Hypocrite's Almanac

We went to the theater the other night.  We got to our seats right before curtain, but there was some commotion on the aisle of our row.  An usher was checking the ticket of a large boy/man in hipster attire holding a huge piping hot cup of coffee.  A middle-aged woman clutching a purse stood nearby waiting anxiously.  The usher declared that boy/man was in the wrong; his seat was about a dozen rows back.  It was clear the boy/man hadn’t made a mistake, he just was trying to better his experience.  He didn’t apologize or explain why he was there, he just gathered his things, which included a backpack, a laptop bag and that cup of coffee, half of which he spilled on the seat as he was getting up.  The woman with the correct ticket for the seat was as steaming as the coffee, and while the usher did his best to blot up the coffee with a huge wad of toilet paper, she launched into a monologue far better than any we would see on stage in those next few hours.  It went a little like this:

“I’m so sick to death of all the entitled creeps out there that think we all live in their world. They think they deserve better seats, better clothes, better furniture, better food, all without paying the price for it.  I blame their lazy parents.  Don’t they know that we all have to suffer for their crappy parenting?  They released their selfish brats into the adult world yet they’re hardly adults.  They might dress, have jobs, and drive cars like adults, but they don’t take responsibility for anything and have never been taught how to apologize.  I fear for the fate of the world when it lands in the hands of these ungrateful selfish jerks.  We are doomed.  Lord in Heaven, we are doomed.”

(I might have added a little dramatic flair at the end but I think if you had been there you would agree that I captured the essence of her speech.)  The whole thing lasted about two minutes.
I had a couple different reactions to this.  First off, I admired the woman’s passion.  I haven’t delivered a monologue like that since last weekend when I learned that the parking lot across from my kid’s school is getting turned into…wait for it, wait for it…luxury condos!!  I’m sure you’re not surprised.  What else do things turn into in Brooklyn these days?  Zeus Almighty!  I am so sick of luxury condos.  Those two words together are ripping Brooklyn and me apart, I tell you.  Don’t get me wrong, I still have those moments where I’m convinced I live in the best city in the world, but my relationship to said city is being threatened by its compulsion to turn every remaining square inch of land into stacks of boxes filled with stainless steel appliances, granite countertops and hardwood floors.  And what’s with the tiny one-person balconies for the street facing units?  And can we stop calling homes UNITS?  Ugh!

I’m a fan of the well-structured rant and that lady with the purse delivered a top-notcher.  It’s always cathartic and enjoyable to see someone unleash his or her inner pitbull.  (And yes, I know pitbulls can be very cuddly.  You don’t have to write in to tell me.)  Lady, I really appreciate the spark within you.  There are many, many factors at work conspiring to turn us into hollow, emotionless, apathetic drones.  You let your fiery rage out and I felt honored to be there to witness it.  You, my purse clutching friend, are very much alive and I feel more alive for knowing you.  Or for sitting four seats down from you.

Another reaction I had to the lady’s speech was specific to the content.  Amen, sister!  I know brats.  I see them all the time:  brats who clean out their cars on my street and leave their coffee cups on the fire hydrant, brats who cut in line at Rite Aid, brats who don’t pick up their dog poop, brats who take the Macy’s circular out of the bag on our stoop and leave the others all over the sidewalk, brats who pick up their kids late from school every single day, brats who won’t move their bag off the seat on the subway, brats who idle in their car in front of my house blasting music with profanity while my kids are chalking the sidewalk.  There are many, many slobs, ingrates and idiots walking around Brooklyn who never think for one moment how their actions impact others.  I curse them!  (But I do it quietly, so no children can hear.)

Here’s my third reaction to the woman in seat C1 which I have entitled “Whoa, Nellie!”   Let’s look at the facts.  It was curtain.  No one was sitting there.  Boy/man wrongly concluded that your seat hadn’t been sold.  Let’s suppose that when you approached he could see that hellfire in your eyes so instead of engaging with you, he opted for slithering away.  Tragically and completely accidentally, he spilled his coffee.  I know how bad it looks, but maybe, just maybe, boy/man is not the gremlin you pegged him to be.  Perhaps boy/man is an overworked hospice nurse looking to spend his only night off at the theater.  (Horrible choice of show, btw.  Next time see Once.)  Or perhaps boy/man has been searching for his birth mother for fifteen straight months and he suspects she might just be the lead in the play we were about to see.   He just wanted to get closer just to see if he could see the color of her eyes or detect a familiar facial expression.  Or is it possible that boy/man is deaf or blind or just had a stroke?  I could go on but you get my point.  So often we assume so much about each other and very often, we assume the worst.

What do we say we just give this guy a break and grant him a free get out of theater jail card? We’ll keep an eye out for him, of course.  He won’t be pulling the old seat switcheroo on our watch again, no sir.  But for now, let’s let him walk with just a warning.   Oh, we’ll take his coffee away, you betcha!  He shouldn’t be drinking such a big coffee before bed anyway.  Even his birth mom coulda tell him that.

That’s a lot of thoughts about a two-minute kerfuffle at the theater.  I really want to pull some wicked good conclusion out of the whole matter.  I tried.  Oh, how I tried!  At first I wrote that the lesson is to give other the benefit of the doubt, to assume that everyone has had the worst day of their lives and they’re just barely making it to the next place they need to be.  But I’m not sure that’s the way to go.  People can be brats and sometimes, brats need to be schooled.  (Always check that brats are not packing heat first.  My lawyer asked me to say that and it’s a not a bad idea.)  I also think we should strive to get more in touch with our rage.  Historically, any kind of change, social or political, has happened due to a few people who mobilized others around things that pissed them off.  Lets all get together for a rant-a-thon.  Tuesday at noon, Grand Army Plaza?  We’ll rant like crazy people.  We’ll let our faces turn red!  We’ll embarrass our kids! Shock our siblings!  Tuesday at noon!

And let me know how it goes.  If I weren’t such a hypocrite, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

See you next time.

Dear Hypocrite,

I know you’re not a therapist. I’ve been reading your column for six years and every time you answer a letter you restate that you do not have any professional credentials. I thought I’d go ahead and get that out of the way for you. I so happen to be a therapist—I work with families dealing with physical and emotional abuse. I envy that you’re able to offer advice without the weight of accountability. If I imagined a career like yours before I went to grad school, I think I would’ve taken a different road. But, as you’ll see when I get to my reason for writing, I’m quick to envy the lives of others.

First, let me give you some background.  I’m a single mom, though I share custody of my two kids with my ex.  I live in North Slope on the second floor of a brownstone just off Flatbush Avenue.  It’s a big one bedroom.  I let my kids have the bedroom and I sleep on the foldout couch in the living room.   It’s a warm, cheery home.  We feel very safe and have a good relationship with our landlord. 

The problem?  I spend an inordinate amount of time, like most Park Slope parents, pushing a stroller around the neighborhood.  And for the past year or so, as I walk the sidewalks, I invariably begin to obsess over real estate.  I study every house and building I pass, imagining the carefree lives of those homeowners inside. Surrounded by the vast amount of keepsakes that their spacious abodes allow, they sip tea from cups passed down from their grandmothers and are content knowing that they are living in an investment.  I picture them up in their attics searching for holiday decorations or old photos of the family.  In the spring, I visualize them going down into the basement to bring up the bikes for their first park ride of the season.  All of this creative imagery has left me feeling very resentful towards my neighbors who own.  It’s gotten to the point where I ignore them when I pass them on the street.  It’s juvenile, I know.  But I can’t help myself.

There’s more.  I agonize over squandered opportunities to buy in the ‘90s. Why didn’t we buy that duplex on Carlton?  We could’ve found the money for that three bedroom on Eighth Avenue.  At bedtime, I tell my kids stories of traveling back in time to fight alongside knights and cast spells with sorceresses.  When my kids fall asleep, I tell myself stories about going back to the early 1900s to buy the building that is now the Society of Ethical Culture when it was up for sale.  (Did you know it was originally a single-family home owned by William Childs, inventor of Bon Ami Cleaning Powder?) I bet I could’ve nabbed it for eight bucks.

It’s affecting my job.  Between the appointments and paperwork, I slide down the wormholes that are Trulia and Zillow.  On the weekends, I drag the kids by the real estate office windows on Seventh Avenue in order to stay current with the listings.  I feel confident in saying that I know every property available within a fifteen-block radius of the Park Slope Food Coop.  

I need help.  This obsession is taking up time and energy and is making me feel ashamed and miserable.  I haven’t brought it up with my own therapist because she owns a home in Park Slope.  She’s going to want to discuss how I feel about her, and I’d rather not.  (I resent her, of course.)

Signed,
Green Monster in North Slope

Dear Green,

Some thanks are in order.  Thanks for getting my non-therapist disclaimer out of the way.  It really is a burden for us uncertified, free of charge, hypocritical life coaches.   Sometimes I think it’s all I do all day —tell people that I’m not a therapist.  And thanks for referring to what I do as a career.  That made me feel good.  And six years?  Have I been hacking out this column that long?  Good grief.  Well, thanks for reading.  I hope what I’m about to say helps you.

First of all, you are not a terrible person.  From my vantage point, you are a very decent person.  You sleep on the sofa, for crying out loud.  And you do good work by helping people who can’t help themselves.  You will surely get a choice condo in heaven.  But in the meantime, there’s no need to feel ashamed of your problem.  I’m big on envy.  It keeps the blood pumping.  Personally, I envy people who know how to dress, have good hair, have a healthy relationship with alcohol, and have parents who are spry and able to babysit.  My, I just disclosed a great deal of information about myself.  Let’s quickly move on.

Everyone has or has had an online obsession:  Facebook, Twitter, Gawker, Geneology.com, Reddit, Xtube, you name it.  Your obsession is founded on your desire for permanence and is completely understandable.  You want a cave your kids will inherit when you get picked apart by vultures.  You’re not the only one who feels this primal urge to own.   Because your neighborhood is stupid expensive, I imagine real estate obsession is pretty common in your parts.  So, it’s time to stop beating yourself up.

As I see it, you have two choices.  Which one you choose depends on the feasibility factor.  Are you really in a financial position to own at this time,or are you indulging in fantasy? If you think you could fork over a robust down payment, then choose option one.   If you’re worried about how to pay the babysitter, then look into option two.

Option one: Get practical about it. Form a relationship with a realtor and tell all—what you’re looking for, how much you can afford, where you want to live.  And then pour yourself a glass of pinot, pick up a novel, and let your realtor do the obsessing.  When you finish the novel, pay a visit to your bank and get a mortgage pre-approval letter.   It’s not as easy as it used to be, but so what? You need to know if you’re being realistic about this dream of yours, or if you’ve been getting high from the second-hand ganja smoke you’ve been inhaling walking behind the high school kids on your way home.

Option two:  If you know there’s no way you can afford a place in your neighborhood, quit this obsession cold turkey.  Don’t look at another listing.  Stop being a slave to “what if?” and move on to “what now?”  (Ooooo, that’s good.  Watch out Suze Orman!)  There are lots of tricks that can help in breaking compulsive habits.  Some involve snapping rubber bands on the wrist, journaling, or enlisting friends and coworkers to help you.  Be wary of replacing one obsession with another.  Giving up cigarettes for ice cream produces a whole other set of problems.  (Ooooo, nicotine-infused ice cream… Look out, Ben and Jerry!) Once you do give up your real estate obsession, you will find yourself with more time and energy, and it’s important to find healthy ways to spend them.  Reconnect with old friends.  Take a class.  Plan a trip.  Do what makes you feel good—only you know what that is.  And while you might not be able to afford a new place to live, you can make some changes to your current home.  Buy your dream couch or paint your living room a new color.  If you can’t lose the weight, at least get a good haircut, right?  I would never do any of this, but you should.

Green, I hear you.  I’m sorry that you’re going through this.  But let me offer a little perspective.  I once traveled to Turkey on my own for a month.  One night, I ate dinner with a man who worked in a souvenir shop near my hotel.  At the end of the meal, I told him I would visit him the following afternoon.  Early the next morning, I got some news that resulted in me having to leave immediately.  I went to say goodbye, but his shop was closed.  I asked a man sweeping nearby, and he pointed to a bungalow behind the building.  I walked down the alley and entered the bungalow, where I found my friend sleeping in a queen-sized bed with five of his brothers.  Six spooning, grown men in one bed.  We often compare ourselves to our neighbors, but the world is filled with people who live in many different ways.  Try comparing yourself to people not as fortunate as you, and you will be humbled.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s completely natural to want more out of life.  I can guarantee you that those neighbors drinking tea out of their grandmas’ cups want more too.  Maybe they don’t want bigger brownstones, but maybe they want their grandmas back.  Green, stay in the moment and appreciate what you do have.  And things will change if you work hard to make owning a reality.  In five years, you could be paying your mortgage instead of your rent.  I sincerely believe that with sixty-five percent of my heart.  So, until then, quit obsessing about what you don’t have, and enjoy your kids.  They grow up so fast. One day your home will be too big.

 

Hello Park Slopers and others.

How are you? Have you begun the annual winter slide into mild or severe (depending on your DNA) depression? I find that if I don’t resort to too much glucose/alcohol therapy, I’m able to flat line it until the 78th Precinct Baseball Parade down Seventh Avenue in early April. The random piece, what can disrupt all of my well-laid emotional health plans, is getting a cold or flu. When I get sick, the world is a cruel place where horrible things happen to good people or well-intentioned hypocrites like me. Thankfully, I have my time-tested get-well regimen. And lucky for you, for the first time ever, I’m going to share it! Follow my directions for well-getting and you’ll be getting well in one short week!

We’re not that far into winter and I’ve already been clobbered by something I’ll call “Baby Flu.” The first symptom was achy feet. Then, there was a very covert neural procedure done in the darkest of hours, during which my spinal cord was replaced with a far inferior model. Day two was met with a sensation that my intestinal parasites, which were formerly under control, had ventured into other areas to set up pop-up shops in my nose and throat to hawk their pots of brownish grayish goo. It was time to activate my get-well emergency response system which, again, I will now reveal for the very first time!

First and foremost, I find Sick Hat. I, like many, many people all over the world, wear a hat when I’m sick. Mine is a pink fleece hat that I sport on no other occasion (unless it’s the only hat I can find and the dog desperately needs to go out). Sick Hat is a signal to all family members and close friends that I am very ill and cannot be counted on to meet their needs.

Once Sick Hat is on, I pretty much do whatever I want. I watch TV in the daytime, something I never do. I like to catch up on my Masterpiece Mysteries. I’m partial to Wallander (the Kenneth Branagh one) and Sherlock (the Benedict Cumberbatch one). If none of those are new, I can do an Inspector Lewis but I’ll rarely screen a Marple or a Poirot. They’re not dark enough. I need to feel haunted at the end of a mystery, and the cases that come across the desk of Wallander, a homicide detective living in a remote seaside village in Sweden, creep me out every time. Once I’ve seen a couple of those, I go online and check which stocks I should have bought five years ago. Then I eat. If I’m really sick—super achy and incapable of even thinking about food—I’ll drink peppermint tea with honey and lemon. If I still have my appetite, I’ll eat something spicy—kimchi and rice, eggs with jalapenos, turkey sriracha rollups. Hot foods kill viruses, I’m certain. I have no facts on which to base this, but I’m absolutely positive I’m right.

After lunch, I’m off to the sauna at the Y. More heat. Here are my very specific sauna instructions: Right before you go in, drink an ocean of water. Do not shower. Enter sauna. When you can’t stand it anymore, leave and find a bench to rest on to acclimate. Then take a shower, lukewarm, not cold. Repeat. Repeat again. After the third shower, rub oil (I use jojoba) all over your body and put on lots of layers. Go home and get back in bed. Don’t forget to put Sick Hat back on. Fall asleep.

When you wake up, make yourself a snack. I usually make some broth. If you have a chicken carcass in your freezer, put it in pot with some halved lemons, cover with water, bring to a boil then simmer for two hours. If you don’t have a chicken carcass in your freezer—what the Hell’s wrong with you? Vegetarian or not, never throw out a good chicken carcass! Without it, you’ll have to make bouillon with cubes, powders or concentrate. That’s the price you pay for throwing away a perfectly good chicken carcass! Drink your real or imitation broth while listening to the Beach Boys channel on Pandora. Gently sway back and forth being careful not to dislodge Sick Hat. People need to know they cannot bother you for anything.

I finish the whole sick day off with a hot toddy: a steaming cup of chamomile tea, a squeeze of lemon, a tablespoon of honey, and a glug of whisky. The bigger the glug, the fewer toddies you’ll have to drink to get to sleep, which is important because you don’t want to have to get up to pee a lot when you’re sick. And you really don’t want to wet the bed, which will happen if you combine the toddies with Nyquil. I’m not a chemist, but I imagine that the structure for Nyquil is very similar to the structure for Rohypnol. On the dire occasion that I do take Nyquil, I like to write a journal entry right after I take the recommended dose. This is my most recent Nyquil-influenced entry:

Still sick. The kids had afterschool but I had to go in early because I’m helping solicit donations for the auction. The fundraising chair gave me a list of businesses on Fifth and around Atlantic and a really detailed map of the neighborhood so I shoved her to the ground, pulled her teeth and horns out, and swallowed them. Got the kids, went home, tried to make dinner. The peas spilled all over the floor up to our knees. Tony, our tax accountant, came to help us clean up and taught the kids how to ride the donkey. Tony’s face was a made of clay but the donkey was real. I have to make disposable lunches for the kids tomorrow. Both of them have field trips.

I will not take Nyquil unless I don’t have to do anything the next day until noon.

After the toddy or toddies I get in bed, again with lots of layers on because it’s important to sweat a lot when you sleep. Everyone knows that—except the silly science people.

So I repeat this routine for six or seven days or until Sick Hat begins to itch uncontrollably and I can’t think of anything else but taking Sick Hat off. That’s when I know I’m better. I wash Sick Hat and store it in a plastic bag labeled “WILD RICE.” What it says on the bag does not matter. That would be crazy! But maybe you should try a using a bag labeled “WILD RICE” just in case. Why mess with success? I’m very inflexible in terms of my recovery routine, but I am considering adding a flu therapy I recently heard on the radio: You slice the top and bottom off an onion and warm it (do not boil!) in two cups of milk until the onion is soft. Then add a tablespoon of honey and drink. It’s exactly what I look for in a remedy. It’s bizarre, scientifically unfounded, and kind of gross. I’ll let you know how it goes. Stay well.

See you next time.

What!?!  Summer is over?  I just got around to shaving my legs!  Not that hairy legs stopped me from going to the local public pool.  Sorry about that.  Hope it didn’t gross you out.  I figured since there’s plenty to be skeeved out about there, I’d fit right in with the floating hairballs, used band-aids and snakes of phlegm surfing the waves.  Back to summer though.  As much as I hate to see it go, I adore Fall when it appears.  But know this about me. I fall in and out of love easily.  I get these crushes, see?  I bet I’d get a crush on you if I ever met you.  You’re perfect for me in every way.  You don’t turn away from me when I’m talking to (or writing to) you and you give me the space I need.  You don’t leave your shit everywhere and your breath is as fresh as the air in the room I’m in right now.  You could work a little on your conversation but that’ll come later.  I like silence.  I do.  But wait, do you like me?  Look at this.  3=>  That’s what I look like naked when I’m lying on my side.  Hot, huh?

That was a lot of fun.  Guess what’s not going to be fun?  The rest of this column.  Yep. Summer’s over.  Fall is the universal season of decay.  I need to be seasonally appropriate.  We had a great time but it just wasn’t meant to last.

So.  I have this one relative that is absolutely birdshit crazypants.  And how her insanity manifests is by saying the absolute rudest and most inappropriate things every time she opens her birdshit crazypants mouth hole.  If you were standing in your wedding dress about to go down the aisle and she passed you on her way to the bathroom she would say.   “Ohhhh.  Are you allergic to lobster?  My face gets puffy like that when I eat shellfish.  That reminds me, I was wondering if the man you’re marrying has Oriental blood in him.  His eyes look Oriental.  But his last name is Wang.  Isn’t that a German name?  Is he a Nazi?  He looks like a Nazi-Oriental to me.”

This is only an example.  And it’s watered down at that. I wish I could give you an actual transcript but I’m saving it for my book: Can You Believe Someone Actually Said This?  I really could regale you for a solid week with her nuttiest chestnuts.  But, believe it or not, I get paid to write this column and I’m supposed to tell you how to live your life, not complain about my relatives.  So, here.  I’m going to tell you how I learned to deal with her.

After about 10 years of her remarks leaving my jaw unhinged and my mind racing around in its attic trying to find some response, any response besides the instinctual WHHHHHAAAAA?, I stumbled upon a strategy.  Now when she drops a conversational bomb on a crowd big or small, I pretend she’s dying of a terminal illness but doesn’t yet know it.  The scenario is detailed:  I was in the lab the night before when the results came in.  The physician on duty had never seen anything like it.  The prognosis is catastrophic.  She only has two days to live.  We decide to let her primary physician break the news to her but he’s at his granddaughter’s piano recital so he’s going to call her in the next day.  This is the next day.  While she’s talking to me, I can hear her phone ring in her purse but the ringer is on low — only I can hear it.  It’s just so sad.  Only 48 hours!!  The doctor was contemplating not even telling her.  But that’s him, on her cell phone, calling to deliver the news.

Ring ring.  That’s what I pretend to hear under everything she says.  Ring ring.  Ring ring.  The imaginary sound cue fills me with patience and compassion and allows me to respond to one of her doosies not with, “SHUT YOUR FACE!” but with something akin to, “How’s your car running?”  (This is very safe territory.  She has a Ford.  It is always running well.  This is not a paid advertisement from Ford.)  Usually she’ll say “Fine,” and then go into another room wondering how it’s possible that I could be so very dull as to ask about her car.  This is a very successful interaction with her.

Now, we all have a terminal condition.  (Pssssst.  We’re all going to die.  Even you, reading this at the gym while you’re elliptical-ing.) But being in close proximity to someone struggling with real health issues can affect our behavior.  Sometimes for the better, sometimes not.  Which brings me to my first and only letter.

Dear Hypocrite.

I love you.  I think you’re the greatest free-of-charge hypocritical life coach there ever was.  I wish you had a TV show.  Not that I watch TV.  I mean, I watch HBO and Mad Men, but that’s not TV.

I’m writing to you for help.  My mom is sick.  Two years ago she got diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.  Her decline has been swift.  Fortunately, my older sister lives nearby and has been checking in on her daily.   This morning, however, she informed me and my younger brother that my mom needs a higher level of care than she can provide. 

I am frozen with fear.  All my life I told myself that I don’t know what I’d do if my mom died and now that the reality is closer, I am incapacitated. I’m in a plane that’s going down and all I can do is read the safety card in the pocket in front of me.  I hate that I’m like this but I don’t know how to be any other way.  My mom means the world to me.  Growing up, my dad wasn’t in the picture.  My mom had to work two jobs and went to school at night to give us everything we wanted.  Plus, she was fun.  She’d wear silly hats when she woke us up in the morning.  She was just the best.  Literally, the best mother you could ever, ever want! 

She put me through college and law school.  And now, because I’m a partner at a big fancy firm in Midtown, I can afford to get her the best care.  But I don’t want to just throw money at this.  It’s my mom, I want to be there for her.  But like I said, I’m so sad I can barely pick up the phone to ask my sister how she is.  I feel terrible.  How do I snap out of this?

Depressed and Not Dealing Well on Dean Street

Dear DaNDWoDS,

Whoa.  Okay.  First things first.

Thank you.  I love you too, and I bet you are an amazing lawyer. From your letter, I can tell you have passion and compassion, which is useful in your job.  I think.  I’m not sure.  I have a friend who is a corporate lawyer.  He says what he does makes him sick to think about, so he goes on autopilot most of the time.  I hope that you aren’t in this situation.  You have enough difficult emotions churning inside you to process.  Let’s talk about a way to help you face your fears.

But wait, there’s some housekeeping to do.   HBO/Mad Men is TV.  I grant you that it’s very good television, but that doesn’t mean you can call it something else.  I hate asparagus unless it’s broiled in duck fat, but I still have to call it asparagus. Moving on.

For the lawyers:  I am not a licensed therapist.  You should find one.  Ask your friends or your doctor for referrals. You live in Park Slope.  Nine out of 10 people you pass on the street are therapists.  Just ask the woman next to you in line at the Coop where her office is.  Don’t feel like you need to choose the first one you meet with.  First up: you should feel safe and not sexually aroused.  It’s the opposite of the bar scene. I never follow this rule, but it’s essential.
Now.  Let’s really begin.  I’m sorry you’re going through this.  It’s hard to see a parent hurting. You probably know this but with degenerative brain diseases, your mom can actually live many more years — although the mom you know might not be around much longer.  My dad has Parkinson’s.  It’s different, but still sucks.  He first started showing signs 10 years ago and it’s been a very steady downhill slide since then.  I look at pictures of him a decade ago and I can easily see him as my young dad, 40 years prior.  But to compare those same photos to how he looks now, the connection is much harder to make.   I’d like to tell you everything is going to be fine, but it isn’t.  It’s going to be hard.  It’s very sad to see someone you love deteriorate in front of your eyes, but there are some things you can do to help yourself and your mom.

I know you feel immobilized but there are still things you can do.  You’re a lawyer.  You know how to research.  Start by researching the beJesus out of the disease — especially the symptoms so you know what to expect.  Find out about all of the medications your mom is taking.  Meet with her doctors.  Interview caregivers.  Get into the details of the management of your mom’s illness.  This will be a big help to your siblings who might not be able to do what you do as well as you do.  Everyone can contribute in his or her own way to keeping your mom comfortable during this time.  Work as a team.   Oh, and I’m sure you’re on this, but make sure all her finances and documents are in order.  That’s really important to do now.  Stay organized.  I bet you can do that.  See?  You’re not incapacitated.  You’re helping!

When you’re with your mom, meet her where she is.  If she’s happy, be excited and give your voice enthusiasm.  If she’s solemn, use a lower, more serious tone.  And don’t deny her reality.  If she’s worried about a deadline for work assignment at a job she hasn’t had in 20 years, tell her that you’ll help her with it.  Offer to call her boss and ask for an extension.  Address her fears and don’t try to convince her that they are unfounded.  And when at a complete loss for words, use eye contact and touch.

You will get frustrated. Remember that it’s not her, it’s the Alzheimer’s that you’re frustrated with.  No doubt, this illness will rip your heart out, especially as the mom you know fades from view.  Take lots of deep breaths.  And for me, a strong gin and tonic every night is extraordinarily helpful.  Unless it’s the winter.  Then I switch to crank.

And the big thing.  The number one big tip is to care for your mom in the way you would want to be cared for.  She’s in there.  Give her your love.  Play music for her, bring her flowers, bring her a dog to pet (don’t leave it there), brush her hair.  C’mon.  You can do this.  Don’t let your fear of her illness keep you from spending time with her.  She’s still your mom.  The best mom in the world.

Did I lose a couple of you out there?  Figured.  People don’t like to think about death or illness unless they absolutely have to.  I’m sorry you have to at this point, Depressed and Not Dealing Well, but it’s all part of the package.  You get to have sex and eat chocolate but you also have to get sick and die.  That’s the dealio.

Good luck to you, and give your mom my love.

Until next time …

Hi. It’s me again. I hope you’re enjoying this relentless summer heat (I’m writing this before the heat comes, btw, just betting it’ll be relentless). Do you remember our winter? Kind of crummy, wasn’t it? Everyone loves a good snow-in. It allows you to brag to your California friends about the beautiful walk you took to the bodega before the plows came down your street and paved the sidewalk with a perfect coat of dog crap. Yet sadly, that beautiful snowfall didn’t happen for us this year. And now, the heat. Horrible, snowy winters seem easier to endure than record-setting, sweltering summers. Sure, we worry about the less fortunate among us in either extreme, but with the heat there’s another element at stake. Our sanity. Heat makes you go c-c-c-c-crazy.

Ooooh, if there was some literary award for smooth transition in hypocritical advice columns (the Hippies?) I would have to take a break here and accept it. Read the letter and see what I mean.

Dear Hypocrite,

With every hot day that passes, I feel like I’m falling further and further into the abyss. I’ve been aware of climate change for over 20 years and at this point despair is the prevailing feeling I experience in my day-to-day existence. The stifling heat is a constant reminder of what we are doing to our planet and all the creatures who live on it. It all seems hopeless. No amount of publicity, no well-produced documentary, no plain-speaking scientist on a late night talk show can wake us up from our arrogant ignorance. I wish I could assume a state of resignation —that I could “que sera, sera” the whole situation and go on a cruise with my loved ones. But alas, that’s not my temperament. Instead, at night I secretly pray for all of us to be destroyed by a plague. I don’t want it to be too painful, mind you, I’m no sadist, but I’m so disgusted with modern civilization and I see no other solution.

Now, I’m willing to deal with my own crippling state of mind—but there’s an issue: that cruise I just mentioned. My parents, the kindest, sweetest people on the planet, have been married for 50 years and are taking my entire family, grandchildren included, on a 10-day cruise to the Virgin Islands. As you can imagine, I feel like I am being sent to my own personal Hell. I really do enjoy spending time with my family, but a cruise typifies all that is wrong with humanity: the wasteful buffets, the massive expenditure of fuel and the dumping of toxic run-off while we’re all barefoot, carefree and doing the limbo on the Lido deck. It’s too much for me to bear. But it’s equally too much for me to bear disappointing my parents who are over the moon at the thought of this floating celebration.  Please, tell me what to do. I’m in agony over this. Oh, and one thing you should know. I’m an alcoholic and former pill addict. Please don’t tell me to just hold my nose and stay close to the bar the whole time. That would be dangerous for my health.

Becky from South Slope

Becky? Really? That’s your name? How can you be so dark with a name like Becky? I was certain your name would be Marta, Genevieve or William. But it’s Becky. That’s adorable!

So, bummer about the addiction issue because you called it, I would’ve suggested you to sidle up to dull the reality that you were complicit in supporting this high seas carbon spewing adventure. I would have further suggested the Dirty Martini as the perfect hypocrite’s blues buster. I have to admit, I never really considered the environmental impact of the cruise ship until yesterday, when I happened to choose the most recent EPA Cruise Discharge Assessment Report as my bathroom reading.  You were right, Becky! What a toxic nightmare! On the average, the boats generate 21,000 gallons of sewage and 170,000 gallons of graywater a day. Graywater is the wastewater that drains from sinks, showers, and laundry machines so you can imagine the crap thats in it (detergents, oil, grease, and food waste as well as oxygen-depleting nutrients and various pathogens). I couldn’t find any numbers on how much food is thrown out or what the methane emissions are after Fiesta Mexicana night but I did find some surprising news. The Bush administration along with our friends in Canada created an emission reduction plan which requires the use of lighter fuel for all large vessels by 2015. The cargo industry is complying. The cruise industry? Not so much. Their lobbyists are putting pressure on lawmakers to allow them to stick with the same heavy fuel they’ve been using even though the EPA estimates that when the emission reduction plan is fully implemented 31,000 premature deaths per year will be prevented. Hmmmm. Methinks something about the plan must eat into the cruise industry’s profits. Insert sound of my blood boiling here.

Sorry about all that. I don’t think that research helped you with your problem. But because I’m a self-aware hypocrite, I like to know my facts so I can sense the exact way I’m acting contrary to my strong belief system. Back to your problem. The way I see it you have two options. 1. You don’t go. 2. You go. Let’s discuss option one.

No one can force you onto the boat (unless you are Jack Bauer who was bound and gagged and thrown onto a cargo ship headed for China at the end of the fifth season of 24). If you decide not to go, I suggest you write a very thoughtful letter to your parents thanking them for such a generous gift while also explaining to them that going on a cruise would be against every principle you have. Then suggest another way to celebrate the joyous occasion with them. Here are some possibilities: A local bird-watching excursion with a catered picnic lunch; a stargazing party with a quasi-notable astronomer from the nearby community college; a Who Dun It?™ murder mystery night aboard a working antique train.  The suggestions must be able to generate a lot of excitement so tailor them to your parents’ interests. Then, via telephone, you must briefly explain to your brothers/sisters your reasons for staying behind and then quickly offer to watch their beloved dog/cat/plant. Your siblings have known you all your life. Chances are, it won’t come as too much of a surprise that you’re boycotting the cruise and ruining everything. Be prepared for some fallout in the form of a good lecture from your older sister including the following words: selfish, selfishness and selfish-ability.

Option #2. You go. This is only an option if you promise to shut the hell up about anything regarding an ecological nightmare. Once you set foot on that boat you owe it to everyone around you to keep your doom and gloom on lockdown. You don’t have to overdo it and vow to become shuffleboard champion, just be there. Haven’t you ever been to a wedding that you thought was a horrible mistake? Of course you have because most of them are. So you know that you sit there and make a toast and drink the wine and go back to your hotel and pour out your reservations about the couple to the bartender there.  Arg! I just remembered you have problems with alcohol! Forgive me.

Think on this. Love heals all. Your parents obviously love each other very much. With that love encircling them, they created a family of wonderful thoughtful people, yourself included, who know love and seek it in their own lives. This trip is to honor the love that you all share. If you leave on that boat with your family, you need to keep the kernel of this in your mind at all times. You are a very caring and sensitive person. Your parents had a hand in this. You can thank them for this by being there. Here’s a handy mantra: “I am here because of love. Love can heal the world.” If that is too soft for you, then just imagine that cruises are actually that painless global plague you were wishing for, and the good Lord has graced you with a close up view as he/she slowly wipes us out.

Whatever you decide, follow through with your decision and try to minimize your decision’s impact on others. I never do that. But you should.

Now, Becky, forgive me, I can’t help but think about what your life will be like after the cruise or non-cruise. See, you’re clearly not in a happy place. But you could be. I’m not suggesting you deny the sad reality out there but I am wondering if there’s any way you could make a major change. Is it possible for you to leave your life in Park Slope and go work for clean air and water? Many of us have kids and mortgages and the need for insurance but if you don’t, get out of town and live out our fantasies. Quit your job, give up your apartment and help with the effort to heal the horrific amount of damage that we’re doing to this beautiful world of ours. You’ll know more about the situation and be part of the solution. No doubt you’ll sleep better and your personality will be once again aligned with your adorable name. And nobody, not even your ignorant parents, would ever suggest that you go on a cruise ever again.

As far as the problem with no one listening to the cries of our planet, I’m closing this with a quote from David Abrams, philosopher, ecologist and performance artist. He was also the resident magician at Alice’s Restaurant back in the day. Wise man.  Here are his thoughts on how to wake us up:

I don’t think there is a way for those who work in service to the earth — for environmentalists, ecologists — to really woo our culture back into a reciprocal or sustainable relation with the land until we draw folds back to our senses, because our sensing bodies are our direct contact with the rest of the natural world. It is not by being abstract intellects that we are going to fall in love again with the rest of nature. It’s by beginning to honor and value our direct sensory experience: the tastes and smells in the air, the feel of the wind as it caresses the skin, the feel of the ground under our feet as we walk upon it. And how much easier it is to feel that ground if you allow yourself to sense that the ground itself is feeling your steps as you walk upon it.
from The Spell of the Sensuous

Speaking of feeling, I’m feeling sick. My six-year-old coughed in my eye 31 hours ago and Voila! I’m achy, runny, stuffy, and crabby. So, I’m only answering one letter today. Why don’t you take it easy today, too? Go to the park and drink a lemonade under the prettiest tree you can find.  Feel the earth under your tush. It’s definitely feeling you. See you next time.

Read more about the EPA report here:
water.epa.gov/polwaste/vwd/disch_assess.cfm

And about the reduced emission plan here:
www.mcclatchydc.com/2012/05/01/147291/cruise-ship-industry-fighting.html#storylink=cpy

Hey Park Sloper! What’s new? Thanks for all the letters responding to my column last issue. To answer your questions, yes, I do take the time to think about my answers before responding. I do try to consider people’s feelings when I’m giving advice. And yes, I’ve already been to Hell and have no plans on going back. Thanks for the suggestion, though.

Sheesh. Hot buttons on some of you Park Slopers. How’d you all get so sensitive? Is it the parking situation or the overflowing schools? I think I need to remind you that Park Slope is crowded because it’s so awesome! You live in one of the most vibrant communities in the country, maybe even the entire universe! Awesomeness comes with a price. Where else can you live in a college town without having to deal with college kids?

I stand by my reply to the Israeli single mother of two with the disgruntled neighbor (She should move back to Israel). You tell me to be more careful with what I say. Being careful is very foreign territory for a life coach. Theoretically you pay a life coach to boss you around. We aren’t therapists. Therapists make you come to your own conclusions and believe me, that can take forever. You don’t want me to be careful. Tell your brain surgeon to be careful. Tell your nanny to be careful. Tell yourself to be careful. Life Coaches tell you what they would do if they were you (unless, ahem, they’re big fat hypocrites).

Does anyone remember my old columns? Five years ago I wrote about composting, recycling, being more kind to one another. Did anyone read that? Exactly. You live in Park Slope. There are probably over fifty quadrillion people telling you to reduce, reuse and recycle. I honestly feel that a better way to use my skills and your time is by responding to an actual Park Slope or adjacent neighbor in need of advice. If my writing offends, just band together with like-minded Slopers and get me fired. Instead of paying your 2009 taxes or doing the seven trash bags of laundry out on your fire escape, pick up a pen and write an impassioned letter about how offensive my advice was. (Didn’t you read my article on community activism? I never followed that advice, but you should.)

Wow, am I angry or what? I am sorry. This is no way to start the new season of growth and renewal. I take it all back neighbor. You and me, we’re a lot alike. A little misguided, but passionate and loveable as all Hell. We don’t mean any harm. We’re just squirrels trying to get a nut to store for leaner times. If we work together, we can have more nuts and work less. Maybe we could even take up a hobby like some squirrel version of Scrabble. Scrabble even sounds like a squirrel game. Maybe they were the ones that invented it?

Now that we’re friends again, I’m going to answer a letter. And I’m going to go out on a limb here (like a squirrel, remember? We’re squirrel friends?) and predict that my answer is going to piss you off. I’m sorry. I liked when we got along. It’s just hard to sustain. Here goes. Wonder how long it will take for the bile to fill your mouth this time? Stopwatch poised.

Dear Hypocrite,
I have a problem. Or maybe it’s more of an issue. I know you’re going to say that I need a therapist. I do. I know that. But before I make the call, can’t you take a stab? I’ve been in therapy before and I find it incredibly painful. I’d rather just wait to hear what you think. You’re so practical. When I read your answers to letters in your column I find myself nodding in agreement. Please, just let me know what you think.

I am a failure in life. I know that sounds dramatic but it’s the truth. I am 40 and I have no marketable skills, no partner, no kids, no passion. I come from a close family and all my brothers and sisters have excelled at whatever profession they have chosen and have wonderful families that seem like they exist in a Land’s End catalog but with really good food.

Growing up, I was the child that everyone had the biggest expectations of. I was the oldest and was really good at math and an excellent artist. I would spend hours in my room drawing or sculpting things out of clay. My parents would brag about me to their friends and tell me I was special and that I was really going to be something when I grew up. Out of all us kids, I was the one who was bound to deliver.

This never happened. I blew off college, I phoned in grad school and now I’m a manager at a bagel store on Seventh Ave. I’m not asking for pity. I’m just asking for guidance. How did things go so perfectly mediocre for me if I was initially full of such promise? And furthermore, do I get out of my present situation OR just make peace with pushing carbs?

Signed,
Time to Make the Bagels

Dear TMB,
First off, thanks for the compliments. I like you, too.

I understand your situation more than you know. I also know it’s not your fault that you’re a “failure”. You are the result of a psychological experiment that was regularly performed on children growing up in the 70s and 80s. It’s rarely discussed but I’m willing to break the silence in hope of one day learning your true identity and scoring some free bagels.

I’m not going to blame the whole thing on Mr. Rogers but I think he needs to take responsibility for selling the notion that all kids were “special.” It started with the best of intentions. Back in those days some children were most definitely falling through the cracks of society. They were behind at school and had parents that were absent physically, emotionally or both. Mr. Rogers’ heartfelt response to this issue was to look deeply and serenely into the lens of the TV camera and sing songs convincing his home audience that they were truly unique. What Mr. Rogers should have said was they were not “special” but “different” from each other. It’s a semantic game, for sure, but the distinction between the two terms is an important one. Special vs. Different. Worlds apart in meaning.

Those that swallowed the “special” pill came to the logical conclusion that with very little effort on their part “special” things would happen to them. When they got out of school and had to fend for themselves they were surprised at the lack of enthusiasm people had for their “special”ness. Couldn’t the casting director/CEO/human resource drone see their glow of bona fide awesomeness? Many disappointments for these poor souls followed and they were inevitably left with shattered self-esteem and little sense of identity. Those who sneaked under the radar of Mr. Rogers or any other well-meaning yet very misguided adult survived and prospered.

TMB, while everyone around you saw great things in your future, your siblings grew up in your shadow. They learned to expect life to be what it is—full of good things, full of bad things and full of a lot of pretty mundane moments. Because of this, life has not disappointed them. Unfortunately, they have become resilient and successful human beings.

This leads us to the harsh reality. I don’t enjoy being the one to tell you this but I have a feeling you suspect the truth already. Here goes: You are not special. You never were. You had some strong fine motor skills and above average eye hand coordination when you were young. You were adept at addition and subtraction. Special? No. You had some early identifiable talents. I would like to apologize for everyone who made a fuss over you. They didn’t mean to secure your failure later in life. They had no idea what they were doing was wrong.

The good news is it’s not over. You still have a lot of life to live. Here’s a new mantra and one that is admittedly very, very un-American. Repeat after me: “Nothing good is going to happen to me today.” I stumbled upon that marvelous sentence ten years ago and it’s solved so many of my problems. Feeling entitled to a good day is a massive handicap. If you don’t have any expectations you can sail through life. When the show you want to see is sold out, no problem! Just try to get tickets for tomorrow night. When you don’t get past the first stage of American Idol? Oh well, at least you got to meet Randy. He called you a “Dawg!” When you get horrible news from your doctor, instead of “Why me?” try “Why not me?” People get sick. It had to happen to someone. Learn from it in whatever way you can.

Uh-oh, I can hear the critics. “You need to think positively. If you don’t think good things will happen to you, then they won’t. You create your own reality.” I don’t think so. I bought that garbage in my twenties. I was pretty precious about it. It was gross. As it happens, thinking you’re not special is actually a very positive thing to believe. You’ll find it’s much easier to work in groups, much easier to drive through traffic and so much easier to go to Target on the weekends.

I’m not saying you shouldn’t have dreams. I’m not saying you shouldn’t work on things you believe in. I’m saying if you have an entitled mindset, you end up being grumpy and disappointed a lot of the time, and end up feeling like a massive failure.

So to you TMB, I think you’re on the road to recovery. Skip the therapist. Take a drawing class, join an adult math club. They’ve got to have one of those in Brooklyn somewhere. If they don’t, start one. Chances are you’ll meet your mate, make a million dollars and land a fulfilling job. (I’m just kidding. Remember: Nothing good is going to happen to you today.) Please let me know how this works out. You might be my only fan out there. I need to keep in touch with you.

How are you? I’m just okay. Why just okay? Isn’t this the holiday season? Don’t I feel the warm coziness of brotherly/sisterly love, the glow of good will toward all, the peacefulness that comes with expressing gratitude for all that I do have? Nope, I feel none of that. I hate to get all doom and gloom on you but there is a mood around my neighborhood that is downright oppressive. We are on hard times. It’s not Grapes of Wrath-pack–up-the-truck times, but the vibe has most definitely changed.

It’s palpable when I get off the subway in downtown Brooklyn and I pass the people waiting in line for food stamps verification. I’ve noticed that the line is growing a little longer every week. I’ve also noticed more people are aimlessly walking around the streets near my apartment. Not homeless people, rather people without the need to be places on time, people without places to go during the day. And it seems that the shady characters asking for money on the train now seem kind of legitimate. The guy who lost his job and needs to get enough money together to feed his family might actually be telling the truth.

If this “economic downturn” has affected you directly then you have little energy to spare. You are sweating through your savings or tumbling into debt. It’s crappy to say the least. If you are comfortable, I’m sure you see what’s going on. Keep an eye on those who don’t have what they need. Stick your neck out, but carefully. It’s getting a little scary out there. We need to look out for one another.

Wow. This column is so not funny. Here’s a joke. A three legged dog walks into a bar and says, “I’m looking for the man who shot my paw…” Not a great joke, but not horrible, right? Believe me, a lot of time was wasted on some awful jokes sites and that was the only one that I thought wasn’t hideous and that you might not have heard. Hope I was right. So onto your letters. We had a lot to choose from this time but I can only have room for two. Hope the rest of you guys find another hypocritical free-of-charge life coach and get some help. Some of your problems were pretty hellacious (to Weird Rash in Windsor Terrace, go see Dr. Marc Avram in Brooklyn Heights. He’s amazing!).

Dear Hypocrite,
I am having a real problem with my downstairs neighbor. I’m an unemployed single mom of a son who’s four. My neighbor, a single man in his forties who works from home, complains that our noise wakes him up in the morning, keeps him awake at night, prevents him from working, makes his life impossible to live, etc. He comes up and lectures me, he slides notes under the door, he phones, he texts, he emails. He’s recently taken to pounding on the ceiling with a broom, I think. Or maybe it’s a long pole he purchased especially for that purpose. In his most recent letter, he composed a list of what he called “Helpful Hints”. Some of the suggestions were to remove shoes the minute we get in the house (we do), put down another carpet (we have), restrict my son’s playing to the bathroom (are you serious?) and try get him out of the house as soon as he wakes up (come on!). The next day I sent him a list called “More Helpful Hints” which suggested that he try to do his work at Starbucks, put earplugs in, glue noise reducing foam to his ceiling, and get a girlfriend and sleep at her house. Yeah, it’s not civil anymore. Another thing is I’m pregnant, so although the noise is going to get a little better as my son gets older, I’m bringing another noisemaker into the world. I haven’t told him this yet but I have to admit I’m looking forward seeing the look on his face when I start showing.

As you can tell, it’s a pretty bad situation. What makes it even a little worse is that I’m Israeli and I think he’s Palestinian. Maybe he’s from Lebanon. Either way, there’s some unpleasant history between our people and I can’t help but think that exacerbates the whole thing. Do you have any ideas on how to solve our problem? It can’t be expensive. Remember, I’m not working at the moment.

Signed,
Noisy Neighbor in North Slope

Noisy Neighbor,
I’m sorry, you’re pregnant? I really was on your side until you dropped that bomb. You’re a single mom, unemployed and you’re pregnant. Dude, I’m a life coach. You’re what we call in the industry a charity case. You need help. Do you have family nearby? If they are all in Israel, you should seriously consider moving back. That might just get rid of all your problems. This country is going down (see first couple paragraphs of this column). You can get out and your kids will get to know their heritage. That’s solution #1. I strongly recommend it. (And remember, overseas travel is best before your 8th month, so get a move on.)

Solution #2: Get help. Ask your landlord for some suggestions. Chances are he/she has been through this before. Look, your neighbor’s never had a child, and you’ve never been a forty-year-old bachelor who works from home. With the added issue of the history of your countries, you are in need a mediator. You might have an asshole living below you, but I’m not sure. He could be a completely sensible person who is being driven to asshole-ness due to lack of sleep and quiet during early morning and working hours. If you both set some rules and behave you might just find that you can build a somewhat beneficial relationship. Imagine in four months your Palestinian/Lebanese neighbor comes over for falafel and insists that you go out on your own to a movie while he puts your son to bed. That’s the kind of story the New York Times would love to feature in their City Room blog. And it’d be so nice to cut it out, frame it and hang it in the bathroom where your son plays, wouldn’t it?

In the meantime, while things are in this state, kill him with kindness. Tidy up the mail table by recycling all the catalogs and free papers. Vacuum the hallway. The packaged banana bread from Trader Joes is not that bad. Bake a loaf and leave it on his doorstep with a note that just says “Sorry for the noise, we’re working on it!” Have your son sign it with his cute little kid scrawl. It will stupefy your neighbor and buy you some time while your landlord gets around to calling you back. Guaranteed.

Dear Hypocrite,
I’ve been doing a lot of favors for people. I’ve been walking people’s dogs, picking up people’s children, making people food when they are sick. I’m exhausted. I know my friends appreciate what I do, I’m just feeling overwhelmed and in need of some payback. I’m all favored out. How can I let them know without hurting our friendships?

Fed Up in Flatbush

Fed Up,
There is rhythm to the giving and receiving of help and it sounds like the pendulum has swung too far in the giving direction. Although I am certain that it will swing back, it sounds like you’re in need of a ‘Me, Damnit!’ Day. Get a massage, buy yourself flowers and say no to the next person who asks for a favor. I don’t know why the rhythm is off-balance for you. Life is like that sometimes. When I broke my wrist, I went through a huge period of receiving only. After I finally got the cast off, I had some serious love in my heart for all the people that came to my aid. Chances are that someday, you too could find yourself needing lots of help—with your kids or pets, with your laundry, with healing your heart. I hope you don’t. But chances are you will. This help might not actually come from the people you’re helping now. It’s a little sloppy that way. Help is going to come from people you haven’t even met yet.

In the meantime, ask for a little help here and there just to keep the blood flowing. Can someone return your library book while you’re on vacation? Can someone lend you their expensive German lice comb? (I’m not making this up. I borrowed one last year and still haven’t given it back. It’s awse.) Can someone put the left over venison from the hunt in their freezer until the jerky-making party? (I made that one up.) If you come to the conclusion that you’re constantly doing things for others and no one ever comes to your aid even when you ask, then get a new group of friends. Join a church, mosque or temple. Or all three. Those people will seriously do anything you ask. Unless you ask them to tell you that God does not exist. They’re funny that way. They won’t even say it as a joke.
It will all even out in the end. Or if it doesn’t, that’s okay too. Get ready for some wisdom: Life isn’t fair. Have you ever heard that one before? If I could give you a visual, I’d show you some pictures of kids in Somalia waiting. Waiting for what? Food. Water. Medical supplies. Basically, they are waiting for favors from people they’ll never be able to repay.

Sheesh. That took a tough turn at the end. Is it time for another joke? I think it’s time for you to tell me one. See you next time.

I’ve been a little off lately. Like I have to jab a pencil in my thigh to stay alert. My dog is strangely mirroring my condition. I throw the ball he just softly gazes upon me. “You want to me to go get it just so you can throw it again? Really? We’re still doing that?” And that’s exactly how I feel.

We’re still doing that ‘get the kids to school, eat breakfast, work, eat lunch, work more, do laundry, go shopping, make and eat dinner, put the kids to sleep’ thing? I can’t really call this feeling depression. I’ve been there and this bares no resemblance. I can still get out of bed and take a shower without crying. So, what is it? After looking through a few of my old psychology textbooks I’ve determined I’m losing my sense of wonder. Why now? After reading a little more I’m confident in the diagnosis of something mid-life crisis-ishy. I’ve been on the planet a while and tradition says I should either purchase a sports car or contact my first love and tear two families apart. Neither of these seems appealing. The accepted prescription for mid-life crisis of an aging hypocrite is to try new things that don’t disrupt your home life. Ugh. How tedious.

If you know me, you know I’ve been very open to trying new things. I’ve dabbled in bookbinding, unicycling, string art, kim chee making, claymation, tennis, reiki, running, canning, caning (chairs, not kids) and dog grooming. I am serious. That list is real. In the past year I’ve paid people to teach me glassblowing, piano and life drawing. Currently, I don’t do any of that shit. So even though I’ve exhausted the new stuff route, if that’s what it takes to get the pencil out of my thigh, I’ll try it again, begrudgingly.

So, this might take something scary but it has to be perfectly safe. I broke my wrist last year in a ridiculous skateboarding mishap that was hellishly awful. Although I really loved my hand surgeon (small, safe crush) I don’t want to see him professionally again. I am hoping I will run into him at the new Fairway in Pelham where he lives but my schedule only permits me getting out there two or three times a week. I think I saw his wife, though. She’s pretty but she feeds her kids waaaaaay too much sugar.

I wrote the above a month ago in the dermatologist’s office while waiting to get a mole removed. Here’s an update:

I decided to take aerial silks classes. It’s the thing they do at the circus sometimes where they climb up a long piece of fabric and wrap themselves up in it and tumble down inches from the ground. I took two classes at Heliummm (google it) and I really recommend them if you’re interested. But here’s the thing I discovered about myself that was kind of a heartbreaker. I’m not completely sure, but I might not have a core. My instructor kept telling me to work from said core that I couldn’t locate. I know where my one remaining stomach muscle is and I know where my spine is. The core, if I have this right, is somewhere lurking between the two. I imagine it’s like the green glowing radioactive rod that lands in the back of Homer’s shirt in the opening credits of The Simpsons. Mine is not there. Or if it is, it’s like that old carrot that you find in the back of your fridge on moving day.

Finding out you have no core is strangely metaphorical. Imagine if someone said to you, “You have no backbone. Seriously. Your backbone is gone.” You’d feel horrible in at least two different ways. Like you were a colossal wuss and you were missing a fundamental body part. That’s how I felt. Not having a core made me feel like a weakling and a shell of human being.

Needless to say, the class didn’t work (I did, however, strengthen my lats). For a good three to four weeks later I was still pretty much left with a sense of wonder-less. I somehow managed to refrain from contacting my old boyfriend and buying a candy apple red Chrysler Town and Country. And thank Christo with a combination of time and a few small changes to my routine, the malaise has lifted. What exactly did I do? I am now reading Anna Karenina (it’s really good once I got over that I’ll be reading it for the next two years). I’m making and drinking a lot of iced tea (perhaps an undiscovered natural serotonin reuptake inhibitor?). I’ve stopped washing my hair (suffered from over washing anyway after the lice gifted to me by the thoughtful Kindergartners in K-117). I’m listening to Heavy Metal music. I put Iron Maiden on my Pandora and man, does it take the edge off of scrubbing the bathtub. Or it gives it more edge. My bathtub is so clean I’m going to make pudding in it after the kids go to bed. Or gin (anyone know a local source for Juniper berries?). Not sure yet. I’ll keep you posted.

And with this simple odd prescription of little things, I’m right again. Still a hypocrite, of course. But if someone were to throw a ball right now, I would go get it and bring it back. No questions asked.

I’ve reached the point in the column where I’m sick of talking about myself. Let me now turn to the sack full of letters I’ve let pile up over the summer. Your therapist went on vacation, right? I might be too late with my free hypocritical advice but I need to fill a couple more inches on this page in order to get paid so let’s see what we’ve got.

Dear Hypocrite,
I am 44 and married with two adorable kids and I am a foodie. A woman I work with is married with kids and a foodie, too. We started having lunch together. At first, the lunches were quick but now we’ve been picking fancier restaurants farther away from the office. Suddenly, it’s feels like we are dating. On the days I know we are going to lunch I find myself dressing up and combing my hair and I’ve noticed she’s doing the same thing. On our dates, we talk about our families, our marriages and our plans for the future. The conversation is so easy. Just recently I’ve noticed there is some sexual tension. And I’ve started always picking up the check even though she makes more money than me. I really like our lunches and enjoy her company but I’m aware this might be a dangerous thing. What should I do?
— Foodie in the South Slope

Dear Foodie
First, don’t refer to yourself as a foodie. Just say you love good food. Foodie rhymes with doodie and you shouldn’t ever willingly call yourself something that rhymes with a word for poop. Unless your parents named you Judy. Or Meces.

Now, as for your situation: Go for it! You’re both married with kids? No problem! She sure sounds awesome. Have fun! And am I to believe from “Even though she makes more money than me” that she’s your boss, too? High five! You’re awesome!

Unfortunately, this medium prevents me from slapping you across the face with all my might. You’re honestly asking me for advice? Good Lord, are you that dumb? Okay, I’ll assume you are and you’re not just wasting my time. Pay attention. Here it comes: Stop, back up the truck. Get out of there now. Unfortunately, that thing that Hermione used to go back in time so she could attend two classes and save Hagrid’s hippogriff is not real or that’s what I would have suggested. Oh, but the sexual tension is unbearable, you say? Having sexual tension with someone is not an open invitation to sleep with them and suffer no repercussions. Sexual tension is everywhere. I have sexual tension with a pair of shoes that my daughter’s dance teacher has. Extricate yourself from this foodie immediately. How? Tell her the truth. Use word couplets like “completely inappropriate” and “disastrous consequences.” Phrases like “while I’ve enjoyed our time together” and “you are such a warm and wonderful person” can help soften the blow. Don’t be afraid to suggest imperfect solutions like “perhaps you and your family could come to our house for a barbecue” or “never speak to me again unless it’s regarding work issues.” Under no circumstances should you include these chestnuts: “let’s take whatever this is to the next level” or “what do you say we see if we can get away for a ‘business trip’ to Vegas to try out some of the restaurants there?”

Here’s the thing. You are playing with fire. You are 44. Next to 25, that’s the stupidest age there is. You’re not thinking clearly. Whether you know it or not, you’re needing a change. If you’re like most of us, you probably have a less than satisfying job that doesn’t pay enough. But starve your boredom and frustration in a less destructive way. I assume your marriage is not perfect, right? But are you considering leaving your wife? Maybe you should examine your relationship and work on making it more solid, shithead.

I have a friend who is a very good marriage therapist and she says most people come to see her seven years too late. SEVEN! So if you are flirting with disaster because you need to get out of your marriage, you are not being fair to your partner or yourself. Find a good therapist seven years ago. Get real and re-commit to your partner. Or don’t. But take inventory. Maybe your partner wants a change too. The thing is, you want to be intentional about this. Not accidental. Then you’ll be able to face yourself in the mirror and your kids won’t hate you and your wife’s friends won’t cross the street when they see you. (I like to hide in the bathroom when my friend’s ex comes to pick up the kids.)

Now, I do have one friend who had an affair who claims that it was all she needed to reinvest in her marriage. It was her wake up call. But what if she got caught? Were the three nooners with her son’s Super SoccerStars coach worth the damage it would do to her family? I bet not. And by the way, next time you write me it better be about how to get your whites whiter and your colors brighter. Advice to future letter writers re: Infidelity: I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT.

That’s it. See you next time.

I’m a mother. I try to hide that fact from you because, well, it softens my edge as a hypocritical life coach. You want a certain amount of command from the person you get advice from whether you pay them or not. You want to know that when the going gets tough your guide (me) will put a knife in her (my) mouth and carry you and your backpack across the river.

Knowing that she (I) cut out paper dolls and ball gowns and swimwear attire all weekend challenges that image. It shouldn’t. Weathering motherhood is nothing but character building. Enduring five-hour airport delays with children who have earaches only to return home to battle bouts with the new breed of monster lice that drinks Pantene for breakfast should make anyone worthy of giving other people bucket loads of personal advice.

So as a mother, you experience a lot of different and very intense emotions. Certainly I know that the variety and intensity of feelings are available to all humans, regardless. It’s just when you’re taking care of something a good part of the day and night that has no regard for your time, belongings or emotional status, you can be pushed to the brink more often then say, if you have a super-challenging boss. (I’m going to assume your boss doesn’t wake you up at 6am on the weekends or pee on your new bedspread. If s/he does, you, my friend, are in need of a new job.)

One of the more unpleasant emotions is anger. Anger is something I’ve been dealing with lately. I’m not going to go into why or how much, okay? So, get your nose out of my business. Stuff happens, people get wronged. Perfect innocent people who were just trying to help get caught in crossfire and it doesn’t feel good. Seriously, I’d love to tell you what set off the anger because I love to gossip. But the problem is, I hate the fallout of gossip. I hate being confronted with: “Someone told me you wrote a column about me behind my back.” That feels really crappy. So, for the most part, I try to not say anything unless it’s a matter of national security. If you see something, say something and all that. I’m totally into that. Yesterday I saw a woman wearing a stylish skirt and matching blazer made of Duane Reed bags that she had taped together. She also had a squirrel on her head, but that seemed secondary to her impeccable tailoring job. But I do acknowledge that I have to tell you something about the anger-producing incident so I don’t lose you to a competing network. Last week, a mother of a kid in my kid’s class implied to several people that I had lied about something. I hadn’t. It was something that she didn’t want to hear because it put her in an unfavorable light. And I, like everyone in the tri-state area, hate to be falsely accused. I was steamed. Being falsely accused sucks. Yet, with great effort I unpuffed my chest and backed away instead of engaging. Now like most little sisters, I am an unskilled yet scrappy fighter. I will grab anything that’s near and start swinging it if I’m enraged. But fortunately, I’ve learned over the years when to fight and when to back down. This one, I quickly judged, was not worth it. I backed down, but the anger didn’t and I, for one, don’t like to walk around with a fresh heap of burning hot anger stuck behind my sternum.

When you get really angry, what do you do? First, I tried a bunch of pathetic crap I won’t go into now for the sake of embarrassing myself, but nothing worked. I needed some insight and since I’m not in therapy at the moment, I went to the library.

It just baffles me that libraries exist. I mean, c’mon, there is a place that will let you borrow almost any book that’s ever been published? Really? Borrow for free? How does the publishing industry let this institution survive? Imagine there was a place you could just borrow a car if you only promised to return it in a reasonable amount of time. The good people at Toyota and Ford would not sleep until they crushed this establishment into a fine powder. Libraries are modern miracles. That they haven’t been taken away from us by now is inexplicable. I am filled with glee every time I walk into my local branch.

On this particular trip, I remembered a book that I saw when I was a new mom: Buddhism for Mothers. I kind of gave it the snub thinking it was probably too reductive for me. I am by no means proficient in Buddhist studies, if there is such a thing, but I do appreciate the scholarly aspect of anything and I pegged this book to be a little too “Idiots Guide.” (Although the knowledge I gleaned in Idiot’s Guide to Haircutting continues to save me hundred of dollars a year.) After I returned it, I ordered it from an independent bookstore in my neighborhood. Can you tell it had an effect? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say I was in danger of losing some of what makes me so charmingly hypocritical.

Buddha must have gotten really upset. That guy knew anger. The cool thing about Buddha’s free advice on how to deal with it is that he says to try whatever works. He gives options—like a baked potato bar. Sure, you want to try sour cream and bacon bits first but if that doesn’t work, there’s a totally different way to go. Can you say broccoli and cheese? I can. I can even say Fruit Loops and turkey gravy if it gets my anger out of me.

Here are Buddha’s tips as explained in the aforementioned book. They are pretty self-explanatory but I’ll add a little of my drivelings to make sure you fully understand what the fat man was getting at.

1. Dwell on the positive. I think this means you can examine the positive in the situation that has upset you OR you can just let in the wonderfulness around you at that very moment. Is there a crack in the sidewalk that looks like Fran Dresher? Is there a breeze passing by that smells like Febreze? Soak it up. It might lift your mood. Staying in the present is, in general, a great way of dealing with unpleasant emotions. The past and future are full of some stinky, stinky feelings. Be here now, right?

2. Consider the result of our thoughts. Angry thoughts tend to bring on angry actions. Do you really want to deal with the fallout of those actions? When I used to get angry, I would get violent. I wouldn’t stab anyone exactly but I would throw crap at the walls. And then I would have to sweep it up and replace whatever I smashed. Gradually, I learned to throw softer things, plush animals and socks being the favorites. In those early days of mothering, I would whip stuff only when the kids’ backs were turned which resulted in some hilarity that often snapped me out of my fierce mood. “Mommy, did you just see Winnie the Pooh fly over the TV? He flew very, very fast. He must be hungry.” Know that if you hurt something or someone you are going to end up feeling even worse.

3. Distract ourselves. Although dramas on daytime TV are dwindling, Netflix streaming and pay-per-view offer a wide array of distractions. Of course, there are other things to take your mind off the inciting incident. Just know that the distraction must do exactly that: distract. You’re not going to feel better if you decide to finally wash your sweaters. Your sweaters will be clean, yes, but you will be angrier. Trust me, been there.

4. Consider the alternatives. A lot of our negative emotions come from our perceptions of events. Ask yourself if there is an easier way to think about the whole thing. Do you need to take the whole thing so darned personally? C’mon. Is it really all about you?

5. Willpower. Tell yourself to shut up. Or if you want to be nicer, tell yourself that it’s not doing anyone any good just playing the event over and over again in your head. Cut it out. Really. Be tough. Don’t let up. You’ve got to stop looping the tape of what happened that got you so steamed in the first place.

For my situation I chose 3. And 5. I’m not going to lie to you, although it kind of worked, I still found the need to throw Fashion Fairytale Barbie at the back door. It made a very satisfying sound and no harm was done. And I felt better after all that. But then something magical happened that Buddha didn’t mention was even a remote possibility. Four hours after the accusation came an email: “Hey, Sorry about earlier. I was upset. Thanks so much for looking out for my kid.” Man! Aren’t apologies awesome? Occasionally people come to their senses and see they’ve been jerks and apologize. And nothing is more powerful for turning around a situation and making people move on with their lives. Won’t you apologize to someone today? No? Alright then, forgive someone, even if they apology hasn’t been offered. No? Then, adopt a puppy. You’re a grouchy one.

And the weird thing is, after a really good apology, you can actually feel better than before the whole thing started. You’ve been through something with another person and worked it out without getting a lawyer or acting like someone on a reality show. I suppose a good apology is the platonic form of make-up sex— it’s invigorating and memorable and you didn’t really think it was ever going to happen.

Take-aways: Be here now. If you’re a thrower, throw soft stuff. If you see something, say something. Support your local library, they desperately need our help. See you next time.

It’s spring. It’s time for my yearly column about renewal or rebirth. Time for my impassioned demand that we all support our farmers and attempt to grow something in our window boxes and tree pits. Time for my plea for more political action around clean air and water issues. For some reason, I just can’t bring myself to do it this year. That winter we just endured left me bitter and uninspired. Fortunately for us, I’ve been neglecting my mail so I have my pick of the letter litter for this issue’s column. Do all the stuff that I should be telling you to do. There’s no better time than the spring to get off your tush and make your street/neighborhood/world a better place.

Hypocrite, My mother takes care of my kids afterschool. I know I am insanely lucky but as you can imagine we have our share of difficulties. The main one is that she wants them to do things earlier than I want them to. For example, she taught my young son how to light a match and my older daughter how to carve a roasted chicken. I would never allow them to perform these duties. What happens when they try these activities unsupervised? I believe she’s being careless and putting them in danger. She laughs and tells me I’m paranoid. They are my kids. How do I get her to respect my wishes?
– Mad Mom in Flatbush

Although this isn’t exactly a parenting question, I need to reflect on how much I abhor parenting questions. Not only do I hate ostracizing the 63% of New Yorkers (and 2.9% of Park Slopers) who don’t have a child, I detest the idea of telling someone how to handle something so personal and important with a couple careless quips of a hypocritical and sarcastic nature. Also, parenting is such sensitive territory that I’m bound to get a lot of action in my mailbox —a mailbox that’s still full from when I told you all to stop being so fake nice to each other and grow a pair. (Did ya?)

But since this column goes against all I believe (what, me hypocrite-y?), I will now write half of it only for people who have changed or are in the process of changing a gazillion diapers. Childfree people, I’m sorry. Next column will be about the midnight, nude, nature hikes in Central Park that are parent-free by design (if these hikes don’t exist, they should).

Everyone who raised a kid feels that they could write a how-to book. Some don’t actually need to write, but will offer unsolicited advice instead, frequently to strangers. Riding the bus in Brooklyn gets me all the parenting advice I need. “Put a coat on that child.” “That child is hungry. Don’t you have any food?” “You need to take that child home and put it to bed.” Thank you. Thank you so much. I just got this kid yesterday and I am so thankful for your wonderful, sage advice.

That being said, now I will submit my list of parenting tips of things I have been doing very, very right. I admit I have done wrong. I keep the very, very wrong tip list in a safe place so my kids can’t bring it to the therapists they see when there are supposedly at “school.” I must confess some of the things on the very, very right list I really didn’t do at all. I include them because they are funny and because some (few) people religiously look to my column for distraction, not for practical help. If you are really in need of parenting help, please seek a professional. I am a non-licensed, free-of-charge life coach, not an authority on how to prevent your kids from abandoning you when you get old and overripe.

And to you clowns in the back row, know that I might repeat some things I’ve written about in the past. If that makes you mad and you feel like you’re not getting your money’s worth this issue, I refer you to the cost of this publication—free. That’s right, it’s free advice. If you want brand new advice, shell out six bucks for a copy of Glamour—a publication that never repeats itself (insert sarcastic eye roll here). This month, it lays out step-by-step instructions on how to moisturize after a shower. Finally! Mystery solved!

Here are my tips. The first one responds directly to the letter writer.
For cripes sake, teach your children skills. So many parents won’t let their kids pour milk, let alone light a match. I can hear you saying, “My kid will slice his finger off or light the house on fire.” OK, if you really think that is a realistic concern, then wait another year. But don’t keep your child in the dark with only a spoon for defense because of your over-protective leanings. I let my own kid light a match at six, supervised. At eight I will teach him how to use a knife, supervised. Am I a whacko? Maybe. Will I wake up with a knife in my back in a bed on fire? I really don’t think so. (If I do, this column is going to be famous!) If you really are nervous about fire and knives, at least teach them how to use a can opener. Your kids should learn how to make soup so they can take care of you when you get the flu.

Talk about emotions: bad moods, silly moods, quiet moods, etc. Foster their emotional intelligence. This will help define your actions when they appear erratic. “Mommy was in a very, very angry mood,” you can say after you kick the dishwasher with your clog and dent the door preventing it from closing ever again.

Make your kids promise that when they get to be teenagers and they tell you that they hate you it will be because their hormones are out of control. Make them say that they love you very much and always will, forever. Get it on tape. Play it back for them when they tell you they hate you. Laugh hysterically.

Don’t tell your kids how bad you suck at math or how much you hate your job. Lie if questioned. If you can’t lie, get better at math and get a new job. You are a role model. Stop bitching about things. They will repeat every thing you say. The parenting challenge is to nurture a human being into someone better than you. Avoid creating a younger version of you with your same limitations, prejudices and hang-ups.

Give away your children’s neglected toys when they are at school. Chances are they won’t remember them at all. If they do, you can tell them the truth or you can fake-look for a while and tell them it will turn up like mommy’s earring did that time. It can be very mysterious when a once-treasured tricycle goes missing, but weirder things have happened. This might be a good time to tell them about Roswell, New Mexico.

When you drop the F-bomb (for the old-timers: the swear word that rhymes with “tuck”) tell your kids that some words are reserved for adults. They are very special and used only in times of great adult stress. They haven’t experienced adult stress yet. When they do, they can feel free to use the special word.

Let your kids get bored. But, tell them if they tell you how bored they are, you will take money out of their piggy bank. One dollar for every time they use the word “bored.” Fifty cents for every heavy sigh.

And lastly, try to reclaim some of your pre-kid character when you didn’t worry about BPAs and wannabe bullies at your local school. Do something you wouldn’t do with your son or daughter watching. Or maybe with anyone watching. Did I just tell you to pick your nose? Maybe, if that’s the first thing you thought of. There’s a song on the Free to Be You and Me soundtrack with the lyrics: “Parents are people. People with children. People with children who used to be kids, but then they grew.” I didn’t realize my mom was a person until she locked us out of the house and dropped that previously named F-bomb when the ladder she had put up to the second story window to break in started falling back on her. After that, everything she did was up for consideration. Were hamburgers the best meal for a school night? Was red the right color for the hall throw rug? Did the mouse in our bread drawer have to be killed? Couldn’t we live together in mouse/man harmony? Even though I gave her a little more lip, I also acquired an itsy bit of empathy for the woman who fed and clothed me for so many years. Show your kid that you’re a person who just happens to be a parent. It will be good for both of you.

That’s all the parenting advice I can bear to give. Now I will make an abrupt change of subject, a move of which I am known for in the free-of-charge hypocritical life coach circles in which I run. Here’s a letter that has absolutely nothing, not one word, to do with being a parent.

Hypocrite, I am what you call “part of the solution.” I have a socially responsible job, I volunteer at my local soup kitchen; I belong to a CSA and shop at the farmer’s market, I am a passionate recycler; I will bring a tray of lasagna to a neighbor when they take ill. You get the idea. Recently, I’ve been doing bad things and can’t seem to help myself. In the past week I have eaten a whole carton of Little Debbie’s in one sitting, thrown three jumbo yogurt containers away in the regular trash, accused my dry cleaner of lying; stolen some shoelaces, and let my dog run in the playground when kids weren’t there. All of these behaviors have left me flush with excitement. I feel like I’m a schoolgirl again, sleeping with my English teacher. What happens next? Will I end up doing time?
– Mean in Queans

I’m stuck on shoelaces. You stole shoelaces? Honestly, everything else you did seems defendable but the stealing of shoelaces. Maybe I need more information on that one. Were your shoes falling off and you didn’t have any money? Were they your shoelaces originally? And wait, when you were a schoolgirl did you really sleep with your English teacher or was that just an expression? It’s hard to tell if you’re having a conscience crisis or if you’re crazypants. I’m just going to assume the former for the sake of brevity. This column is already running long.

OK Mean, I think that within your social community there’s a lot of pressure to Namaste and all that. Your dark side is yearning to be recognized and is in the midst of staging a teeny coup. There’s nothing wrong with scarfing down some highly processed snack cakes but I agree with your concern. You sound a little unhinged (if you weren’t already). At this point I have to tell you to see a professional because when I do that you can’t sue me. Now that I’ve done that, I’ll tell you that you should seek out things that feel good (in a bad girl kind of way) but don’t hurt anyone or anything. This brings me to everyone’s favorite subject, SEX. Are you getting any? Could you get some? Fast? I sincerely believe that getting laid is the answer to your problem. That’s usually the answer to most problems. Mine, anyway.

Well, that was simple. Thanks for the letters. They help out in a pinch. So, enjoy the spring. See you next time.