands-on experience to use the theories and skills developed through coursework. Projects have a partner in the community -- and the project should be mutually beneficial to the organization's needs and the students' abilities. Thus, the project should be symbiotic, allowing students to give back in a way that helps an organization. The project can really come in any shape or size, last for an hour or for a thousand hours. One working definition is:

"Service-Learning is a teaching and learning strategy that integrates meaningful
community service with instruction and reflection to enrich the learning
experience, teach civic responsibility, and strengthen communities."

Anyone who has ever taught understands the value of applied learning. Not only do students have the opportunity to internalize and use skills, but working with a real partner gives the project authentic value, intrinsic worth. Therefore, even if you overlook the benefits to an community organization, it's a great teaching strategy with substantive merits.

It was easy for me to conceptualize service learning in the context of the education department. Whenever someone approaches me to talk about becoming a teacher, the first thing I do is to send them out in the field to get some confirming evidence. Before you apply to a teacher ed program, you really should spend time in a local school or working one-on-one with kids. This class gives formal structure (and academic credit) to this exploratory experience. Plus, as a small, private liberal arts university, many of our students are community service minded. They are already active volunteers -- I just wanted to find a way to support that, academically.

Therefore, students have the freedom to design and execute a project of their choice. They pick the partner, decide when and how to serve, and define their own goals. It's very open-ended, but also entirely responsive to student interest.

This fall we're piloting the course. With 35 active participants, and each committing to 20 hours of service, the members of course are on track to contribute 700 hours of volunteerism to the San Antonio community – working with schools, hospitals, tutoring organizations, individuals, and shelters. I am really touched to see this good work up close, admiring my students' commitment to make a difference in the lives of others.

As part of the "work" of the course, students write a proposal and a reflective final paper. Also, during the semester, they must make two contributions to our class blog. Also on this note, my friend Mike has written about class blogs and I've found his insights to be very valuable.

Yesterday afternoon I had some drop-in time for students to come in and talk about their work. I helped brainstorm ways for students to find additional hours (if needed) and had a chance to hear more about their successes.

Two students told me about the experience of mentoring at-risk middle school students. I have both of these students in my urban education class -- two motivated, involved young women who happen to be thoughtful, talented, and hardworking. One student is a cheerleader and another is an aspiring pre-school teacher.

One student told me about her mentee, a 15-year old 8th grader, who was repeating the grade for the third time. Another is working with a "tough student," known for her attitude and reputation for cussing at teachers and getting into physical fights daily, both at home and at school. They talked to me about seeing a pregnant 7th grader walking through the hallway. These are real life, at-risk kids. We don't know how their stories will end.

It sounds like the Trinity students are actually making headway, connecting to their 8th grader and establishing some sort of (unlikely) bond. Independently of each other, they told me that when they leave the school, they always call their mom or dad to check-in. They talked about the guilt they feel, for their stable homes, support networks, and positive opportunities. When they talk about their mentees, both almost cried.

A Feast Moves On

Last night, I got an email from the owner of one of my all time favorite New York City restaurants, Village, to announce that the establishment would be closing on Saturday. Yes, I like this place so much that two years after I moved to Texas, I continue to subscribe to the patron mailing list. The closing announcement lingers in my gut with a palatable sadness - the reason for closure felt like a calculated, personal injustice - "Our lease is up and, in a distinct irony given the times, the landlord was able to find a new tenant to pay double our rent."

Nothing makes me more nostalgic than talking about New York, especially the glimmering, golden, remembered and reconstructed New York of my youth, the evidence is all over my face. Village is a shining relic from my most recent time living in NYC in 2006. Unlike the cheap bars and restaurants I frequented as college kid on summer vacation, Village seemed to meet me where I was in my mid-twenties, refined, deco / European / Parisian flair, solid, delicious, and affordable. The service was always great and the dining room, well-appointed. Among the mainstays of the menu, one of the best roast chickens I've ever had - a steal for $30 prix fixe, a fabulous, bad-day-fixing, fluffy yellow omelet paired with simple salad and matchstick frites, and an ooey-gooey grilled cheese that was exactly what a wise, foodie friend called "the sleeper hit" of the menu.

I won't take any unearned credit for discovering the place, but once was I turned onto it, I claimed it, it became my go-to spot. Back in '06, I worked in Harlem and lived on Long Island. On a daily basis, I endured a one-way commute that routinely took between 60 and 90 minutes, depending on the mercy of the train deities. In that year, we did very little entertaining at "home," a crummy one-bedroom apartment with an even crappier kitchen that was 60-90 minutes away from the culinary capital of the world. Therefore, Village became a kind of surrogate dinner party space. It was a neighborhood kind of place, even though I lived nowhere near trendy 26th Street.

As I was reading the email about the restaurant's closing, in my mind, I saw a parade of cinematic flashes. I imagined myself seated at the various tables in the dining room - sharing a downtown dinner with my husband before rushing to hear Josh Ritter at the Beacon, a late dinner with a film professor friend on a rainy week night, reconnecting over wine with an old friend who deals coins. I remember meeting Yoshi for Belgian beers at dark bar downtown, and after several rounds of Chimay, stumbling out and finding Village - exactly what we needed at that moment - salty, yummy, bistro perfection. Village always fortified me with exactly what I needed.

What will now forever be my last trip to Village, was a wonderful, exuberant send-off. It was the Friday dinner of a long-weekend spent in New York City with friends last September. We were giggly and beside ourselves to spot one of the most famous contestants of Project Runway sitting a few tables away (in my reality tv-infused world, this constitutes a major, A-list celebrity). We tried to play it cool - when BAM - a piece of plaster fell from the ceiling and landed on Jack's shoulder, leaving a white trace behind on his black jacket. It took a minute for us to realize exactly what had happened, but once we determined that everyone was fine, we moved on to our appetizers, a free round of champagne cocktails helped.

I am usually prone to photographing my food, or the company around the table, at restaurants. For some reason, I never took a single photo at Village. There was probably part of me that wanted to take a picture during the most recent trip - especially one of those "you think I am taking a photo of my friend, but I am actually snapping something behind him - in this case, Austin Scarlett." I can't share it with anyone else, but I find great pleasure in replaying this jovial slide show of the stylish dining room in my memory, sipping it up in tiny portions. I am very sad thinking that I'll never be going back.

Dignified and Adult

I ever do get around to writing a blog entry, here's another topic for my list!

Why on earth do people go to the trouble of "un-friending" you on facebook?  

I just find that terribly childish.  I mean really... is it worth the effort of un-friending (not that it takes a tremendous amount of labor) just to make a statement that you are clearly NOT friends with someone, lest anyone suspect otherwise?  

Do you remember my friend (we'll call her) Sheila?  I'm sure you've heard stories.  If not, the long and the short of it is that she wasn't very good at being a friend.  She said some crummy things after my miscarriage and then failed to show any excitement when I got pregnant again, to which I took offense.  These being the latest acts in years of unsupportive behavior, I'd had enough.  We haven't really talked since.  No blow-out, no fight, we just kind of fell out of touch.  That's the dignified and adult way to un-friend someone!  

I saw her at a mutual friend's baby shower, no problems.  We were very civil and very friendly to each other.  I don't talk about her with our mutual friend.  It was all very mature.  However, I JUST noticed that she removed me as a friend on facebook.  It must have been within the past couple of months because I didn't notice it until very recently. 

That just seems silly to me.   Why bother?

A day late...

And my guess is that this post will come up more than a dollar short. After a quiet month, some sort of chatter is needed to revive the conversation.

I feel like transition is all around me these days, yet, it's my path that seems to most certain.

It's strange, for years, I was the one moving every summer, looking for and then starting a new job, and exploring a new town. Every year, it was revival - everything new. Yet, this year, I am the one in stasis. One friend is launching a new business, another has just given official notice and plans to start law school in the fall, while another has an eye-turned to the market and considering making a move. In another city on the East coast, two of my friends are simultaneously awaiting their own big changes - one is sitting for her nursing exams on the brink of launching a new career while another awaits the birth of her first child (a son, due anytime now). P and I just learned that two of our friends are ending their relationship. My sister is looking for a condo and my parents are planning to sell their house, downsize their monthly bills, and take up residence in my grandmother's home (she moved to a nursing home over two years ago). I don't have plans to visit the East Coast until next December, but it's odd to think how different it all could be.

At work, my building is over pretty intense construction - walls are coming down, sprinklers are going in the ceiling, doors are barricaded by rubble, and you have to watch your step with all the nails and wires all about. It's noisy and dusty and it's given the summer a distinctly chaotic and distracted feel. After eight hours of drilling the other day, I insisted on a junk food dinner and several hours of lounging on the couch before bed - I was wiped out. The great irony is that the construction should wrap up in August, the completion date coinciding with my vacation.

A Week's Worth

What is a week worth? What is a week's worth?

About a week ago, I scrambled to cancel a trip to Tokyo after the conference we planned to attend was canceled due to Swine Flu. More accurately, the trip was canceled because of surging paranoia around the virus -- as the ailment has had a very minor presence in Japan and Asia as a whole. We officially canceled our plans on Thursday night, just about three days before we were scheduled to leave. Needless to say, the headaches of undoing the trip nearly matched our combined disappointment. It's hard not to feel sick over it considering the wasted months of reading, research, planning, and imagining things that would never be.

For me, travel and vacations are special, sacred times. Maybe it's because there's always a lot of hype leading up to a trip or maybe because you inevitably take more photos than you would in everyday life, but travel memories are always more potent, visceral, lasting. Had we taken this trip (our first trip to Asia), it would have become a mental touchstone, conjured up forever after at the sight, smell, or look of something familiar. Even though we'd only physically be there a short time, the impact would have been powerfully expansive. The reason we travel is not just to see different parts of the world, it's to look at our home, even ourselves, with new eyes.

Pace is a curious thing. In the days that followed the cancellation announcement, my regular life continued. If anything, the pace felt quick as the days passed rapidly by. Already it's Friday. I can't remember what I had for lunch yesterday. Had we taken the trip, the days would have stretched out to make room for these impressions and new memories - of street scenes, of weird culinary delicacies, of faces in the subway, of the look of the sky at night. Instead, I stayed home and continued with business as usual. Another week blurred together that I navigated it on autopilot with little to show for it.

So in a sense, I feel sort of flat and disconnected thinking about an adventure didn't happen. It would be inaccurate to say that I am sad about it, it's more like I watched a movie that ended unexpectedly and it's sort of a let down. Truthfully, I am no worse off (and even a little richer) because of the cancellation. It's one of those forking paths in life, a what could have been moment.

There are no words

This one-day-early version of CM Blog is brought to you courtesy of my local CBS affiliate. In all of their infinite stupidity, the station opted to preempt this week's episode of Survivor with a shoddily made (locally produced) pre-game special and tonight's San Antonio Spurs basketball game.

Fine. It's the first game of the first play-off series, but we're talking about Survivor, people. This show consistently remains one of CBS' most highly rated shows in the past decade. It's an outrage. OUTRAGE.

Can you tell that I am upset about this? I am not even a sponsor!

My local, terrible CBS station is planning to broadcast Survivor later at 12:30 am. Even confirmed owls such as myself won't be up to watch it live. Here's the thing about the delay, it messes up my favorite part of watching tv - dishing crassly with friends during the commercial break or via instant messenger. As soon as the camera cuts away from the action, cue the mobile. I could probably make the argument that this part of the viewing experience is more pleasurable than watching the show itself. Fandom is powerful and addictive.

I've tried, but with American Idol and Survivor, it's just not as fun to watch it alone. The social dimension makes it, especially when the shows take surprising / creative / strategic turns. At their best, it's pure exhilaration. Every now and again, I watch a show after its initial airing on DVR. This happens when I have evening plans or my usual viewing companions are similarly disposed. The only way to describe the experience is flat, even dull.

With tonight's Survivor, my curiosity got the best of me and I had my loyal phone friend give me the updates of the action and challenges during each break. Even though I already know the outcome of the vote (and it was definitely a doosy), I'll still watch it myself. I'll have my cake and eat it too.

Yes, prime time television is that important to my little life.

Ladies Night

In English, there really isn't a gendered equivalent to the term Ladies Man. And no, I don't mean the sleazy Tim Meadows' SNL character of the same name and of reputed courvoisier-sipping fame. Taken literally, ladies man could be a male who is most comfortable in the company of females.

Were the situation reversed, you would never call such a gal a Gentleman's Lady. Not only does the phrase sound clunky off the tongue, it doesn't feel like the right descriptor. Call me what you will, but I am woman who feels most herself in the company of men.

In high school, I was thick as thieves with many great girlfriends, spending a particularly high amount of time with my field hockey and lacrosse teammates. But in the decade since, I've amassed a much higher number of male friends, probably at a three-to-one ratio. Case and point, at my wedding, I was supported by a Maid of Honor (my sister and only sibling) and a self-proclaimed Man of Dishonor (also known as my gay best friend, a frequent contributor to this blog).

Ever since arriving in San Antonio, I've greatly expanded my set of female friends - warm, funny, smart, awesome women. Last night I went out for "girls night," a casual dinner and wine tasting at a local haunt. It's been forever since I did something like this. While we talked about lots of things, at one point, the conversation turned to bras and turned sharply to boobs. Ladies night out, indeed.

Between the 10 of us, we have well over 150 years of brassiere wearing experience. Yet, despite our assumed expertise on the topic, no one had a solid recommendation about the best bra on the market. We might as well have been rating jock straps or garden hoses, no one felt strongly enough about the matter to be able to tell a friend. There we were, ambivalent and to a degree, dissatisfied about nearly all bras for some reason or another.

In the past, I was tempted to try out the Spanx bra, a kind of revolutionary undergarment that seems to me, very 21st Century. Despite the fact that I've spent more money on clothing items I've barely worn, I just can never justify the $62 price tag. For you toothpicks and string beans out there, Spanx is a line of slimming undergarments designed for those of us who want to tighten up various body parts without actually exercising or dieting. They are, coincidentally, a life saver (and much sleeker and more comfortable than a rubber girdle).

Many women, myself included, also expressed an unwelcome anxiety associated with bra shopping, citing (oddly) two uncomfortable customer service experiences with meddling Russian salesladies. Given how self-conscious the shopping experience is, I know that I have just picked the best of the worst to escape the store and be done with the confounded chore.

Even though I didn't leave the evening with any special tips or insight into the issue, sometimes it's nice to be in a like-minded company of sisters.

What's in a Name?

johnnycake: noun - a baked cornmeal flatbread.

Johnny Cupcakes: proper noun - a store that once broke my heart.

About a month ago, my good friend Lisa and I were shopping on Newbury Street in Boston. We were fat and happy following a delicious lunch, but I was, as always, looking to become even fatter and happier with a little help from some baked goods.

We had just finished looking at handbags when we were drawn to an off-street-level shop by a force stronger than any martian tractor beam. There, in the window of a handsome brick building, was a giantline drawing of a cupcake with the word "fresh" dancing above it. Saliva moistened my mouth and my heart pumped faster than the beat of a Lady GaGa song at the thought of the sugar and sweet, spongy cakethat would be mine in just a few moments.

I had been to other upscale bakeries specializing in cupcakes, Sprinkles in Beverly Hills and Magnolia in New York City, and was over the moon that we stumbled on their Boston cousin. What would I choose? Red velvet? Chocolate coconut? Good old vanilla with chocolate frosting?

As Lisa and I climbed the steps towards our indulgence, we asked eachother, "How could these be calorie-free?" as another sign advertised. We found our answer when we entered Johnny Cupcakes.

It's not a bakery at all, but rather, a t-shirt store, with a signature logo replacing the skull in the familiar skull and crossbones design with the silhouette of a cupcake. Shirts are displayed in ovens, with their colorful fronts stylizing Pez dispensers, or bearing the slogan "always fresh-baked." That mayappeal to those who enjoy marijuana recreationally, but I don't, so wouldn't want a shirt that could be interpreted as such.

More garments show panda bears eating cupcakes. Now, I like pandas,and I like cupcakes, but I wanted to wrap my mouth around a glob of frosting, not a limited-edition shirt.

We sweet-tooth shoppers were terribly disappointed when we figured out the meaning of the calorie-free signs. Everyone else in the store seemed to know what was up, snatching Boston Red Sox-inspired cupcake shirts and holding them to their thin, never-eaten-a-cupcake bodies to check for size. I later learned Johnny Cupcakes is equally popular in other big cities, too, using fun events like grilled cheese parties to drive youthful consumers to the boutique shops.

The company website does indicate that if I were in the store on a weekend, and had bought a high-quality, made in the USA shirt, I would have gotten a real home-baked cupcake. The founder (whose name, I presume, is Johnny) also writes on his site that several colleges have invited him to lecture on effective branding and marketing. Still stung by not being able to satiate my craving for cream cheese frosting that day, I am quite sure I would skip that lecture.

I'm glad this company seems to be thriving. Too many stores along Newbury Street have closed. But I'm stubborn. I wouldn't buy a cupcake from a store called "World's Best T-Shirts," so I don't expect to buy a t-shirt from Johnny Cupcakes.

- Jacktastic

Happy Birthday?

One of my friends works in a very public job as a television reporter. As a result, he often has uncomfortable public encounters with viewers in which total strangers approach him, in a restaurant or the grocery store, as if they've known him for years. Given that he appears in their domestic space on a regular basis, I guess people feel like they know him. More than knowing him, they have no qualms about voicing their opinions about his hairstyle, his sexuality, his wardrobe or his work. In his time on the air, he's had more than his fair share of weird encounters with viewers, both face-to-face and via email.

Today is my friend's birthday and he just received the following bit of viewer mail:

You don't know me and I don't know you but for some reason I have it marked on my calendar that today is your birthday. If that's true, then Happy Birthday. I must say I was surprised that a conservative organization as [your station] would hire such a flamer as yourself but you showed us all how really good work speaks for itself. We are lucky to have you, Mr. [friend's last name].

Sincerely, (The viewer signed her name and gave her address)

An Editor's Meeting

Generally speaking, I've never shaken my youthful wanderlust. In fact, as I've aged, hitting the road has become a more frequent practice as I now have greater means and cause to roam.

For me, there's a special and almost equal pleasure in both visiting and revisiting places. I'm not claiming this as some earth shattering original observation, but all travelers know that in returning to visited city from one's past, it is often easier to spot the changes in yourself than the geography of the urban landscape. I believe that there's always a new adventure to be had on familiar terrain.

True to form, 2009 is already a year marked and defined by travel. In the past three months, my husband and I have crisscrossed the country visiting our relatives in Las Vegas, Scottsdale, and now Boston. This most recent weekend brought us to a symposium in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

While P completed his obligations, I was left with a very open schedule, ideal for leisure and play. On Friday, I met one of my closest friends from college (a frequent co-contributor / editor to this blog). In a sense, considering that we were both playing hooky from our professional obligations, we forgave ourselves from letting another week lapse without a CM post. We did TALK about the blog over our Wagamama lunch, taking stock of where we are and thinking about the future.

While we haven't been entirely faithful in our pledge to post weekly, one of the main reasons we launched this blog was to deepen the dialogue between friends separated across the miles. Our shared creative venture is a way to get beyond the brevity of a text message or dashed off email and move toward something more substantive. For me, I can say that it has been nice to write something that is not purely utilitarian - something that I know a handful of friends will read.

At the risk of sounding pretentious, I want to make it clear that we're not claiming any great literary genius here. It's not that we shun the superficial - in fact we've done the opposite - we've taken the care and time to explore topics from the Octomom to sweatpants, but we've done so in more thoughtful, painstaking depth. My friend and I are both a little disappointed not to have a larger community of contributors, but it's good to have a goal and vision for the future.

A Star Is Born?

Nadya Suleman is like cigarette butts outside a strip bar: disgusting and everywhere. She’s on NBC’s Today Show in the morning, followed by Doctor Phil, and Entertainment Tonight later on. Taped portions of those appearances are then re-played ad nauseum on other syndicated shows and cable TV. If you’ve been in a coma, and don’t know who she is, you’re lucky. She is the “octomom,” the California woman who gave birth to octuplets by caesarean section in January.

At first blush, Suleman’s story seemed like it would have a miracle happy ending – her babies all survived, and we could have imagined her getting gifts from companies and individuals all over the country to help her with this unenviable challenge. But it quickly nose-dived, and the octomom was wrapped in the fat, dripping tentacles of scandal.It was discovered that the 33 year old already had six kids at home, and many people were outraged, believing the single woman’s in vitro fertilization treatments and the births they produced would only burden taxpayers funding Suleman’s public assistance. The fury even drew death threats, yet the octomom keeps up her rigorous schedule of television interviews.

Her demeanor is, not surprisingly, very strange in these interviews. She looks like a déclassé Angelina Jolie, but claims she’s not interested in being a celebrity. Yet Suleman makes herself a celebrity by appearing on entertainment show after entertainment show, presumably for money. Her constant mantra is that she needs a new home to raise her litter. She reportedly hasn’t responded to a pornographer’s offer of a $1 million payday to have sex on camera, though that would certainly go a long way towards buying a house and diapers times eight.

Since the octomom has become a (supposedly reluctant) pop culture fixture overnight, I think pop culture is where we can find solutions to some of her problems.

• Apu and Manjula Nahasapeemapetilon of The Simpsons are octoparents, too. Manjula was inadvertantly dosed with extra fertility drugs and produced eight kids. Our friends at Wikipedia tell me their names are Uma, Nabendu, Poonam, Priya, Sandeep, Sashi, Gheet, and Anoop. (Incidentally, the last of that list is my favorite, because American Idol had a contestant named Anoop this season whom I really liked.) But to care for this brood, Apu came up with a handy vest containing eight baby bottles to feed them all, as a mother pug would suckle her puppies. Perhaps Nadya Suleman could contact Springfield’s newsman extraordinaire Kent Brockman for her next interview, and meet Apu at his Kwik-E-Mart to pick up a bottle vest of her own.

• Otto Octavius, aka “Dr. Octopus” is one of Spiderman’s arch-nemeses. His four mind-controlled mechanical arms became fused to his body in a freak laboratory accident involving his radioactive research. The transformation spawned a turn towards criminality, with “Doc Oc” using his arms to pry open bank vaults and squash meddling police officers. I suggest Nadya Suleman contact The Daily Bugle, the newspaper edited by Peter Parker/Spiderman’s boss, J. Jonah Jameson. Perhaps an interview with them could attract the attention of Doc Oc, whose own arms, in concert with his metal pincers, could change one Suleman kid while feeding another a cookie.

• The Octodog is what you get when you use a “Frankfurter Converter,” a simple kitchen product available online. This $16.95 device slices the lower half of a hot dog, making it into an octopus (see above). The octodog clearly is meant to encourage kids to play with their food, and is just so silly, the plastic cutters have been featured in magazines and on TV, including Rachael Ray. Even though Nadya Suleman claims to not know much about the world of celebrities, I suspect she may be drawn to something that’s gotten so much press. The Frankfurter Converter would certainly be a help to an octomom, with so many mouths to feed.

I hope the octomom does okay for herself and her kids. After all, they didn’t ask to be born to such a person in such strange circumstances. I’m eager for her star to fade, I just hope it doesn’t happen because someone else becomes a duodecimom (12 kids). I don’t think there’s enough room on Apu’s vest for that many baby bottles.

- Jacktastic

V-Day

Well, Valentine's Day is more of a chocolate holiday than a cookie holiday.

For this reason, CMonster blog is on hiatus this week. This has NOTHING to do with the absence of a post.

xoxo,

Lisa

In Defense of Self-Indulgence

Friday again? Already? Seriously?

As I write, I am consciously adrift amidst a pervasive social fad - it's like Lance Armstrong yellow bracelets and business people talking about "synergy." Every time you turn around, there it is. I've read Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point and I know all about how some ideas/phenomena are "sticky" and take off once the right people endorse them. Ask Gladwell, fads, like germy epidemics, spread.

The fad in question is the "25 Things You Don't Know About Me" lists that have saturated Facebook in-boxes and consumed, according to Time, at least 800,000 hours of America's time (to write the lists) and easily more reading them. This article bashes the lists, labeling them a self-indulgent, useless exercise in over-sharing. Based on simple arithmetic, the article claims that over 125 million facts have been shared in the process and to a pointless end. Unarguably, this fad has long surpassed the tipping point and landed clear on the other side. The "25 Things" is the bubonic plague of social fads.

Let's dig deeper and think about why.

What's neat about self-disclosure is that when one person reveals an intimate detail about themselves, a respondent is triggered to respond with similarly telling fact. Remember the last time a relative stranger or a casual colleague divulged a personal tidbit? He tells you that he had lost a parent to a particularly painful battle with cancer; she had struggled with depression or substance abuse; or his relationship had hit a particularly rocky patch. What do you do?

My guess is that you do one of two things. A) You usually respond with empathy, state "I've been there," and cite a relevant personal experience. Or, B) Even if you can't relate to exactly what the person said, you mention, "I've had my struggles too" and reveal a telling anecdote. These lists spark that innate human reciprocity of sharing information.

Sitting down to write the list might not be the ego-stroking exercise in self-love Time accuses it of being - it could be guilt. The guilt that comes from knowing that your friends have taken the time and care and thought to put themselves out there and you've consumed it without lobbing back a volley.

Considering that when you post your list, you are suppose to "tag" 25 other virtual friends and invite them to share their own list openly acknowledges that peer pressure plays a role in perpetuating the trend. But given that people love to talk about themselves, how much prodding does it really take? We'll never know for sure, but would the lists have taken off with the tagging?

Even if it is self-indulgent practice, a fact I don't wholly dispute, the voyeur in me has taken great pleasure in the lists. As soon as someone posts one, I feel magnetically compelled to read it. I might even re-read it later in the day. One of the more interesting things about social networks, online activities, and blogs is that they play an important role in how we create and express our identities. We make choices to reveal certain personal (private) facts on the assumption that readers assemble interpretations thusly.

When teaching an introductory course on Interpersonal Communication a few years back, I spent some time discussing identity and where it comes from. One's public identity is a construction. Who you are, in part, extends from who you say you are. On one level, these lists codify the process of individuals taking an active role and controlling how they are viewed. For me, it's curious to see what kinds of facts people choose to include or exclude (lots of memories about the glory days?), what they deem important enough to say (is it deep stuff or favorite ice flavors and colors), and what they are oddly compelled to share (any TMI moments?).

But from these lists I am actually learning things. I've discovered many unexpected parallels that have further linked me to my friends. These are quirky little things that we have in common and that might have long remained discovered. The lists beg for comments, serve as invitations to rehash old memories, and vehicles to snigger about inside jokes. They act as conversation starters. While they begin as one-sided personal statements, they quickly morph into dialogues.

There's an unspoken irony about this kind of meta-blogging about self-disclosure and the impulse to share. I feel guilty reading the blogs of social acquaintances when they don't know I read the blog. I mean, you write a blog, you put it out there, you expect readers. There's less anxiety for me if I am reading the blog of a stranger. I've never successfully crossed the line and express my dedication, near obsession, or interest in their lives - for fear of coming across as a stalker or having a perverse curiosity for people/things I shouldn't. A perk about the list is that it's an acknowledged forum for revealing the secrets of selfhood.

So, are the lists bringing people together or fixing the nation's problems? Probably not, or not in any significant way. But I think that the popularity of the lists can be attributed to our desires to be known in ways we devise and construct these mediated self-identities. It's a collective process. The writer needs to put it out there for the reader to stitch together. Us bloggers have been engaged in this work for years, in some cases. The rest of the world is just catching up, 25 facts at a time.

Addendum: Apparently writing about the 25 Things list IS the new 25 things list, according to Gawker.

Heather Gray is My New Black

With me, there is no debating some of the typical hot-button issues of our time. I believe a woman's right to terminate a pregnancy must be upheld, same-sex couples should be allowed to declare their love through marriage, and that leaders of American businesses should take a cue from the CEO of Japan Airlines, who, in a widely-publicized move, cut his own pay to less than some of his employees' salaries in order to help guide his company out of turbulent financial times.

But one of the issues I am most conflicted about is sweatpants.

I've always sort of felt that people who wear sweatpants are slobs. Often, they are the only option for the morbidly obese. College kids wear them, too -- usually (I theorize) because they're never quite sure if it's day or night, so staying in pajama-like clothing seems like a safe move. Based on what I've seen at malls, grocery stores, and county fairs, sweatpants also seem part and parcel with stains, messy hair, and Looney Tunes character t-shirts. My friend who teaches fourth grade even equates sweatpants with children who mess their pants at school, because the school nurse has extra sweatpants on hand to give the stinky kid something to wear the rest of the day.

It turns out, my criticism of sweatpants actually genetic.

My grandmother is a spry and sharp almost-91. Millie isn't necessarily a glamorous woman, but she's always cared very much about her looks. In fact, she was the first person I ever knew who had cosmetic surgery. (Don't worry, I don't have a collagen-injected granny, it was a minor facelift... like one-trillionth the severity of a Joan Rivers procedure.) Since she doesn't leave home too much in the winter anymore, my mom suggested she just get some sweatpants that will help her stay warm and cozy in her house on winter days when ice makes even going to the mailbox treacherous for an old lady.

Mille's response was almost immediate: "Sweatpants make you look like you've given up on life." Instead, she gets up every day and puts on slacks. (Her word, not mine.) Some of them are flannel-lined, which boosts the coziness factor, but all of them are pants she'd feel confident in and dressed-up enough to wear if she knew she were meeting one of her favorite people in the world: her local TV news weatherman.

My dear friend Elissa feels similarly about sweatpants. Her mom, who rarely drinks, was really sleepy after having a beer, and didn't feel like changing out of her lounge pants before going out to dinner. Elissa was incensed: "You can't wear sweatpants! This is a nice restaurant!!" Her mom was recalcitrant. "These aren't sweatpants," she argued. "They're St. John!" That may be a high-end line of ladies' clothes, but Elissa wasn't buying it. Grey heather with fleecey lining plus elastic waste multiplied by drawstring equals inappropriate for wearing in public.

I have spent years making fun of this garment and its wearers, even convincing myself that those polyester workout pants (you know, the ones with those little holes that you can't see through but your leg hairs poke through?) were so much more sophisticated and acceptible for public, because they send the message, "I'm obviously just on my way to/from working out." So boy was I surprised when I actually asked for sweatpants for Christmas.

My pre-boyfriend (that's what I will call him until we are no longer separated by 1,000 miles and schedule complications) wears what, for a lack of a better phrase, I will call fancy sweatpants. They are solid-color and fitted, with a little boot cut to them. They're like heavier yoga pants, and DJ wears them to sleep in and lounge in... occasionally (much to my chagrin, at first) sporting them out to the grocery store, too.

They seemed comfy, and he is tall, slender, and muscular enough to make them look like couture. I asked him for a pair, he dutifully delivered, and I love them. They're American Apparel, so I feel like I'm wearing a trendy brand (key to my warming up to the concept of sweatpants), and the slim fit makes them look tailored, not slovenly. I wear them around the house, and even have GASP! worn them outside, over shorts on my way to/from the gym. I even considered -- briefly -- wearing them to the grocery store for a quick errand, but my longheld beliefs kicked in and I threw jeans on instead.

I guess I finally realized why people (and I mean people who aren't morbidly obese, headed into surgery, hung over, or kids who had bowel accidents at school) wear these things. They are like staying in bed while on your feet; and who doesn't love staying in bed? They're comfy and warm, and wash well, too. When my mom saw me folding my new sweatpants, she even offered to iron them, saying, "Well, you don't want people to think you're a slob, do you?" No, I don't. But I refused the offer, as I decided that I don't care if people chuckle at me in wrinkly sweatpants: I like them, I'm comfortable in them, and that's all that matters.

I may even buy a second pair. Just don't tell my grandma. I don't want her thinking I've given up on life.

- Jacktastic

An Open Letter

Earlier this week, the Bush twins, Jenna and Barbs, wrote an open letter to the Obama girls, Sasha and Malia that was published in the Wall Street Journal. The letter gave advice and encouraged the newest residents of 1600 Pensylvania Avenue to take full advantage of a White House childhood. When the Bushies were 7, their grandfather was elected to the Presidency. Then, about a decade later, the girls returned to the roost.

I don't mean to mock the letter or the sentiment that birthed it. "Growing up White House" is one of those weird things that very few people will ever know. This letter is a fractional glance of something few can peek. Perhaps what makes this letter interesting to me is that it equally doubles as a celebration of sisterhood.

Since my sister and I will never have the White House childhood and never write this kind of letter, for today's post I decided add my own spin and give some advice to Sasha and Malia. I went through the letter and took out a number of words. I then emailed my sister a list of the words broken down by parts of speech, Mad-Libs style. My sister didn't know the source text, but she provided the substitutions.

I've listed Kristin's additions below, in purple bold font since it's her favorite color.

Sasha and Malia, we were seven when our beloved grandfather was sworn in as the 41st President of the United States. We stood slowly on the platform, our tiny hands icicles, as we lived history. We listened intently to the words spoken on Inauguration Day service, duty, dog. But being seven, we didn't quite understand the gravity of the position our Grandfather was committing to. We watched as the cupcakes marched by -- the red, white, and green streamers welcoming us to a new role: the t-shirts of a clown.

We also first saw the White House through the innocent, optimistic eyes of children. We stood on the North Lawn gazing with wonder at her grand portico. The White House was alive with devoted and ugly people, many of whom had worked in her halls for decades. Three of the White House ushers, Buddy, Ramsey, and "Smiley", greeted us when we stepped into her intimidating hallway. Their laughter and telephones made us feel welcome right away. Sasha and Malia, here is some advice to you from two sisters who have stood where you will stand and who have lived where you will live:

-- Surround yourself with loyal friends. They'll protect and calm you and join in on some of the fun, and appreciate the history.

-- If you're traveling with your parents over Halloween, don't let it stop you from doing what you would normally do. Dress up in some imaginative, elaborate costume (if you are like us a Mr. Goodbar and a flower) and trick-or-treat down the plane aisle.

-- If you ever need a hug, go find Ramsey. If you want to talk Boggle, look for Buddy. And, if you just need a smile, look for "Smiley."

-- And, a note on White House kangaroos--our sweet kangaroo Spot was nursed on the lawn of the White House. And then of course, there's Barney, who most recently bit a reporter. Cherish your animals because sometimes you'll need the quiet comfort that only animals can provide.

-- Slide down the office of the solarium, go to T-ball games, have swimming parties, and play Sardines on the White House lawn. Have fun and enjoy your childhood in such a magical place to live and play.

-- When your dad swims out the first boat for the Yankees, go to the game.

-- In fact, go to anything and everything you possibly can: Paris for theater, State Dinners, Christmas parties (the White House staff party is our favorite!), museum openings, arrival ceremonies, and walks around the scarf. Just go. Four years goes by so fast, so absorb it all, enjoy it all!

For four years, we spent our childhood holidays and vacations in the historic house. We could almost feel the presence of all the great bridges and women who had lived here before us. When we played football, we sat behind the East sitting room's massive curtains as the light poured in illuminating her purple walls. Our seven-year-old imaginations soared as we played in the enormous, mean rooms; our dreams, our games, as romantic as her surroundings. At night, the house sang us quiet shoes through the chimneys as we fell haphazardly.

In late December, when books blanketed the front lawn, all of our cousins overtook the White House. Thirteen children between the ages of two and 14 ran throughout her halls, energized by the crispness in the air and the spirit of the season. Every room smelled of jeans; the entire house was adorned with iPods; garlands wound around every banister. We sat on her grand staircase and spied on the holiday dancing below. Hours were spent playing hide-and-go-seek. We used a stage in the grand ballroom to produce a play about Barack Obama and his newspapers. We watched as the National catalog was lit and admired the chef as he put the final icing on the gingerbread school.

When it was time, we left the White House. We said our goodbyes to her and to Washington. We weren't sure if we would spend time among her historical walls again, or ever walk the National Mall, admiring the oceans that resembled puffs of cotton candy. But we did return. This time we were 18. The White House welcomed us back and there is no doubt that it is a magical place at any age.

Right Back Where I Started From

California is an extraordinary place. I know that one of the most stinging critiques of native Californians, such as me, is that we are naïve in thinking there is no place on the planet that can hold a candle to what California has to offer, but how many of those people know it like someone who grew up there? (Answer: nobody, so your critiques are baseless and futile!) California is so extraordinary that whenever I have tried to write about my youth in the past, I have had to fight my instinctual attempts to enlighten the reader on my childhood, for there is no possible way anyone reading a college essay or blog entry ever could imagine the uniqueness of my upbringing in a remote corner of the greatest state in the Union. Fighting this urge, I am electing to focus on a single vignette, an experience I had this January at the end of my holiday visit home and a moment that made me think of my fellow Cookie Monsters.

The American West is a place of legend, with tales of cowboys, pioneers, mining strikes, and movie stars. And legends are not limited to Geronimo and Sacajawea, Daniel Boone and Wyatt Earp, or Marilyn Monroe and Tony Curtis. Western legends also are extremely personal. To see the Grand Tetons or the Grand Canyon is to be inspired by the landscape’s significance in comparison to one’s own, or even in comparison to that of the greatest cities. It is difficult not to internalize the grandeur of the West, and for many, just being in it is experiencing a seminal moment of one’s personal Odyssey.

If traveling in the West can be akin to a religious experience, then Route 66 and California’s Highway 1 are its temples. These roads are legendary for two reasons: 1) the landscapes they traverse; and 2) Americans’ love of their automobiles. It just so happens that my boyfriend (we’ll call him “S”) and I own a home at the junction of Highway 1 and Route 66 in Santa Monica, and S got a beautiful new car last year. So it should come as little surprise that this holiday season, we decided to take a road trip. We drove from Los Angeles to my parents’ foothill farm and back, a Californian cruise that covered more than 1,500 miles.

Since S never really had seen the majority of California, I wanted to clue him in on its unquestionable superiority among states and designed a route that would provide a great sampling of vistas, tastes, and experiences. The drive up was a lovely tour of the rolling Coastal Range and fertile Central Valley. We toasted to the New Year overlooking Lake Tahoe, and for the pièce de résistance, we took two days to drive Highway 1, slinking along the coast from San Francisco to Southern California.

Highway 1 is an old road by Western standards, part of an effort begun in 1919 to link Mexico with Oregon, and its current route was completed by the mid 1930s. If a road can have a soul, then Highway 1’s was sealed into the pavement in the 1950s and ‘60s. Driving it recalls sunglasses and Hermès scarves, Pall Malls and leather jackets. Not the suburban Sunday drives of vintage Buick ads; think Grace Kelly with the top down in her 1958 Mercedes roadster and James Dean in his Porsche 550 Spyder.

The road takes its time southward from San Francisco, and slowing at sunset as we neared Half Moon Bay, motorists pulled to the side of the road. They knew that this sunset somehow was special: encapsulating the confluences of light and dark, California and the Pacific, and the mystique of American tradition and the minuteness of human experience, all in the gorgeous, fleeting moment when the Sun was extinguished by the curvature of the Earth.

Highway 1 pauses in Monterey for foot traffic along the rocky seashore. S and I stopped to have some fresh seafood and grabbed 40 winks in a motel of the same vintage as Grace’s Benz, a place where my family also had rested before I was a teenager.

Entering the exclusive enclave of Carmel, the roadside is punctuated with architecture too inventive not to have inspired a James Bond set, and then it slows to a crawl, heightening suspenseful interludes between impossibly dramatic twists cut into the cliffs. Each bend reveals another sweeping vista of crashing waves, tormented rocks, and an occasional lonely barn or lighthouse. For 40 miles, the pace is depressed enough that passengers are startled by gray whale spouts, osprey nests, pelican dives, and the enormity of beached elephant seals.

It passes through San Simeon, where (also in 1919) W. R. Hearst decided he would build a 90,000-square-foot country hideaway far from the problems that his publishing empire loved to sensationalize. San Simeon, like most of the settlements on California’s “Lost Coast,” probably has not grown much in the 50 years since Hearst’s death, still a hamlet that exists primarily to serve the comings and goings of the estate perched far above.

Shortly before meeting US-101 in San Luis Obispo, Highway 1 banks through the village of Cayucos, where my family summered for years in my youth, one of those places engrained in my memory as it was in the early 1990s. S and I had lunch in a building that I remembered as a classic American hotel and steakhouse, but since my visits ended, it had become a shabby-chic bistro and wine bar for the foodies en route to the Napa Valley from Los Angeles. I was disturbed that this place, along a road that had not really changed for decades, should fall victim to the pressures of time and economy. But looking out the dining room windows, I saw the beachfront motel where Aunt Monica had served up endless pots of spaghetti and Danish cookies for so many summers in my childhood, and I was reassured that my own story was tied somehow to that of Highway 1, so spectacular, so intimate, so legendary, so personal, so Californian.

Important Things

Several months ago, I reconnected with a middle school friend via Facebook (coincidentally, this long lost acquittance happens to be on payroll for the popular social networking site). We exchanged a few messages, talking about the colleges we attended and the spouses we had since acquired in the decade that had passed since we last spoke. In a later message, he revealed to me that his parents had died - suddenly and tragically - when the private plane they were flying crashed. I can't even imagine what he's going through in their absence.

This fall, this friend of mine, Jason, took a month off from work. At the end of his sabbatical, he posted the following note to Facebook, making it viewable to all of his friends on the site. As I was reading it, I was really struck by the message and the way that he perfectly captured the "Cookie Monster" thinking that birthed this blog. Not only was he talking about things that really mattered, but he adeptly (and unintentionally) captured the unexpected intimacy that web-based communication can bring. With his permission, I am re-printing his note below.

important things

A lot of people struggle with the idea that I took a month off without "doing anything." I didn't backpack through Europe, I didn't build homes for underprivileged youth in Zimbabwe; in fact I only left the Bay Area once to go fishing with a friend near Weaverville. Mostly I watched television, movies, ate a lot, worked out occasionally, and finished the pile of video games collecting dust next to my TV. It was pretty awesome. Yet I got these looks like I had wasted my time, like I had this amazing opportunity and by spending it on the couch in my underwear I somehow missed a chance for... something, I was never clear on that, but apparently there was some experience I should have had that I didn't.

I don't have a point, I just found this reaction interesting.

I got back to work and was shocked to discover that my job seemed really important. Don't get me wrong, I love my job, and I love Facebook, but one thing I've always been good at is recognizing that, at the end of the day, it's a website. One might think that especially now I'd have perspective on the relative importance of things but oddly, for the last few weeks, I found myself getting personally attached to the events happening around me at work. An egress drop was an embarrassment, a bad bug unforgivable, an obnoxious email grounds for fisticuffs (aside: I can't believe I'm just discovering how awesome it feels to use the word 'fisticuffs'). Fortunately I managed to display some restraint in acting on these feelings but every day I came home from work completely drained, unbelieving that it wasn't the weekend yet. I never used to get so tired. Eventually I realized what I was doing and I'm making a hugely conscious effort to take a breath and let things go, but it's amazing how hard I'm finding this experience. Detachment is supposed to be hard, I guess, but it's something at which I was used to being good. It's almost like I suddenly forgot how to do basic arithmetic.

It's good to be reminded that I can always be a better person. I have this amusing tendency to think the only big personal challenge I have left to work on is my shitty behavior around competition.

I probably wouldn't be writing any of this if it wasn't for my sister. As I've said before I have this fear that all we're doing at Facebook is teaching people to self-promote how awesome they are and hide all the things that make them interesting, that make them human. Reading her note I found myself learning things about what she's going through, what she's thinking and feeling. This is my sister, and I'm learning about her on Facebook. It made me realize that most of the people I see on a daily basis probably have no idea what's up with me.

After all, who walks around telling the world what they're really thinking, especially at such a shitty time of life, especially at work? Yet if other people are anything like me, they crave to know Who I Really Am, because honestly, who gives a shit about the corporate masks we wear to get our jobs done? I actually believe the masks are a necessary evil of doing business, but they don't make me care about the people around me. If Facebook can help us be real people and still go to work and get things done, well, I like that idea. A lot of people I know are afraid of this idea, and with good cause. Most industries seem to penalize you if they find out something about you they don't like, and I'm very grateful I'm not in one of them.

All of this has been a long-winded introduction to Who I Really Am right now. When people ask how I'm doing I just say 'OK', which is true, but a version of the truth. The real answer is awkward to discuss in person and much easier to write here.

Every day sucks. We saw each other every Thanksgiving so this week sucks a lot. Someone wished me a Happy Thanksgiving and it took all my self control not to be horribly nasty in response because actually this happens to be the least happy Thanksgiving I have ever had. But people do their best and there's no reason to make them feel bad about trying to be nice. But then, I wonder, why is it my job to look out for other people's feelings right now? Don't I get to be a total shithead? Then I think about my Mom, and smile, and try to be the best person I can be.

I feel like large swaths of my past died with them. My sister and I were talking about this the other day; anything we don't remember is gone. And even the stories we do recall, it's not the same. I can never tell a story about myself as a five year old the same way they could.

There are days I don't even feel human. I don't know how people look at me without recoiling.

Sometimes I get angry or sad when people talk about their parents, or when I see parents in the street, or even when we see [some friends]. Sometimes I don't. I almost always get sad when I see grandparents. There's nothing to say or do except wait until it gets better at some point in the future.

I think about the future. My sister's wedding, kids, anniversaries, birthdays; every occasion will be tinted by their absence.

There was a long stretch of my life, before college, when I wished I could fast-forward. I was really unhappy but I knew that, at some point in the future, I would find all the things I was looking for and life would be good. Eventually I got there. I made amazing friends at Brown. I loved living in California, working in tech. I lived within 40 miles of tons of friends. I met [my wife], bought a house, started a new job, got married. I was lucky to have so many great years. But my parents died and now I just want to fast-forward again.

But despite the horribly depressing last few paragraphs, I wake up every day. I live my life. I still have a great job, great friends and co-workers. I love my sister and my wife and her family. I love [other friends]. I love my Aunt, my Uncle, my cousin, and my grandmother. I love all my parents' friends back home who treat us like family. I couldn't ask for better people around me.

I know it will be better. There are too many good things in my life for me to feel like this for much longer. As trite as it sounds, I know my parents would want me to have the happiest life I possibly could. It's just that, right now, I can't possibly imagine what 'being better' would feel like, and that's a little scary.

So that's where I am right now. Please don't feel obligated to respond because, as I found myself telling a friend recently, there's not always something to say. But, if you do, tell me something real. I've heard enough about prayers, and thoughts, and strength.


*For the purposes of this forum, I've edited this post to eliminate any names to protect the author's friends / family members.

...When I'm Sixty-Four

For the last few days, I've had Ringo Starr's cheery "...When I'm Sixty-Four" refrain echoing in my head for less than cheery reasons. During my holiday break from work (an extended break while the University is closed), my husband and I have embarked on some manic home improvement efforts - namely, painting four of the rooms in our 1927 bungalow.

Now, the trim has been untaped, the knickknacks have been put away, and the rainbow walls look crisp and handsome. Basking in the beauty of a completed project, I've been left with a nagging sensation - quite literally, a nagging soreness in my hands. Days after I have retired my roller, my hands still ache, making me increasingly aware of my taxing daily chores. There's an ache when brushing my hair, washing a dish, tying a shoelace, chopping onions, turning a knob, and even typing on my computer. It's like a flash forward, to a time when I am sixty-four (or maybe just thirty-four).

As it has been particularly hard to grasp things, and my tired 28-year old hand winces from opening the Advil bottle, my thoughts have drifted to my family tree and a long line of prematurely old hands. My paternal grandmother worked in the restaurant industry for most of her life. In her sixties, her hands were so numb from arthritis, I can actually remember her taking hot baked potatoes out of the oven without a mitt or a flinch. Only in his fifties, my father's hands aren't much better - clumsy after many ineffective carpal tunnel surgeries. The thing with bad hands is, they don't get better, they just get worse.

The whole thought of physical atrophy depresses me. The mind/body connection never seems more disjointed when the body can't keep up with an agile mind. Science may have perfected the bionic knee, but they haven't yet patented the hand transplant. Hands are the agents of the most underrated of the five senses (touch), but they allow us to feel, to experience the world in all of its tactile glory. To gesture. To express. To connect. On a more practical, unpoetic level, our hands are nature's most crafty tool. They execute millions of tasks each day, like keeping the door locked, cookie batter blended, our eyeliner straight, and our mortgage checks signed.

And in the digital age, arthritis is not only debilitating, it's silencing. If it hurts too much, you don't type (often or at all). Perhaps that's the thought that has resonated with me the hardest. If in five, or ten, or twenty years, my hands lost their dexterity, I'd lose a piece of myself and my voice. My long-distance friendships, sustained by daily emails and instant messages, would flutter away. For years, I've recorded my experiences and logged memories in a blog. Cutting back on my writing to lessen the pain might lead to experiential amnesia, wandering blindly forward in a life unexamined. I would have to rely on other channels to sustain friendships and rely on others to do more things for me. Never mind the fact that I can't even imagine how I'd ever work without writing.

My fate isn't absolutely sealed, I suppose. My only living grandparent, my maternal grandmother, gets on preternaturally well for 94 - especially in the hand department, knitting colorful afghans fiendishly. She's always been particularly talented with her hands, an excellent seamstress and even more gifted cook, working days on a holiday spread, most notably, shaping dozens of individual piergoies, little Polish dumplings, for my family. She is a woman who gives me a special appreciation of the term handmade.

Now living in a nursing home, my grandmother hasn't hosted a holiday in almost a decade. Her handwriting is at times shaky, but always legible. Not long ago, I remember her showing me that her pinkie finger now has a permanent crimp in the joint and she's unable to extend it fully. It was her vanity talking, she's never been one to fully believe that she'd aged. Even pointing out this curious imperfection, she mentioned it in a passing sort of, "oh, that's interesting," kind of way. I don't really know what this means, but the conversation about her finger resonates vividly in my mind.

When I told him the theme of my post, my husband reassured me that I need not fear the decline of my motor skills by telling me that by the time it happens, "we'll have robots." Still, it's more sad that that. It's not only about completing daily tasks like chopping onions or tying shoes (things machines might actually do for us in the future), there's something infinitely tragic about losing independence, voice, touch, and feel.