zeitgeist: the rants and raves of Maureen O'Keefe Aptowicz (Cristin's Mom)

My book-length collection of blog essays
where I crackwise about the 2004 Election, "What Fresh Hell is This?"
can be purchased at The Wordsmith Press site.








"... and then her eyes drifted over my shoulder..."


[NOTE: I'm writing this while waiting for Super Tuesday results... more on that tomorrow]

I've had a few inquiries (including one from my daughter, the website slumlord) about my not-so-hidden animosity for Hillary Rodham Clinton. I should be the archetypical supporter of the Crone from Chappaqua: a middle-aged, educated, professional woman. Instead, I regard the possibility of her possible ascension to the nomination with dread.

Actually, truth be told, I actually revel in the longevity of my loathing. Some folks grew irritated at her during her "I decided not to stay home and bake cookies" era during the 1992 campaign... others grumbled at her ham-fisted handling of the health care reform effort early in the new administration…and many other erstwhile supporters finally threw up their hands as the cavalcade of crud cascaded during the remainder of Bill's term: travelgate, Whitewater, 'missing' billing records, Vince Foster, Paula Jones, and culminating in her clenched jaw assertion that 'a vast right-wing conspiracy' was behind her hubby's pending impeachment. But my aversion was a more primal one; it was formulated several decades before I'd ever heard of La Hill or her husband.

Until I was 21 or so, I led a rather sheltered life: working class childhood in a boisterous Irish/Italian neighborhood, Catholic school and commuter college education. I married young (21), graduated from college and had three children in quick succession. I'd never aspired to an immediate career, so I stayed home and raised the moppets. Life was good.

My husband was moving up professionally and we'd moved to an upper-middle class enclave. But, for the first time in my life, I was socializing outside the clannish confines of my upbringing. I was smart and funny and informed and I thought I was a charming addition to any party. But this was the mid-1970's and the initial convulsions of the feminist movement were being felt in art, literature, politics and -- holiday cocktail soirees. Although some of the women I came into contact with socially had come from similarly humble beginnings, they had generally gone to more prestigious universities and were earnestly elbowing their way up corporate, governmental or academic ladders.

So, here's the flashback scene: me, sauntering casually with a hors oeuvres in hand, over to a small group of women (note: they're sporting dangle earrings and hand-woven Chilean scarves tossed insouciantly around their necks). They seem to be discussing a recent Philadelphia political scandal. I join the group, wait for a conversational opening, and make a well-received wisecrack. More banter... more nods and yucks... then... the kiss of death. One waiflike creature turns to me and says, "You have some amusing insights. Do you work for a politician?"

As soon as I utter the nefarious words, the chill descends... "Actually, I'm a stay-at-home mom." Like Claude Rains in the Invisible Man movie, I ceased to exist.
In this day and age, when many well-credentialed women choose to leave the professional fast track for several years while their children are young, this scenario seems unbelievable. But such was the passion of newly-hatched feminists. The choice I'd made (young mother at home with her kids) was such a repressive, regressive decision that I was treated like some untutored aborigine carted in from a newly-discovered rainforest. I was an oddity to be blinked at momentarily and then shuffled past in pursuit of a female attorney.

At one of these parties, I spotted a red-haired Irish gal who'd gone to my high school. Though not close buddies, we'd had some classes together. We hugged each other caught up on the past few years. She'd gotten into medical school and was interested in endocrinology. Even though the dangle earrings and Birkenstocks were in evidence, I felt comfortable enough in our shared past and recent chatter to (gulp) divulge the truth. As soon as the words left my mouth, she smiled wanly and then her eyes drifted over my shoulder as she surveyed the room for a more promising conversational partner. After this, I joined the men for conversation... or looked for someone else in the room with breast milk leak marks on her blouse... but an open mind.

So there you have it. I've laid bare my wounded psychological basis for my Hillary hatred. I also think she's wrong on policy, ideology, tactics and her vision for America. But my visceral feeling about her coalesced as soon as I read about her refusal to take her husband's name when he became governor, or how she bristled at the more traditional 'first lady' activities. I had an immediate flashback to the circle of exclusion that I tried to breech 30 years ago. And the same words apply to them and her: haughty, self-righteous, arrogant, judgmental, CLENCHED. Behind her carefully-contrived image of Lady Bountiful, beneath the persona of matronly benevolence, under the veneer of a disciplined policy wonk, there beats the cold, smug heart of an individual who'd ask what you did for a living and then...

02/05/08


Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


"Eye of Newt... Eye of Toad..."

Since my last scribble, the primary races have proved to be exciting, dismaying, bewildering... all of the above. From Bill's ridiculous rhetorical rants to Romney's feverish attempts to court the right wing of his party to the ill-tempered pledges ("I will abolish the IRS!") by that goofy rube Huckabee it's been a hell of a ride.

On the Republican side, it appears that Super Tuesday might finish off Mittens the Mormon, leaving Republicans with an overaged warmonger, but the Democrats might be in for the long haul. If the polls and pundits are correct, Clinton and Obama are neck and neck (one lean and mocha... one wrinkled with bulging veins) and the race for the nominations could string out for weeks or months. Pretty exciting for a political nut like myself, but it must be driving "America's Evita" crazy! The crown was supposed to be inevitably hers... Biden, Richardson, Dodd, et al were expected to provide some flimsy competition during the early debates and then fall like puppets before her steely determination.

Bill & Hill didn't reckon on the Obama phenomenon and the Prez's cranky crotchetiness before the South Carolina primary tells you how peeved they are by the unexpected turn of events. The title at the beginning of this essay says it all. I envision a coven of Hillary's earnest feminist buddies bending over a steaming cauldron in a Hilton hotel suite somewhere tossing in goat innards and ewe's tongues. It does my heart good to see this fraud get her comeuppance, even though I'd never vote for her wildly liberal challenger in a million years.

My predictions: Obama will win Calif, NJ, Delaware, Conn, Idaho and some of the southern states. Clinton takes NY. They both walk away with almost even totals of delegates. And the beat goes on...

02/04/08


Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


Quick... Somebody grab a wooden stake!


The squeaking sound you heard around 10:00 pm on the night of the New Hampshire primary was the sound of a casket lid opening and a prematurely-shrouded Hillary Clinton rising up with glittering, triumphant eyes. Oy vey... how did this happen?

Did she inspire every middle-aged woman who every put up with a snarky remark from a male colleague at a business meeting to scurry to the polling place? Did these women view Hillary's teary moment on the morning before the primary with a less cynical eye than many of us? Did they determine that the debate's Obama/Edwards tag team was a bit 'over the top' in their verbal assault on the session's lone female participant?

Did the famously independent voters of New Hampshire have a contrarian moment of truth when they stepped into the voting booth and -- annoyed at the pollsters and pundits who told them that Obama would win their state in a walk -- decide to pull the lever with an "I'll show them" vehemence?

Did the predictions of an Obama landslide steer some independent voters toward the Republican side of the contest and a lever pull for Mc Cain?

Or... is a more politically incorrect concept at work? Might the fine citizens of a progressive northeastern state have told the pollsters that they would vote for an African-American, but in the privacy of the voting booth have taken a different route? Unlike Iowa where participants stood in the open to declare their candidate allegiance among neighbors, New Hampshirites ducked into booths and decided in secrecy. Polling depends on truthful responses to questions. And truth is what the pollsters got on the Republican side -- but not with the Dems. Hmmmm...

Well, all rationales aside, Hillary did win and the race now goes to Nevada, South Carolina and Super Tuesday on February 5th. For a political junkie like me it's exciting, I'll just drape myself with garlic to ward off the vampiric vixen and wait.


01/09/08


Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


Well, I'm back!


It took one cataclysmic event (Hurricane Katrina) to sour me on writing about the political arena; now, another one has prodded me back into the blogosphere.

The acrimonious finger-pointing between the two political parties after Katrina's events and the disgraceful recovery efforts (or lack of same) wearied me. The entrenched and bitter sniping between Democrats and Republicans on that topic and most other public concerns was dispiriting. My motto became "A pox on both their houses."

Pick your match-up... Nancy Pelosi vs. Dick Cheney... Michael Moore vs. Rush Limbaugh... Ted Kennedy vs. Tom Delay... it was like watching over-the-hill wrestlers. They went through their tired moves, hoping that the audience would believe that their efforts were genuine; they traded 'wins' and pretended that they didn't share the same sleazy promoters (special interest groups, corporate backers, lobbyists). No wonder the percentage of voter participation in the U.S. continued to plummet.

Dozens of important public policy decisions -- on Social Security, healthcare, immigration, education reform, the fight against Islamic jihad -- languished while the two parties verbally hacked each other up instead of collaborating. Scoring political points for re-election or for replenishing their campaign war chests took precedence over finding common solutions to pressing issues. Most of the participants in these skirmishes are baby boomers (like I am) and possessed the endless egotism and preening aura of self-importance that is typical of that generation. It seemed to me that we were in a sour loop of ineffectiveness and partisan paralysis.

And then... Barack Obama won the Iowa caucus.

I'm writing this the morning of the New Hampshire primary. It appears that the Hillary is imploding: snarling during the Saturday debate... tearing up at a Monday morning women's roundtable discussion... taking a page out of the Karl Rove playbook Monday afternoon by raising the specter of an Al Qaeda attack soon after the inauguration of the new president. She's an inauthentic and power-crazed old-style politician who deserves to lose.

In contrast, Obama (whose policy positions I mostly disagree with) provides a genuine vision of openness, civility and inclusiveness. His speeches are filled with references to "us" and "we" -- language that encourages audience members to become part of his quest. Hillary on the other hand punctuates her addresses with endless "I" sentences; pronouncements of how she'll accomplish a score of policy initiatives, like Evita taking care of the 'little people.'

I can't wait for today's results -- my guess is Obama by 9 points.

More tomorrow including a grandbaby update!

01/08/08


Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


"Whatever Happened to Playpens?"

The title of this blog seems a bit cranky considering the happy news that came our way recently. My son, Professor Kevin and his wife, Katie Eyer, Esquire, are expecting a bundle of joy. The due date is April 4th (bad tax planning, guys), and Bruce and I are thrilled with the news.

But in chatting with some work colleagues who have already achieved grandma status, I've learned that a lot has changed since my maternal reign:

* Maternity care: My first pregnancy was mostly monitored by an older Irish-American doctor whose answers to any of my questions was a verbal pat on the head ("Now, don't you worry little mama"). There were no such things as midwives or doulas. Nobody climbed into 'birthing tubs.' The pre-natal exam consisted of my Marlboro-smoking doctor slapping a tape measure on my abdomen to gauge the baby's growth and then listening with a stethoscope to monitor the baby's heartbeat. Today's moms-to-be are hooked up to sophisticated fetal monitoring technology that looks like it could do double duty with NASA!

And of course, predicting the baby's gender back in the day was relegated to the older aunts in the family who would survey the pregnant woman's belly and pronounce solemnly "She'd carrying in the front... a boy." Now, sonograms have replaced Aunt Rose and practical parents-to-be can start decorating the nursery in pink or blue after 16-20 weeks of pregnancy. I personally prefer the old way when the delivery produced a one-two punch: the baby's gender and name.

* Lifestyle: I had my kids in the 1970's before 'pregnancy police' were unleashed on unsuspecting fecund females. Hair dye, cigarettes, alcohol -- no problem! We have famous Super 8 footage of me and my sister-in-law, both seven months pregnant, lip-syncing to "My Girl" in a smoky basement bar while hoisting mugs of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer. Our pregnancies went on to produce a physics professor (me) and a lawyer (her), so the suds must not have been too debilitating. We likewise permed and colored our hair with abandon; we were despondent enough waddling through the last three months of pregnancy without experiencing it with undyed hair roots.

* Dad involvement: While my husband was in the delivery room for each of my births, his involvement was limited to a white-faced "You're doing great" commentary as labor progressed. He was leery of newborns and was excused from diaper duty because of a 'gag reflex' (oy vey!). But once a kid was old enough to sit up, he warmed up to his paternal duties and delightedly plopped the youngster in a baby backpack and took them on park excursions. Today's dads are intimately involved throughout the pregnancy and delivery -- empathetically abstaining from alcohol, coaching breathing techniques, cutting the umbilical cord. And they happily jaunt around town with a week-old infant slung across their chest. And believe me, no new dad today gets a waiver from 'Pamper patrol'!

* Strollers: When I had my first child in 1975, the au courant method of tyke transportation was the 'umbrella stroller.' This collapsible vehicle -- take it on busses! Plop it into your car trunk! -- replaced the clunky prams and heavy strollers that my mother had used. It was a hideous orange color and had no support for the little passenger (they slumped into the stroller's net material like a bag of jello). But we circumnavigated suburban malls with it, and when siblings arrived, they got reassigned to holding on to the aluminum sides while mom shopped for Pamper bargains. Fast forward 30 years... the original model is still available at $19.95, but the trendy parents have moved on to swanky stroller models that can cost in excess of $500.00. The over-the-top descriptions of these 'baby BMW's' rival that of top-line automobiles.

* Playpens: One of the first, treasured hand-me-down baby items that I acquired was a wooden playpen. It measured 40" X 40" and was a godsend. When I needed to take a shower, finish a recipe undisturbed, or run down to the basement to perform laundry chores, I'd dump the littlest member into the pen with some toys and secure 10 minutes of peace. But today, playpens (or the more accepted terms 'play dens' or 'play yards') are eschewed. Check out what the ubertrendy website www.urbanbaby.com says about them:

"...child development experts frown on the use of playpens. Better to encourage inquisitiveness by baby proofing the apartment, gating the room you spend the most time in, and letting baby roam free... ."

WHAT!

I contend that kids need some confined play time. I never saw the 'baby Buchenwald' aspect that modern parents do. My trick was to save some toys only for the playpen…the kids would look forward to seeing and playing with them again, making their confinement enjoyable. And without the playpen, I'd have turned into an unwashed, slovenly harridan who depended on fast food restaurants for the family's sustenance.

* Child deportment: I was mightily amused recently when a news story related the experience of a Chicago cafe restaurateur who had the umbrage to post a note on his door asking that "children of all ages have to behave and use their indoor voices" in his establishment.

All hell broke loose. Parents (especially moms) accused him of despotic dictums and bristled at the request to keep little Parker or Madison from hurling themselves into the patisserie showcase, or flailing on the floor if they didn't get the scone they wanted.

I swore when my kids were little that I'd never become an old curmudgeon who glared at screechy toddlers in nearby restaurant booths... but... I have. The epidemic of unnecessarily loud moppets in public places corresponds directly with the number of folks who arrive at parenthood later in life and view their progeny as 'miracles of nature' (which they are... but...).

My husband and I always recognized that kids were going to be bored in grown-up situations and we prepared accordingly. Every visit to an eatery was accompanied by a 'bag of tricks' -- new coloring books, a new Matchbox car. When the charms of those items wore off we while still waiting for the salad course, a quiet game of "I Spy" ("I spy a lady with a red dress") or a more prosaic task ("count the sugar packets," "turn the placemat over and draw a picture of Big Bird") would fill in the lull.

I truly feel sorry for some of the little ones that we see in public who are placed in inappropriately grown up situations. They're bored, restless and prone to venting their frustrations at the top of their lungs. The parents should know better!

Well, enough cantankerousness... I can't wait to be a grandma... come on, Mr. Stork!

11/13/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


"He's Cute... But He Wears a Slide Rule on His Belt!"

July 28th marks the end of an era.

The Aptowicz family patriarch -- Bruce -- is retiring from a long and distinguished career with the Philadelphia Water Department. I attended his retirement luncheon recently and heard a parade of co-workers and colleagues extol his professional and personal qualities.

Bruce joined the department in August of 1968, traveling from New York to Philly in a blue VW fastback with a peace sign emblazoned in duct tape on the trunk (renegade).

In that same month, I was a high school graduate attending an orientation program at Drexel Institute of Technology (soon to be Drexel University).

While the rest of the country was struggling with the convulsions that Vietnam and the 'youth revolution' was unleashing on the country, Drexel was a serene oasis of nerd contentment. I've written before that, while other universities were banning Dow Chemical from recruiting on their campuses, Drexel expanded the booth space on 'career day' to accommodate the chemists and engineers who wanted to work for them. But I digress...

After a challenging freshman year -- three terms of calculus, organic chemistry and advanced physics for a gal who only wanted to study the life cycle of ferns -- I prepared myself to visit the coordinator who arranged Drexel's cooperative industry assignments. Drexel had a successful program of placing budding engineers and scientists in six-month work assignments during their collegiate careers. For the prospective microbiologists in the autumn of 1969 these included a stint as a 'vat swabber' at a local brewery or a job as a microbiologist sampling raw and finished water samples for the Philadelphia Water Department.

As the descendent of a long line of O'Keefes, O'Malleys, and Muldoons, the brewery gig had a certain ethnic appeal, but my dad thought a city job was more secure and could lead to permanent employment after college. So, off I trotted on January 5, 1970 to the Torresdale Water Treatment Plant. I had just turned 19, I had a cute freckled Irish face, and gravity hadn't taken its toll on my figure -- in short, I was a babe.

After meeting the chief of the quality control lab where I'd be working, who was a nice middle-aged man, I was escorted to the lab to meet my colleagues. I shook hands with a series of white-coated and gray-faced chemists and microbiologists…and then…I saw an adorable and dashing engineer. It was kismet. I was afraid that my eyes popped out of my head like those cartoon characters who yell 'hubba hubba' at a curvaceous animated female rabbit. He introduced himself as the assistant chief of the lab -- Bruce Aptowicz.

I quickly composed myself and went to my assigned desk, where I reviewed the guidelines that Drexel provided to its co-op students. Sure enough, on the list of "How to perform effectively at your co-op job" was the dictum to 'be friendly to your co-workers.' That's all I needed to see. I was locked and loaded.

At lunchtime on that first day, Bruce -- dressed in a totally hokey yellow sweater vest with a slide rule on his belt -- asked if I wanted to play ping-pong at a recreation space near the plant's sand filters (so romantic!). Although I was totally inept with the ping-pong paddle, the aforementioned svelte figure and yappy Irish patter must have intrigued him. He asked if he could drive me home. Since my trip would otherwise entail catching a trolley and two buses, I accepted.

When I pulled up in the VW (peace sign not visible from my house), my mother insisted that Bruce join us for dinner. My brother had recently left home for Army Green Beret training, but my mom (a terrific cook) still concocted meals for her former brood of six, so here was plenty of grub to go around.

The initial awkwardness with my 'chauffeur' ("he's Polish... he's from New York") melted away when my parents realized that Bruce COULD REPAIR SMALL APPLIANCES AND REWIRE LAMPS!

The unspoken deal was stuck: a ride home for Maureen, a dinner for Bruce and remedies for home repair jobs that had languished for decades. (We used a wrench to turn on the shower -- nuff said). While my parents saw the practical benefits of this budding romance, I was in full swoon mode. My smitten state even survived our first official date on January 24, 1970 when Bruce took me on a snowy hike up a mountain in the Poconos (cheap).

Since he wasn't my direct boss, no one at The Water Department seemed particularly disturbed by 'older engineer / sweet young intern' relationship. I went back for two more co-op sessions at the treatment plant and by the time I'd finished my third stint, in 1972, we were married.

Bruce's career took off and so did our family. In 1978, by the time he was named Chief of Water Treatment for the city, our third child (www.aptowicz.com) was born. The pre-school years with three kids so closely spaced are a blur to me. I do, however, have vivid memories of midnight telephone calls announcing chemical spills in the Delaware River, or three-alarm fires that required Bruce's official presence to redirect water pressure. For an engineer -- someone who thrives on problem solving -- these years were busy but exciting and fulfilling.

The late night and weekend activity also had a direct beneficial effect on our brood. Because he couldn't get paid monetarily for all the extra hours, Bruce accrued many days of 'compensatory' time, permitting five weeks worth of summer excursions that marked our children's formative years. State park cabin stays in New York, Pennsylvania and Virginia... a memorable cross-country trip when the kids were 6, 8 and 10 years old... water-skiing adventures on the Delaware River.

Bruce continued to move up professionally in the Water Department and excelled in the associated professional assignments that he undertook in state and federal partnerships. Alas, the upward professional mobility meant less time solving real engineering problems (an oil spill in the Schuylkill!) and more time sitting in budget meetings (yawn!). After September 11, 2001, Bruce became the point person for the city on security preparedness, and provided strong and focused leadership to local, state and federal colleagues on utility security issues.

As Bruce was moving toward retirement, our family was likewise progressing. I left stay-at-home mom status to work in a non-scientific venue -- the IRS -- and the kids moved through college and graduate schools and secured successful careers and satisfying personal partnerships.

So now it's back to the original duo: the gaga student (still gaga after all these years!) and the sensible and fiscally conservative (cheap) engineer. Instead of shuffling toddlers from cribs to 'big kid' beds, we'll be hoisting kayaks on the car for runs down a local creek. We'll be leaving our rambling family house in Philadelphia for a snug waterfront abode with some extra room for kids (and grandkids... and dachshunds). It will be great... I can't wait.

It's been a great 38 years for Bruce and a great experience for someone (me) who's been along for most of the ride with him. Congratulations on your retirement, sweetie.


7/28/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


WHEW... and... WHEE!


Done!

After months of planning and worrying, the wedding went off flawlessly. Caitlin was radiant; Leo was dashing; the ceremony and reception sites were striking. And the weather -- which had been monsoon-like for weeks -- cooperated with a sunny, blue-sky backdrop.

By 3:00 pm on Friday, most of the wedding party had arrived and we had several run-throughs of the ceremony. The officiant was a gracious and lovely female minister who sweetly but firmly got everyone through the drill efficiently. Then it was on to the rehearsal dinner that we hosted at a classic Maryland crab house at the Annapolis harbor. The place has a great seafood buffet and raw bar on Fridays... Bruce paced the younger dudes with multiple platters of crab legs!

On the wedding morning, I concentrated on beautification efforts while Bruce treated the groom and groomsmen to breakfast at an Annapolis institution -- Chick and Ruth's Delly. In addition to great omelettes and waffles, the spot features a patriotic ritual. Every day at 9:30, all the diners and staff stand up and recite the Pledge of Allegiance! Very appropriate for a wedding occurring on a July 4th weekend.

Finally it was time for the ceremony. It took place in a beautifully designed room in front of a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows. Caitlin looked breathtaking. The readings and vows were personal and moving. After the receiving line was done, the happy couple cut a small cake on top of their nautical flag-bedecked cupcake tower. The couple had asked that the toasts be offered in rhyme, and the celebrants had great fun with that. Even Bruce, after welcoming Leo into our family, managed eight lines of poetry!

Caitlin had always wanted to walk down Main Street from the campus to the Annapolis harbor in her wedding gown, but she was leery of bumping into a four-year old with a blueberry water ice in her designer dress. So she bought another gown (equally striking) for the 'promenade.' (And folks thought I was exaggerating about her princess tendencies!).

Lots of folks joined the wedding party on the stroll, but I stayed in the air conditioned ceremony site to protect my hair (and mood) for the evening reception.

At 6:00 pm, the doors opened at beautiful McDowell Hall. The building, constructed in the late 1700's is a two story space with a wrap-around balcony on the second floor. The swing band was cooking and the waiters were circulating with hors d'ouerves. Because Caitlin wanted to maximize the dance floor, we had food stations set up in side rooms. We even had paella in honor of Leo's Spanish heritage.

The evening went great -- but too quick! Caitlin danced with her dad to Stevie Wonder's "You are the Sunshine of my Life," a song we used to sing to her when she was little. When the happy couple departed the building, they ran through a 'tunnel' of celebrants holding sparklers. Because of work commitments, the newlyweds delayed their honeymoon for a week. They're now enjoying their first married jaunt in a sweet oceanside cottage in Maine.

And that brings me to the "whee" part of this installation…

Because the kids -- true New Yorkers -- don't own a car, we offered the loan of our Impala for them to drive to Maine. Early on the Friday morning after the wedding, we drove up to their mid-town Manhattan condo and frenetically unloaded wedding gifts and then handed over the car keys. It was a fair swap -- our car for their condo.

We enjoyed a long cosmopolitan weekend. We toured lower Manhattan and were especially impressed with the beautifully designed and landscaped Battery Park area. We visited the USS Intrepid, South Street Seaport and had a great dinner in Chinatown. We popped into two different street festivals and hopped on and off the subways like real 'New Yawkers.'

The only thing I couldn't get used to was waving to the doorman at the condo; I'm an egalitarian at heart and it was a little weird. All in all though it was a great three days, the perfect rest & relaxation that we needed after months of wedding planning.

7/12/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


Home Sweet Hostage

As Harry Chapin used to sing:

...All my life's a circle, but I can't tell you why.
The seasons spinning round again, the years keep rolling by...

What prompted this nostalgic reverie was my son's recent decision to buy a home. Dr. Kevin, the devoted professor, and Esquire Katie, his gifted non-profit lawyer wife, are taking the plunge. They've contracted to purchase a terrific house in an upscale, eclectic neighborhood in Philadelphia. The domicile will be mid-way between their respective employment locations and is a super first home. I used my great 'first home barometer' index to determine this: kids playing, dogs romping, and grimacing grandmas on the stoop wagging their index fingers at motorists traveling over the safe speed (10 miles per hour). The whole home-buying process prompted a remembrance of our first home purchase.

Within four months of our marriage in 1972, Bruce and I traveled to Europe for a five-week honeymoon, bought a new Volvo, and made settlement on a great 'first home' (see above). Much of this conspicuous consumption this was attributable to Bruce's clever financial manipulations (read 'extreme cheapskate courtship'). But whatever the reason, buying our first home was an exhilarating experience, especially for Bruce, who had grown up in a typical New York apartment.

In the pre-Internet real estate world, a home purchase depended less on the Internet and Craigslist and more on newspaper listings and "Mitzi the realtor." We made our purchase decision supported not by sophisticated lead paint and radon analyses, but by Jack O'Keefe (father of the bride) tapping randomly on walls and strutting with his hands behind his back nodding approval. Having toured one particularly appealing house, Jack announced that "If you don't buy it, I will!" That was enough to seal the deal.

We moved into our semi-detached paradise. We brought three babies form the hospital at that first home. We hosted holiday parties, built a basement bar and constructed kiddy sandbox.

But when baby number 3 arrived, Bruce decided that we'd outgrown our three bedroom abode. Bruce, who was raised in an apartment in New York, wanted "LAND!"...he yearned to be lord of the manor. But his municipal employment status required that we live within Philadelphia city limits. Homes with expansive lawns tended to in older neighborhoods, and we found a marvelous manse in an older section of the city named Somerton. Three stories, five bedrooms and lots of yard for the kids to romp (and for Bruce to mow and rake!).

The house was built after World War I and had 'great bones.' The rooms were large and airy, and, room by room, we rehabbed feverishly. I personally stripped all the woodwork in 12 rooms (31 double-hung paned windows, 10 two-sided doors, 15 archways/doorways, a glorious fireplace mantel and one intricately-carved stairway banister...but who’s counting?). The stripping meant applying industrial strength paint solvent to five or more layers of enamel. Only years later did I discover that I should have been wearing a protective breathing mask!

But the work was more than worth it. The resulting honey-hued chestnut wood gleams under its satin polyurethane veneer. I loved the wood so much that I forbid puncturing it with any curtain or drapery hardware -- tension rods rule instead.

Funny memory: We installed fairly expensive carpeting in the hallways and staircase, which prompted Bruce to convene a serious meeting with the Aptowicz brood to instruct them on the proper 'foot deportment' on the stairway. Ever the engineer, Bruce had researched the fact that most stairway carpeting gets excessively worn on the edge of the first three stair treads, because folks hit those spots the hardest. So he conducted a serious hour-long workshop with the kids on how to properly align their feet in the MIDDLE of the treads to prevent that. They had to practice and demonstrate that they'd mastered the technique... Yikes! What a childhood those kids had!

[editor's note from Cristin: It was during this tutorial that Dad also instructed us to walk on the extreme left and right sides of the stairs when company wasn't around, so as to perserve the carpet quality of the middle even more. This directive was quickly squashed by Mom when overly eager kids would knock paintings and wooden knickknacks of walls and send "decorative oversized pinecones" tumbling down the stairs in an effort to see who could stay as far away from the middle of the stairs as possible!]

Anyway, we remodeled and reconfigured blissfully for about two decades. The kids had sleepover parties, we entertained at boisterous neighborhood cocktails soirees, and life was great.

Then in 1996, a salty seductress surfaced to lure Bruce and me away from our solid, stable existence. When the last duckling paddled off to college, we decided that we needed a retreat for us as a couple. So, we purchased a waterfront home on the Jersey shore.

Much like the saucy secretary that entices an otherwise sensible, middle-aged businessman, this seaside retreat enticed us. It was everything that our family home was not. Instead of solid, wood-detailed rooms, we had bright, white accents. Instead of a tangle of large-proportioned rooms, we had a snug saltbox existence. And instead of the honking of urban traffic awakening us, we had the honking of migrating Canadian geese in the morning. And so... we proceeded to embark on a decade-long abandonment of our first love.

Instead of tending to routine maintenance on the family abode, we fled at the first opportunity to our new temptress. We begrudged the several weekends a year that were allotted to raking leaves in the fall or mowing the "LAND!" in the summer. My 'nonchalance' towards housekeeping at the Philly house became so pronounced that our AOL sign-on address there was "Dustville."

Now that neglect has come back to haunt us.

With Bruce retiring soon, we decided to sell the Philly house and move permanently to the shore. Much like the wandering hubby that has to deal with a messy divorce, we're coping with the results of abode abandonment. This spring we've been held hostage by the demands of the neglected spouse. Ceiling cracks to be mended, walls to be repainted, shrubs to be pruned and mulched. Three decades of family detritus to be discarded. Luckily, over the years, we've transported many items to the shore house, including quite a bit of furniture and family memorabilia. For instance, we've celebrated Christmas in Jersey for the past several holiday seasons, so my extensive celebratory collection (Bruce: "Why do we need four singing Santas?!") is now permanently ensconced in our seagull surroundings.

But, getting back to Harry Chapin's musings at the beginning of this essay, I find it comforting that as Bruce and I close out one chapter of Aptowicz family history, Kevin and Katie are embarking on another.

Right now their basement and attic are relatively empty. They're not tripping over bags of Care Bears or Legos. They don't have a pencil sharpener screwed into the basement stairwell. They're not faced with repairing a patch of torn wallpaper at the exact level of a bored child in bed (you know who you are, Cristin). Good luck, guys.

The seasons spinning 'round again, the years keep rolling by.

5/23/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


Here's an Idea... ELOPE!!!

I have been silent recently about the pending wedding of our daughter, Caitlin, and her fiance, Leonardo Trasande because I know that the nuptial nuances of anyone other than immediate family usually results in an instant eyes-glaze-over reaction from normal people. But the planning process has been so "exhilarating"... I felt that I had to share the love.

The first wrinkle in the upcoming marital extravaganza occurred when Cait announced -- simultaneously -- that she were engaged AND that she and Leo had selected a ceremony date, ceremony site, reception location and band. WHEW. I thought there was nothing left for the parents of the bride to do but open the checkbook.

Uh... that proved to be an incredibly incorrect surmise. Where to begin?

Well, starting in the order of BEST to "WORST"...

The happy couple: Cait & Leo display all the behaviors that poets and songwriters use to describe folks in love: smitten, besotted, woozy, dizzy, giddy. They fill a room with energy and excitedness; it's exhilarating to be around them. They're full of plans and dreams. So it's worth the effort to make their day special.

The locale: The wedding location on St John's College campus in Annapolis, Maryland is a sentimental and meaningful choice for the couple. The college represents an important personal and professional marker for Cait. The rigor of the St John's 'Great Books' curriculum encouraged her evolution from a bright but unfocused 17-year-old to a mature, intellectual woman who earned a PhD in neuroscience. And when Leo and Cait were in the early stages of their courtship in 2005, a trip to Annapolis and attendance at the St John's Spring cotillion proved to be a romantic high point.

Annapolis itself is loaded with charm and, hey, how great is it that the rehearsal dinner will be in a crab house overlooking the harbor! (The father of the bride has his crab mallet ready.) We're hoping that guests will spend the Sunday after the wedding exploring the quaint city.

The details: Once Cait determined that St John's would be the site for the ceremony and reception, a lot of decisions were easy to make. For instance, Mc Dowell Hall, the beautiful reception space, is a 225-year old, soaring two-story atrium... but Cait wanted a sizable dance floor. So, no seated dinner... instead we'll have a variety of food stations installed in some of the charming side rooms off the dance area. After interviewing a series of caterers, we found a great one to work with.

Cait and Leo were also firm about having a swing band perform, and about not hiring a "standard" photographer. So now Bruce & I have to learn the Lindy, and we have to get used to idea of having a 'photojournalist' snapping candid shots of us throughout the day (how will I know when to tuck in my tummy?)

Cait is also insisting on some unusual touches. After the ceremony but before the reception, the wedding party will saunter down Main Street to the harbor trailed by the photographer. It should be a sight! (Rest assured the mother of the bride will be ensconced in air-conditioned comfort inside near the lemonade, NOT promenading into the sultry July weather!)

So far, I've listed the good stuff about the wedding planning. BUT... A destination wedding, and on a holiday weekend no less, is proving challenging. We have to rent chairs, tablecloths, glassware. We had to scout bakeries and florists in a strange town. Then there's directional signs... balloons... a guitarist for the ceremony...

All the actions that would be relatively simple at home become a long-distance procurement predicament. My living room is filling with the "stuff" that's got to be transported to Maryland.

So, I thought I'd end with a slightly altered version of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" that gives you an idea of what's in the 'Cait & Leo Convoy' to Annapolis...

"... To celebrate the wedding the parents need to bring...
A dozen pots of herb plants
Eleven stalks of sea grass
Ten pounds of river stones
Nine dozen napkins
Eight dozen punch cups
Seven drapery panels
Six crates of water
Five dozen totes
Four table runners
Three punch bowls
Two packs of petals
AND A HAPPY, HAPPY BRIDE AND GROOM!..."


5/4/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.


Turtles and Dolphins and Lava...Oh, My!!

After nine terrific days in Maui it was time head to our next adventure spot. We had a quick 30-minute hop from Maui to the Kona airport on the island of Hawaii.

The Big Island, Hawaii, is well-named. It’s the youngest of all of the Hawaiian Islands, just over 1 million years old. It encompasses 4,038 square miles (and still growing -- lava from Kilauea was erupting into the seas while we were there). All the other Hawaiian Islands could fit into the Big Islands more than two times over.

We cruised the island in style. Our rental car was a snazzy black Chevy Cobalt with a sun roof! Since we landed early in Sunday evening, we had time to hit the supermarket and get some vittles.

On both Maui and Hawaii, we stayed at condo resorts which combined the perks of a hotel -- daily maid service, pool -- with the convenience and space of a small residence. In Maui, we had a one bedroom, two-bath rental with a full kitchen, washer & dryer, two televisions and an ocean view terrace. The digs on the Big Island were identical (only one bathroom though... drat), and our patio fronted a private beach, so our al fresco dining had a southing surf soundtrack.

We had breakfast each morning at the condo and generally dined at restaurants for one of the other meals on the day. The condos had lovely grill areas that served as food preparation and meet-the-other-guests locations. Fun!

The week's activities started with a tour of the northern section of the island—the Kohala district. We visited Lapakahi State Historical Park, a state historical area that preserved an ancient Hawaiian coastal settlement. Original walls and restored dwellings provided a glimpse of a simple pre-Western contact world. Equally evocative was a nearby National Park site -- Puukohola Heiau (Temple on the Hill of the Whale). The temple was constructed in 1790-91 by Kamehameha I. to incur the favor of the Hawaiian war god Kuka'ilimoku. It was a mammoth construction effort involving a 20-mile lone human chain transporting rock from a special quarry to the building site.

Note: Treatment of the history of the Hawaiian people has some overtones of the "reinventing history" overtones of mainland Native American saga. The politically correct approach touts the Hawaiians of old as gentle, ecological nature lovers whose tropical paradise was despoiled by the introduction of Western civilization the form of sailors, preachers and plantation owners. Conveniently downplayed is the blood-thirsty carnage that took place for centuries between competing clan chiefs (one chief built a house out of the skulls of his vanquished enemies). There was also a rigid class system that brutally maintained small elite at the top of the social pyramid by means of "kapu" (forbidden activities). Touch one of the elites unbidden? Or... even allow your shadow to cross their presence? Uh, that would result in death by clubbing.

I mention this because, having done some pre-trip research about the Big Island, I'd learned that -- using the excuse of the dedication of Puukohola Heiau -- Kamehameha lured and killed his cousin Keoua, who was the last obstacle to his absolute rule of most of the Hawaiian Islands. Keoua became the first human sacrifice at the new temple. But here's how the National Park Service brochure describes the event:

"...when Keoua landed in his vessel, a scuffle ensued. Perhaps unintentionally, Keoua was killed..."

When I quizzed the Park Ranger about the sanitized version, he agreed and said that descendants of the slain Keoua, who still live on the Big Island, also take umbrage at the 'spin' that's put on the episode. But, he said the skew of the Service is to highlight Kamehameha as the unifier of the Islands and to minimize the methods he used to achieve that goal. The PC police are alive and well in Hawaii too!

We continued our route around half of the Island and intersected the HUGE Parker Ranch -- 175,000 acres on the Big Island -- one of the largest ranches in the United States. The ranch's founder was a British sailor, John Parker, who jumped ship and stayed in Hawaii. He eventually won the favor of Kamehameha by corralling and domesticating the wild cattle herds that were populating island in the early 1800's. We happened to be traversing the ranch on a day that a calf-roping competition. There were lots fast horses and twirling lassos. The competitors ranged from nervous adolescent girls to grizzled panilos (Hawaiian cowboys) and the action was non-stop.

We got up early the next morning and motored around the rugged southern end of the island to Volcanoes National Park, home of Kilauea, an active spewer that is spilling lava into the ocean even today.

We accompanied a terrific ranger on a hike through a rain forest to learn about the native Hawaiian flora and fauna. Although is was a drizzly day, we did snap some phenomenal pictures of the massive Halema'uma'u Crater with an added bonus—the presence of the state bird of Hawaii, the nene.

On our third full day in Hawaii, we journeyed to one of the wettest cities in the world—Hilo. This town, the second largest Hawaiian city after Honolulu, is a gay-friendly, bohemian place. We visited a funky farmers market and toured the location of a devastating 1946 tsunami that killed 150 people. We also checked out Makawao, an old cowboy town that's found a second life as an artist enclave. In a funny little storefront shop, we found a great print for the wall of a shore house great room.

The highlight of the week occurred the next day when we rented sea kayaks and paddled across a cove to the famous Captain Cook monument. The spot where the famous explorer was slain by Hawaiian chieftains is commemorated by a large white obelisk on the coastline. But the area is also famous as a marine reserve teeming with exotic fish. The area has limited access (two commercial vessels a day bring snorkels for one-hour sessions) so the snorkeling is an uncrowded delight. We beached the kayaks, donned our masks and flippers and spent hours gliding with yellow tang, parrotfish, needlefish and wrasses...heaven! On our way back across the cove, a group of spinner dolphins decided to put on a display. They lept out of the water, rotated their bodies clockwise and then slammed back under the foam. It was dazzling.

After two such eventful weeks, we were sorry to end our tropical sojourn. We scored a better flight back to the mainland and the tailwinds got us from Maui to Atlanta in less than 9 hours. The sunburn is starting to fade... but the aloha memories linger. Mahalo, Hawaii!

3/13/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.




Zippity Do... AAAARGGHHHH!!!

My previous entry was scribed on Monday January 13th. We'd enjoyed three great days of morning snorkeling action and afternoon beach or pool escapades. For Tuesday, we'd scheduled an early morning snorkel raft trip to a great reef, but when we arrived at 6:30 am -- after driving 45 minutes to the Lahaina departure point -- the captain decided that rough waters would mean an uncomfortable ride and murky visibility. Instead (grift!) they upgraded us to a Wednesday all-day trip to Lanai, a nearby private island, that included close-up dolphin and whale sightings, snorkel stops and a catered lunch on a seclude Lanai beach. And then, to assuage us for our early morning Tuesday trek, the company put us on a two-hour whale watch trip slightly later that morning (Tuesday) for free! (grift 2)

We saw several pods of mama & baby & prospective 'boyfriends' cavorting in the ridiculously blue Maui waters. After a picturesque lunch on a terrace overlooking Lahaina harbor, we ventured out on the 'Highway of Hell.' This road (shown as a dotted line on the maps... not good) hugs the cliffs on the west side of the island. The views are breath-taking but so is the road. If the gravel and packed dirt surface weren't nerve-wracking enough, the route narrows to one lane in many locations, requiring one vehicle to back up to a shoulder to allow the oncoming car to pass. I did a gasp-and-chest-clutch action every two minutes of the three-hour adventure, exasperating my consort. But it was worth it in order to view remarkable seascapes including a magnificent cliffside blowhole, but I was delighted to return to four-lane asphalt!

The Wednesday voyage was exhilarating. Bruce perched on the front of the raft on the rubber bumpers, and got a bird's eye view of the dolphins and whales. I parked myself in the roofed, canvas seat section in the back of the raft with some retirees from Indiana -- perfect. We saw dozens of dolphins and more pods of amorous whales... Hugh Hefner's mansion has nothing on this stretch of the Pacific!

On Thursday, we set the alarm for 4:00 am to make the dark and winding trek up Maui's Mt Haleakeala for the sunrise. It took about an hour and a half to wend our way up to the summit at 10,1023 feet. IT WAS FREEZING COLD and windy. There were scores of folks (dressed more for Antarctica than Hawaii) present to watch a spectacular show -- the gradual brightening of the dark sky, casting pink and gold hues on fluffy white cloud carpet until the penultimate moment when the sun breaks through the horizon. It was worth the early morning call for sure.

As we returned down the mountain, I began to pump myself up for the next activity of the day -- ziplining through a native eucalyptus forest. Ziplining is a relatively new adventure, launched in the rainforests of Costa Rica. Participants are strapped into mountaineering gear and attached to a cable stretched across a ravine; then, you run to the edge of the cliff and 'zip' across the expanse on the cable (screaming and flailing are optional) to a landing platform on the other side. The zipline courses are usually a series of increasingly longer rides. The one in Maui has five 'zips,' starting at 50 yards long and ending with a doozy that is 750 yards in length. All the zips traverse a 70-foot ravine (I didn't look down).

As my family will attest, I am a big coward when it comes to thrills and risk-taking. (The only roller coaster that I've ridden as an adult is the Scooby Doo roller coaster in King's Dominion amusement park.) But for some reason, ziplining intrigued me and was determined to give it a try. There will be a forthcoming picture of Bruce and me suited up and ready to go. I thought my gaze exhibits excitement at this new challenge, but my daughter Cristin saw pure unadulterated FEAR... you'll have decide for yourself when you see it.

Anyway, our group of twelve hardy souls included five menopausal women from Boston. Their presence was a real psychological boost for me. The guides who accompanied us were two young wisecracking guys; their manner and exhortations ("Go... go... go... airborne!") left no room for wimpiness. And I did great! Another challenge conquered!

2/21/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.




Let it snow... let it snow... let it snow...

Schadenfreuden is a uniquely German word meaning roughly "pleasure in the misfortune of another." Well, Bruce and I experienced a raging case of schadenfreuden on Saturday when we woke up in glorious Maui weather to watch reports on CNN of a massive blizzard descending upon the northeastern United States. We were sorry to see the folks back home slogging through two feet of snow (snicker). But we had challenges, too... which sunscreen should we use SPF 8 or SPF 16?

We escaped Philadelphia one day before the storm stuck. That part was fine. But the exhausting two-layover flight from Philly to Maui took 19 hours! We DID use frequent flyer miles, but Delta was truly perverse in scheduling the flights. Bruce did manage to snag bulkhead seats on the Atlanta to Maui stretch, which gave us more legroom. We sat in the first row behind the first class section and got to view up close the distinct differences between 'them' and us. As we squished into our torture chamber seats, they lounged in their leather cocoons; as we tugged at our pretzel package, they were served quiche and sliced fruit ON REAL CHINA. The coup de grace occurred shortly after we took flight when the flight attendant ostentatiously draped a four-inch fabric strip across the entrance to the first class section. Obviously they didn't want our riff-raff rumps perched on their top-tier toilets.

Adding an ironic note to the proceedings was the choice of the in-flight movie, "The Legend of Zorro." As we watched the masked avenger wreck havoc on the landed gentry in old California, a shoes-off 'Zorro Aptowicz' stretched his stockinged feet under the fabric barrier wiggling his proletariat toes contentedly in the first class section.

Though we haven't visited in five years, Maui is as wonderful as we remembered. We've snorkeled every morning at different reef locations that are accessible from the beach. Today's (Monday's) excursion took us to Black Rock, a spectacular coral reef teaming with fish, green turtles and manta rays.

(A short history lesson: Hawaii has always decreed that all of its state's glorious beach coastlines are open to the people. No private ownership. No prohibition on public access. They even provide public parking spaces. When developers submit plans for extravagant luxury resorts, they know that the plan must include a walkway to the beach for regular folks and some space for public parking.)

Which brings us back to Black Rock. It's smack in front of the Sheraton Maui Resort in the swanky Kaanapali area of Maui. We arrived early enough to secure a parking spot, then strolled down to the beach and plopped our chunky, common carcasses in the midst of the Botoxed beautiful people who were paying $600 a night for their rooms. Sweet!

We've also visited Lahaina, an old whaling town that transformed itself into a tourist trap with stores peddling T-shirts, jewelry, Hawaiian tchotckes and 'art.' Restaurants in town include a Bubba Gump Shrimp, Hard Rock Cafe, and one called Moose McGillicuddy. You get the idea... guilty, trashy fun. Tomorrow we're taking a rubber raft snorkel trip to Molokini, a coral reef island near Maui that's supposed to boast a fiesta of tropical fish. I'll report back after the adventure, if I survive.

Wow... I just caught a CNN report that discussed how the major East Coast cities are digging out after the storm. Everyone who's shoveling snow looks so rosy-cheeked and energetic. Well, Bruce and I are heading out to the condo pool for the Mai Tai Monday festivities... in an hour, Bruce will be rosy-cheeked too. Aloha!


2/14/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.




"Can You Hear Me Now?


Although I've sworn off doing any heavy-duty political commentary, I feel compelled to remark on the recent news flurry about the National Security Agency's covert eavesdropping activities. I have a strong libertarian streak, so the idea of the government listening in to citizens pricks my interest. On the other hand, in the modern world of electronic communications, the possibility that the bad guys are plotting against us in cyberspace makes for a compelling argument that maybe we might have to bend a little when it comes to privacy issues.

Anyway, the most interesting aspect of the story was the speculation that the NSA employed a 'pattern recognition' program to pluck incriminating words or phrases from the huge amount of data that they accumulate through their interceptions of communications to Afghanistan. By sifting through large volumes of data, they're able to pinpoint those individuals who are deemed worthy of closer scrutiny.

It got me to thinking about how the patterns that crop up in my family members' telephone communications. If the NSA beamed their equipment in my direction, they'd soon discover the verbal variances among my progeny:

Caitlin:
"wedding... Leo... Leo... Leo... flowers... invitations... Leo... Leo... Leo... shoes... Central Park... Leo... Leo... Leo... thrift store find... Leo... Leo... Leo..."

Cristin:
"sick... tummy... grants... tummy... sick... subway phobia... Mutter... cat-sit... Pez dispensers... grants... DOXIES..."

And finally, Kevin, the monosyllabic Gary Cooper of the clan:

Kevin:
"Uh... yes... uh... no... uh... I guess... um... uh... okay... no... um... uh..."
________________________________________________________

And, if the NSA was listening to me this week, they'd find out that I spent a whirlwind day in Manhattan accompanying my bride-to-be on some nuptial errands. The most significant of these was the first fitting of her wedding gown. Cait selected a very sophisticated design... it is actually the runway model used in the designer's fashion show last year!! It fit her like a dream except for the length (5'2" models don't exist), and she needed her modest train to be bustled for the reception (swing jazz band!). It was a sentimental moment shared by her little sis, the maid of honor, Cristin.

While waiting for Cait to finalize some of the dress details, I parked myself in the window cafe of Dean & Deluca, a chi-chi food store in lower Manhattan. What a hoot. For forty five minutes I watched a slice of Americana that -- trust me! -- is not visible in our stolid Philadelphia neighborhood. Models, bike couriers, men jauntily wearing berets, guys holding hands, corgis in pink sweatshirts! It was a crash course in hipsters!

When Cait rejoined me, we trotted over to a swanky stationary store, "Kate's Paperie," to select envelopes for her invitations, then off to a sleek restaurant for dinner. The decor was spare...and so was the amount of food on the plate. No wonder New Yorkers stay so whippet thin!

I slumped onto the NJ Transit train and headed home to Philly, happy that the soujourn had been a productive one. I love New York!

2/02/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.




Happy Ukrainian Christmas!

(Yes, due to their adherence to a different calendar, my husband's Ukrainian family celebrated Christmas on January 6th. Half-price gifts, wrappings, decorations --slick!)

However, our "regular calendar" 2005 Aptowicz Christmas was wonderful!

The weekend before Christmas, we camped out at Leo and Caitlin's mid-town Manhattan condo while they were away. Our weekend of cosmopolitan touring included museum visits, a stroll down Fifth Avenue to view the decorated department store windows, jostling with holiday crowds on Canal Street, dinner in Chinatown and a swell trek through the Central Park zoo. We squeezed the trip in just before the illegal transit strike.


I'm can't help myself at the Central Park Zoo

Then, two days before Christmas, our future son-in-law, Leo, joined us on our annual trip to the Christmas tree farm. He was very excited. As he so charmingly put it, "It's the first time I’ve killed a tree!" We found a great farm with lots of beautiful white pine trees; Caitlin and Leo scrambled around and selected a behemoth. Bruce was delighted to have Leo crawl under the branches to man the saw. The result was a fabulously proportioned, 10- foot beauty that fit perfectly into our great room at the shore. While we attended a Christmas Eve soiree, Cait, Leo, Cristin and Shappy decorated the tannenbaum. It looked great! (picture of you & Shap in cartoon pjs)

Cristin and Shappy hamming it up
Christmas morning and evening in front of the tree!

By Christmas Day, the crowd of family had swelled to 15, including Kevin and his wife Katie (who missed out on the tree decorating fun!). We had a great time opening presents. Cris and Shap gave Bruce and I matching tracksuits, appropriately annotated.




Because I'm leery of high-tech bikes (i.e. those with hand brakes), the other kids chipped in and bought me a fabulous coaster brake bike -- it rocks.


The holiday ended too soon!

Now that 2006 has dawned and it's time to check on my 2005 predictions:

Political
1. The Iraq elections will successfully take place as scheduled in late January 2005. (Yep, that happened! Remember the purple inked index fingers?)

2. The terrorist fiend, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, will be captured by March 1st, and the "insurgency" (read: sociopathic slaughter of fellow Iraqis) will collapse as Iraqis finger these creeps in their midst and they’re arrested. (Alas, this hasn't happened and the terrorists continue their rampage)

3. President Bush's approval ratings (now hovering at 50%) will be at 55% in December 2005. (Yikes, was this one way off! Most of the December polls have Bush in the mid-40s)

4. Trump's third iteration of "The Apprentice" (starting January 2005) will be a ratings bonanza. The premise ("Ivy League Smarts vs. Street Smarts") is irresistible. (The show never got the numbers that I thought it would)

5. NBC's Brian Williams will lead the anchor ratings in 12/2005 (Got that one right!).

6. The Philadelphia Eagles will win the 2005 Superbowl. (Never mind...)

7. My marriage will survive (barely) the house sale process (to be determined...)

8. My daughter, Caitlin will find her soul mate (She's engaged to be married in July 2006)

9. My daughter-in-law, Katie will pass the PA bar exam (Hooray... that happened... she's now Katie Eyer, Esquire!)

10. Our crown prince (Kevin) will land university position in the Philadelphia area and be close to being a homeowner (One of two on this one. Kevin is an Assistant Professor in the Physics Department at West Chester University; he's decided to wait on the house purchase until the real estate market settles down a bit)

Next week, I'll announce my 2006 predictions....

I have one last, exciting bit of 2005 news to report. My book, What Fresh Hell is This?, is in the running for the Blooker Award, a competition for books based on blogs! I can't influence the judges directly, but I hope that they conclude that an acerbic tome scribed by an insightful, menopausal pundit (who's not Anna Quindlen, thanks be to God) fills a unique niche that should be acknowledged and rewarded.



Stay tuned.....


1/07/06

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.

Bah Humbug... Not!


I LOVE CHRISTMAS!

There, I've said it. And I'm proud about it.

Not for me the hand-wringing mopiness that some folks demonstrate this time of the year. They bray about "over commercialization"; I buy a mechanical, sombrero-wearing cactus that sings "Feliz Navidad." They bemoan holiday overspending; I agonize over how many sequined Santa hats I should purchase in the dollar store. They prattle on about the appropriateness of Nativity displays in public buildings; I search intrepidly for perfect stocking stuffers ("How can Kmart be out of Twinkie-flavored lip balm?... It's outrageous!)

My Christmas connection goes back to my childhood. As the only grandchildren on both sides of the O'Keefe-Muldoon families, we were the main attraction at the holidays. After attending Christmas Eve midnight Mass, all the aunts, uncles and grandparents would troop to my parent’s home. We'd be awakened, told that "Santa just left," and herded to the living room for an orgy of gift opening. After the visitors left, my parents had to contend with four fully awake and energized moppets at 2:00 am. They also hosted Christmas dinner for the extended clan. No wonder they both smoked a pack of Pall Malls a day!

Anyway, when I had my own family, I deleted the middle-of-the-night toy extravaganza, but initiated my own masochistic ritual -- we told our kids that Santa's elves decorated our tree. I must have been out of my mind to launch this fable. It meant that, after getting three hopped-up kids to bed on Christmas Eve, my husband and I dragged out the lights, tinsel and ornaments. Then came the arranging the presents. Each child's gifts had uniquely colored wrapping paper, and my husband loved to pile them high around the tree -- a wall of loot.

One firm rule in the Aptowicz household was that no one could sneak downstairs without mom and dad (I had camera duty and didn't want to miss a shot). To enforce this, I wrapped the top of the stairs with a crepe paper barrier strung between two banister spindles. It seemed impenetrable, but I hadn't reckoned with the childhood exuberance. In 1983, while arguing with each other about the possibility of sliding under the bottom of the contraption, Caitlin (always an instigator) pushed Kevin and broke the paper. Much wailing ensued, accusations were hurled, and for a while Kevin, the unfairly accused "Christmas Killer" stubbornly refused to budge from the top step. MERRY CHRISTMAS!

As the kids grew, we still continued the Christmas Eve tree-trimming with the kids handling the task. (A good thing, too, since an annual Christmas Eve neighborhood party usually left papa Aptowicz slightly tipsy). And speaking of the tree, we always cut our own. The pilgrimage took place a week before Christmas and entailed a practice that could probably get us arrested for child endangerment today. As we stalked the farm for the perfect white pine, we would leave a child parked next to "possibles" (staking our claim) and continued on. Sometimes we'd be gone for 30 minutes... 'eaving our mittened brood scattered across a huge field. Yikes. Well, they were simpler times.

Another annual event was the Aptowicz Christmas photo. From the time Caitlin was born, we've included the photo in our holiday cards. And God forbid that I go to a studio for the shot! It had to be more personal... more unique. Since we didn’t put the tree up until Christmas Eve, I resorted to carting my kids to a nearby lawn & garden store that had extensive Christmas displays. My kids were always fabulously attired in coordinated velvet outfits (at least until they reached school age when their fashion ego intervened) and I arranged them adorably around the store displays. It took a full role of 24 exposures to get one decent shot where no one was squinting, picking their nose or pushing a sibling. During all this, the poor sales people were trying to retrieve glass ornaments or tinsel while I glared at them for intruding on my shot (sorry, Feeneys!). During their teen years, the picture-taking became a struggle. If they had braces, they wouldn't smile; for about three years straight, Kevin glowered like a serial killer. The coordinated outfits gave way to wacky 1980's couture and seriously big hair on the girls. Our most recent pictures had been wonderful though and have been extended to six—our kids and their 'significant others' ---and no one's picking their nose!

While my girls may have abandoned Christmas fashion, I am a stalwart defender of the genre. I have a vintage (well, 1992) reindeer sweater that I wore for Christmas breakfasts for years. When it became bit forlorn, I replaced it with a charming "winter solstice" sweatshirt that I wear proudly from December 1st through Valentines Day. Vive le tannenbaum!

As I write this on December 22, 2005, we still don't have a tree. Tomorrow, our New York City contingent (Caitlin, Leo, Cristin and Shappy) will arrive and we'll head to a local tree farm. I hope that Leo and Shappy are prepared to be a tree-claimer. It's part of an Aptowicz Christmas.




Merry Christmas, everyone!


12/22/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.



Canine Cavalcade



My canine-crazed daughter and her dog-loving beau,
Have long urged me to visit the Philly Dog Show.
At first I was leery, how much fun could be had?
Sure I loved pooches, but a Scotty in plaid?

My ideal furry pal is the all-American mutt,
Who'd want to watch some snooty poodles strut?
But the kid wore me down and I finally agreed.
(Though, alas, no mongrel could be crowned 'best of breed.')

The show site was huge and so was the crowd,
I promptly bumped into an Irish Wolfhound.
The owner was kind... the dog didn't bark.
Hey, maybe, this will be kind of a lark.

All around the arena the trainers were busy,
Blow drying, primping, they were all in a tizzy.
The preening... the posing... the mounds of hair goo!
But in the end it was worth it; and the dogs looked good, too.

The canine selection was amazingly broad
The types of breeds left me shocked and awed.
Spaniels were there -- Water, Springer and Cocker
But no Spinone Italiano, a bit of a shocker.

The retrievers were everywhere; it was hard to keep tabs
Curly-haired, Duck Tolling, Golden and Labs.
And when it comes to dog showmen, well, none could be better
Than the prancing, majestic red Irish Setter.

When it came to the 'hounds,' it was almost illegal.
So many breeds from Whippet to Beagle.
Bloodhounds and Greyhounds, Wolfhounds and Fox
Salukis and Borzoi, and an Elkhound that rocks.

But my favorite hound had a slinky demeanor.
The Dachshund -- and dog that looks like a wiener!
Whether long-haired or smooth, dappled or plain,
The doxie is king -- long may he reign!

Then, on to more pooches; 'toy' breeds were being tested.
Chihuahuas and Yorkies, Pugs and Chinese Cresteds,
Maltese and Shih Tzus, Toy Poodles, Pekingese,
Picking the best sure wasn't a breeze!

The terrier group was great fun to watch.
Kerry Blue, Airedale, Australian and Scotch,
West Highland or Cairn... they each had a niche
But my favorite terrier was the little Norwich.

We wandered over to the 'working' group; this was a "big dog" domain.
Out lumbered the Mastiffs, St Bernards, a Great Dane;
Doberman Pinschers and Boxers (they must pee a fountain!)
And don't forget the crowd favorite, the Bernese Mountain.

Time for a break, we needed caffeine.
Alas, the food being peddled was hardly cuisine.
But we cruised the sidelines, to take in the sights.
The doggies were perfect: no barking, no bites.

Vendors were there, peddling all kinds of bric brac
Doxie bookends, Black Lab key racks.
There was freebie stuff too -- that's when I truly let go.
Jostling frail-looking matrons for a pen from Petco.

Then, back to judging for my favorite group
The 'herding' canines -- an intrepid troop.
These sure-footed workers tend to their flocks
And scare away enemies, gray wolf or red fox.

There's a Belgian Malinois, and four types of Collie
And here comes my favorite: the Sheltie, by golly.
German Shepherds, English Sheepdogs, they pass in a blur
But we applaud for the Puli with his weird dreadlocked fur.

The day's winding down, the last group is showing.
They're the 'non-sporting' gang, whose ranks keep growing.
Chow Chow, Bulldog, and a Bichon (who's hot)
To some Poodles, a Keeshond and Dalmatians with spots.

The show winds down, we head for the door.
But, enroute I make time for slight detour
To pet a cute Sheltie, Winston by name,
Who's captured my heart... a tough thing to claim.

But he looked like our old dog, a Sheltie named Zeke.
(But Winston had less of a hefty physique)
Zeke's gone off to dog heaven; we still miss him so.
But the day at the dog show had left me aglow.

So thanks for my daughter for escorting me there
And thanks to the doggies, whether small, fierce or fair.
I had a great time, but I want you to know
That I won't be caught dead in any CAT show.


12/10/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.



Hot Dog!!!

Three more days until the Philadelphia Dog Show!

The excitement is mounting (pun intended) as my first visit to a canine competition nears. My affection for pooches extends way back to my childhood. I grew up in rowhouse Philadelphia in the 1950's. That meant dozens of mutts romping in the common driveway that connected the 100 or so homes that made up our immediate neighborhood. It was a rough-and-tumble Irish /Italian working class neighborhood, not cut out for feline fanciers.

In fact, I can only remember one cat owner in our block -- Miss Mattson, the neighborhood old maid. She lived alone the house that she'd inherited from her parents. That was unusual enough in the marriage-crazed, baby boom 50's, but she'd also always wear gloves and a hat with a veil to visit 'Barney the Grocer' on the corner... very Gloria Swansonish. I trace my aversion to cats (in addition to their sneaky and aloof behavior in general) back to the gothic Miss Mattson and her haughty, obese, window-perched tabby. But, I digress...

The dogs of the 50's were beloved members of their clans... but decidedly a familial adjunct. Dogs slept in the yard or in the basement -- doghouses would have construed as pretentious. And God forbid you named your dog Zeke or Wallingford! In those days -- and totally without irony -- dogs were really named Spot, Fido, Tippy and Rover. Maybe some avant garde folks would risk a name like Bandit or Bobo, but they were wild and suspicious exceptions. There was a similar casualness to feeding your pooch -- they ate table scraps! I remember being bewildered the first time that I saw a dog food commercial (Pa from Bonanza hawking Alpo). Special food for man's best friend? Outrageous! Back then we couldn't have envisioned special foods "For Every Stage of Your Dog's Life..." Lord!

Our family had two dogs during my childhood. Both were brought home by my dad (he'd been forbidden to have a dog as a kid) over my mother's objections. The first, a shepherd mix, was tied to a post outside a local American Legion hall where my father spent quite a bit of the weekend discussing the great matters of the day (read: hoisting a brew). We named the pooch 'Chiefie' in honor of the Legion Hall's commander (a former Navy chief) who brought the dog inside, fed him roast pork sandwich and asked if anyone wanted to adopt him. Jack O'Keefe, humanitarian extraordinaire, responded. After my mother's fury had died down, my brothers had a great time with our new addition. Because he was a kind of a ratty street dog, I was less enamored; his main attraction to me was his thorough, post-prandial slurping of our dinner plates, dramatically lightening my dishwashing chores. Chiefie stayed with us for about 5 years, until an untimely collision with a Mack truck on our busy street sent him to the big Legion hall in the sky.

But I LOVED our next bowwow... and how! Again, my father was the instigator. Every Friday, on his way home from his job in South Philly, he stopped at the Italian Market for some fresh produce. On this particular Friday -- Valentine's Day -- the paisan peddling the peppers had some additional merchandise to unload... puppies!

Again, ever gallant Jacko responded. When he arrived at our front door -- and before my Mom could intervene -- he presented an adorable, squirming mongrel puppy to my sister and me as his Valentine present to us. Marie O'Keefe, feisty in all other areas of life, knew she's been outmaneuvered and had to acquiesce.

In honor of the pup's provenance and because of her purple-black coat, we called her Molly -- a variation on the Italian word for eggplant. I LOVED MOLLY and so did my Dad. He taught her tons of tricks. She howled on cue, played dead for minutes on end and would permit you to squeeze her ribcage to generate wheezing, accordion-like noises (hey, PETA... I hope the statute of limitations has run out on that one).

One of his favorites was to yell "Airborne!" (my brother was a Green Beret) and have her make a running leap through the open window of our family car. One night, when picking me up from my deli-clerk job at the A&P, he gestured to his car and uttered the familiar command. The dog unfortunately misjudged which vehicle was ours, and sailed through the driver-side window some stranger's 1970 Monte Carlo. Some hapless hubby dozing while waiting for his wife to shop got a furry wake-up call. Molly outlived my dad and provided great comfort and companionship to my mom in her early years of widowhood. Thanks, Dad.

Next in the O'Keefe-Aptowicz canine cavalcade was our first purebred. A college chum had an adorable, petite Shetland Sheepdog -- a Sheltie -- named Nitsky (Yiddish for 'little thing'). When he was accepted to a British graduate school program, he had to give up the pooch and asked if my husband and I wanted him. We were newlyweds, had no kids and the dog was accustomed to being alone at home during the day, so we accepted. Within five months of ownership, perhaps due to his breed's inclinations (or perhaps to the diet of Spaghettios that I fed him), the dog went blind!!

By now, I was expecting my first baby and, although we'd grown attached to Nitsky (renamed Nixon by us), there was no way we could accommodate a 'special needs' pooch in the growing household. We were forced to put him to sleep. Four months later, my friend abandoned grad school (he hated the English weather and food) and called us and wanted the dog back. Talk about an awkward conversation... the friendship never recovered.

Three kids and seventeen years later, Zeke became the second (and significantly less petite) Sheltie in our lives. Though titularly my daughter Cristin's dog, once she left for college, he was a one-woman dog. He would trot after me around the house, plopping indecently spread-eagled on any available surface. I was crazy about my "angel dog" and greatly grieved when he joined the O'Keefe celestial menagerie at age 13.

So now you know why I'm so crazed about the upcoming dog show. One of my favorite movies EVER is the Christopher Guest masterpiece, Best in Show. I can't wait to see if any of those broadly drawn characters have a basis in reality (please...please...please). And it'll be a hoot to parade through the aisles of specialty mutt merchandise and flash back to simpler times of basement doggie digs and airborne antics.


Zeke, the O'Keefe-Aptowicz Family Dog (7/26/91 - 9/5/03)

Shown here in his winter and summer haircuts respectively



Come back next week for Part Two, and my review of the 2005 Philadelphia Dog Show



11/16/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.



Annapolis, Siberia, and Robert DeNiro

What an autumn this has turned out to be!

An engagement... a trip to Russia... entertainment accolades....

My decision to partially disengage with the rancorous world of current events has provided more time and energy for me to concentrate on family affairs. So I was truly excited when the oldest of the brood, Caitlin, announced her engagement to her beau, Leonardo Trasande (Leo to us). The groom-to-be is a pediatrician who deeply engaged in a university program dedicated to gauging the impact of environmental factors on children's health.

After medical school, Leo served for a period of time in Hillary Clinton's office, working on children's health issues (in my new 'political serenity' mode, I'm overlooking that stint). He's a terrific guy. We're thrilled to welcome Leo into our family!

The wedding is planned for July at Caitlin's alma mater, St John's College in Annapolis Maryland. The campus and its colonial-era buildings are beautiful, and will be a perfect setting for the nuptials.

Not to be outdone by their big sister, my other two kids have both launched exciting fall projects. Kevin, now Dr. Aptowicz and a professor of Physics at West Chester University near Philadelphia, just jetted to Russia to participate in an NATO-sponsored workshop on "Fluorescence and Other Optical Properties of Biological Particles for Biological Warfare Agent Sensors"... yikes! The week-long conference draws scientist from all over the world. Congrats to Kev and he'd better bring back a decent bottle of vodka for the Aptowicz patriarch. And we might use that vodka to toast Kevin's talented wife, Katie Eyer, who just passed the Pennsylvania bar!

And my baby, Cristin, continues to amaze us with her creative successes. In early October, she'll be joining other accomplished film professionals at the Sloan Film Summit, sponsored by Robert DeNiro's Tribeca Film Institute. The four-day session is designed to bring together screenwriters and directors from leading film schools and organizations across the U.S. who have been supported by grants from the Alfred P. Sloan Foundation, which aims to influence the next generation of filmmakers to create more realistic and entertaining stories about science and technology. Cristin's award-winning script Mütter typifies the type of material that the Foundation supports. Kudos to my 'last of the litter'... and get DeNiro's autograph, please!

So, for the time being, I'm blissfully managing to avoid such nonsense as the fracas over the Bush nomination of Harrier Miers for the Supreme Court. She's apparently an underwhelming choice, and may prove to be another Harold Carswell, who was rejected for the Court in 1970 because of his tepid legal record. His nomination inspired one of my favorite political quotes:

"Even if he is mediocre, there are a lot of mediocre judges and people and lawyers.
They are entitled to a little representation, aren't they?"
--Senator Roman Hruska
(in defense of Harold Carswell on the charges that he was 'mediocre')

But, I digress. In my new mode, I can now cook elaborate meals for my spouse. Previously, I rejected any recipe that looked like it would require culinary efforts that could intrude on the "News hour with Jim Lehrer."

Now -- Beef Wellington for my Bruce! And instead of scanning news sites for information on impending budget votes, I can squander my time with in-depth reportage of how Nicholas Cage bestowed the name Kal-el (Superman's Krpton name!) on his newborn son. Yeah, no psychiatrist bills in that kid's future!

Speaking of newborns, I loved the recent New York Times article about Ivy League females. The tile of the story -- Many Women at Elite Colleges Set Career Path to Motherhood -- caught my eye, and the content bemused me. According to article "many women at the nation's most elite colleges say they have already decided that they will put aside their careers in favor of raising children. Though some of these students are not planning to have children and some hope to have a family and work full time, many others say they will happily play a traditional female role, with motherhood their main commitment." Dear God....$45 grand a year and your kid decides she want to wipe poop!

Of course, predictably, the older female academic types are in a tizzy -- they burned their bras for this??? The article quotes one female educator who seems to see the trend as causing a quandary: "It really does raise this question for all of us and for the country: when we work so hard to open academics and other opportunities for women, what kind of return do we expect to get for that?" said Marlyn McGrath Lewis, director of undergraduate admissions at Harvard, who served as dean for coeducation in the late 1970's and early 1980's.

And what about the poor schlemiels who marry these broads? Raised their whole life to acknowledge women as social and academic equals, they suddenly find themselves slaving away in corporate America, so that wifey can maintain her schedule at Gymboree and suburban playgroups -- hah!

All I can say is that I presaged this trend by three decades. A pioneer at the time, I had to plow my way unbowed through social gatherings full of working women, stoicially enduring the inevitable inquiry : "And, what do you, Maureen?"

But, the image of my three munchkins slurping cereal and watching Bugs Bunny in the morning sustained me. It wasn't the popular choice back then, but it worked for me. So, my advice for the Ivy League ladies...go for it. Someday, you may be having an autumn like I am!


10/04/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com. All opinions expressed are solely Maureen O'Keefe Aptowicz's and NOT her LIBERAL daughter Cristin's opinions.



Serenity Now



Like Kramer and George Costanza in the classic Seinfeld episode, I am now approaching life (and especially politics) with a Zen-like composure -- serenity now. In the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, my disgust with both ends of the political spectrum erupted much like the levees in Louisiana.

I was furious that the trauma from the natural catastrophe was compounded by the shameful displays of finger-pointing and blame avoidance by both Democratic and Republican 'leaders.' In my previous Zeitgeist, after surveying the despicable demeanor of these perennial vote whores, I declared "a pox on all their houses!" I'm done carrying water for the increasingly out-of-touch Crawford Cowboy, but finding solace (or innovative ideas) in the party of Teddy and Hilary is out of the question too. They're all pigs dipping their snouts in the same taxpayer-funded trough...feh!

My declaration of political passivity couldn't have come at a better time. Watching the confirmation hearings of Judge Roberts would have previously sent me screaming from the room. But now, from the soporific opening by our own weasely Senator, Arlen Spector, through Ted Kennedy's muddled and bombastic posturing, to the rantings of Joe Biden, the hair-plugged Senator from Delaware, I was able to view the whole mess with a serene equanimity (and no, I wasn't swigging cheap Chianti during the proceedings). Despite the fact that these hearing are no more than stylized settings for each of these Congressional clowns to get some televised face time... I actually used to care about them.... what a dope I was!

The true test of my new mellowness came last Sunday morning when I watched my favorite morning interview shows. I admit to emitting a groan when Tim Russert announced that the serial philanderer, Bill Clinton, was a Meet the Press guest, but I regrouped quickly and managed to watch my favorite amoral former president (beating even Nixon in my judgment!) with a cool and detached mien. Even my husband was impressed; uttering an amazed reaction ("Wow... you're not frothing!") to my new forbearance.

However, in my new, more open, non-political stance, I did hear one Clinton nugget that resonated with me. In discussing the Clinton Global Initiative his recent "global summit seeking solutions to some of the world's toughest problems," Clinton mentioned that the session's focus was on small group conversations and that the participants had to record a personal commitment to address one of the problems highlighted during the summit.

Hmmm... personal efforts, small groups effecting change, rejection of entrenched and lumbering political/social hierarchies. All great social movements -- the Revolutionary War, abolitionism, women's suffrage, unions, and civil rights -- were launched as small, focused initiatives by intensely engaged individuals. Individual passion joined with a deeply felt cause can create significant ripples.

Suddenly, the relevancy in my life of Harry Reid or Bill Frist, of Jon Stewart or Rush Limbaugh, of CNN or Fox News, was hugely diminished. Instead, I started to mull over what societal challenges intrigue me personally? Where could I inject some energy, or use my skill set?

Because the loss of a young mind to banal, mind-deadening teaching methods has always infuriated me, I settled on exploring the daunting task of engaging elementary- and middle school-age kids in learning. Trying to prod existing structures -- political school boards, protectionist teacher unions -- is futile. But the proliferation of charter schools and the spread of home schooling tells me that I'm not alone in seeing the necessity of going outside the system to effect change.

The New York Times recently ran a feature on some 'new philanthropists' and their emphasis on early education

"...A lot of the old philanthropy was devoted to helping schools do what they were already doing," said Richard Lee Colvin, director of the Hechinger Institute at Teachers College at Columbia University. "The new group is saying, `Let's try something different." It's a lot of young, active entrepreneurial people -- Bill Gates, Eli Broad, the Waltons, Dell, Milken, -- who want to change the schools, who want to use their money to support specific school reforms. The world has changed dramatically, with globalization and free trade, moving from an industrial economy to an information economy, but while that's been happening, K-12 education hasn't changed at all. Meanwhile, China's graduating five times as many engineers as we are, and you look at India and you get alarmed."

So for now, I'm switching off any television discussion of 2008 candidates, avoiding news articles about Sandra Day O'Connor's replacement, changing the car radio preset buttons from talk radio to classic rock. I'm going cold turkey.

Instead of squandering my energy on those pursuits, I'm going to keep my eyes open for any opportunity to contribute to nurturing a vital national resource -- a child's mind. I have quite a few years before retirement, but I think I can still get engaged in some fashion now.

My credentials: a degree in microbiology, three successful kids (two PhDs and an award-winning screenwriter) and passion for infusing joy and exhilaration into the learning process (I have a lesson plan for teaching third-graders about the stock market that killed!).

So, whaddya think?

I'd love to hear from you about what educational experiences shaped you negatively... and positively. What ridiculous classroom practices turned you off as a child? What innovative exercise captured your imagination?

As for my 'political junkie' withdrawal pains... send me your good vibes, I'm taking it one day at a time.


09/21/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com. All opinions expressed are solely Maureen O'Keefe Aptowicz's and NOT her LIBERAL daughter Cristin's opinions.



Deflated


That 'pffssssss' sound that you're hearing is my formerly fulsome and unwavering enthusiasm for President Bush leaking out of me in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. My steadfast support even during his lackluster campaign during 2004, and in face the increasingly worrisome news for Iraq, finally met its match in the waning days of August when pictures of forlorn hurricane victims, especially women and children, were broadcast to the nation.

Right-wing talk show hosts have been eager to point out how the New Orleans mayor and the Louisiana governor failed miserably in their planning and execution of any evacuation of the city. I agree (more about that later), but by Tuesday when the extent of the flooding and human misery became evident, why didn't Bush pick up the phone and demand action?

I work for a huge federal agency, so I know how constraining bureaucratic processes can be and I'm sure the formal disaster assistance request process by the local and state governments has a purpose. (And I'm pretty sure if Bush had acted unilaterally and rushed in troops and materiel early, some nudniks on the left would have chided him for acting like a 'cowboy') But to watch on Wednesday the Homeland Security Director, Michael Chertoff, in a crisp suit and tie, pronounce that relief plans were "on target" and have the split screen television screen displaying desperate mothers huddled on a highway overpass begging for water for their children was truly surreal. Surely with the plethora of military bases in the South, someone could have scrambled some helicopters and dropped pallets of water and food those camped out.

By the way, there's plenty of blame to go around. Every time I saw the Louisiana Governor, she was near tears and practically incoherent -- no one would mistake her for Rudy Giuliani. In the first week after the storm hit, she came across as dazed and unsteady, hardly the characteristics necessary to manage the aftermath of a catastrophe.

And don't get me started on the New Orleans governor! Roy Nagin was truly the anti-Rudy Giuliani. In September 2001, Giuliani was stoic and resolute; the panicky, emotional Nagin was part of the problem. He personified the "best defense is an offense" posture by railing against the federal government early and often, hoping to steer the press reporting away from his miserable performance in evacuating his city. He displays a weird combination of incompetence, defiance and arrogance.

The lack of communication ability between city, state and federal agencies was appalling. There was plenty of warning about Katrina's potential fury. The fact that no one on the state or city preparedness teams thought procures satellite phones is incredible. Florida is a veteran at storm survival -- last year they faced four major hurricanes with in six weeks. That state has a well-coordinated plan that balances local action with federal support. Here's an article that provides and interesting comparison between Florida preparation and that of Louisiana/New Orleans.

Having said all that, I'm still furious that George Bush didn't heed the Harry Truman adage that 'the buck stops' with the president. Screw legalistic wrangling and the formality of local governments being required to formally request federal assistance! Bush had an opportunity to be forceful and compassionate...and he blew it.

Almost as excruciating as watching suffering mothers and dehydrated children was the spectacle of insensitive politicians picking at the corpse of the calamity. Demanding hearings (Hillary), threatening to punch out the president (Senator Mary Landrieu), and blaming the tragedy on everything from global warming (AL Gore, God help us) project selection for the Army Corps of Engineers (Landrieu, among others, again). And the reflexive defense of the President and FEMA by the Republicans was equally nauseating. A pox on all their houses!

David Brooks recently wrote a column for the New York Times that reflected my malaise. He recounted how, in other American eras, the disgust for 'politics as usual' over the welfare of the country spurred the development of progressive political movements. Maybe that's ahead for us now. Possibly someone other than the 'usual suspects' will sense the mood in the country and seize the momentum. Perhaps that person will run for President in 2008 on a platform of fiscal responsibility, sensible immigration policies, fierce counter-terrorism efforts and a vision of how to steer the nation in the new global, entrepreneurial economy.

Unfortunately, it's too late for me. As a self-confessed political junkie, I think I've hit rock bottom. I'm ready for a twelve-step program. I can't take any more spin, self-serving cant, bitter divisiveness, special interest suckling and the perpetual electioneering that's become American politics today. I'm going cold turkey -- no more Maureen Dowd, no more Fox News Sunday. The Clinton News Network (CNN) will have to shill for the libs without my viewership. I'm removing the Drudgreport form my Internet favorites, and eliminating NPR and Sean Hannity from my car radio pre-sets.

At last, I'm acknowledging that "I am powerless over my addiction to politics" and have turned my recovery over to a higher power -- in this case, my spouse. He's long resented the time I've expended on understanding the intricacies of 'trickle down' economics or demographic shifts in crucial voting districts at the expense of my housekeeping chores. He'll make the perfect guardian for my new political celibacy. Keep reading... I'll keep everyone posted on how I'm doing!

09/13/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com. All opinions expressed are solely Maureen O'Keefe Aptowicz's and NOT her LIBERAL daughter Cristin's opinions.



Never Again

Some background:

1. New York Times Magazine (10/10/04) in a profile of John Kerry, Democratic presidential candidate, the author quotes Kerry regarding the US war on terrorism:

"...We have to get back to the place where we were, where terrorists are not the focus of our lives, but they're a nuisance..."

(Additional footnote: Kerry's wife, Teresa, had already commented to another reporter that Americans should emulate the Europeans and "get accustomed" to terrorist incidents.)

2. My Zeitgeist 10/12/04 in response to Kerry's 'nuisance' remark:

"There are plenty of folks who don't see terrorists as the world's 'squeegee men'...annoying, but manageable....these miscreants are intent on reestablishing medieval caliphate. They are patient, single-minded and EVIL..."

Well, sadly, recent incidents in London and ongoing strife in Iraq has proven one of those quotes to be accurate. The horror unleashed in Britain by young Islamic radicals illustrates the depth of the depraved terrorist fervor that the Western world is facing. The perpetrators in London were four British-born, ethnic Pakistanis, who ( much like US serial killers) were described by neighbors and co-workers as "nice," "quiet," and "pleasant." They came from working- or middle-class homes; one loved cricket, another was the FATHER OF AN EIGHT MONTH OLD CHILD. But somehow, they had all gravitated to the twisted philosophy of Islamofascicm that has declared war on all things modern.

The news of 'normal' citizens generating such mayhem is chilling news for the Western world, but it does demonstrate -- to me at least -- the need for:

* Renewal of the Patriot Act here in the US
* Continued maintenance of the detainment facility at Guantanamo Bay

Britain has no Patriot Act; its fairly weak Prevention of Terrorism Act attempted to counter jihadists after September 11, but British common law has a strong emphasis on privacy and on individual rights vis-a-vis the state. A British dedication to freedom of expression and assembly have gotten in the way of cracking down on terrorist networks and on the vicious inflammatory rhetoric of certain British Muslim clerics, who incite hatred and violence. Blair is now asking Parliament to grant the government greater pre-emptive powers. Good.

Here in the States, The Patriot Act allows us to stop these miscreants before they can strike. It also allows counterterrorism experts to use of tools employed in other criminal investigations. And it includes surveillance techniques that can capture Internet and cell phone use. These measures that we take against terrorists, and the laws we put in place to give our law enforcement agencies the right tools, are crucial and should be vigorously endorsed by all Americans, Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Athetist, etc... because, to be sure, the vast majority of Muslims deplore the jihad activities.

There was a huge outcry from the Islamic community -- in the Middle East, as well as in the West. Many Muslim newspapers and Muslim community groups released immediate statements expressing their horror and anger. They want to see these activities end as much as we do.

And maybe the horror of the London massacre will silence those who carp night and day that Guantanamo is not a Club Med. The enemy combatants detained there are being interrogated specifically so officials can prevent the homicidal outrage that afflicted Londoners. If placing these evil-doers in isolation, uncomfortable positions, or sauna-like rooms makes them talk, go for it! I'd much rather have them to endure those 'indignities' than for New Yorkers, Washingtonians, or Chicagoans to suffer a rush hour such as London witnessed Thursday.

And, more importantly, the detainees are playing volleyball and getting 'three hots and a flop' courtesy of the US government in Cuba. They're not scuttling to meeting places in Jersey City planning an apocalyptic attack on the reviled Western infidels.

This eradication of radical Islamic fundamentalism is going to be a long war, and Americans are famously impatient and and inattentive. The 1993 World Trade Center assault, the attacks on our African embassies, the bombing of the USS Cole all preceded September 11th, but didn't resonate with the American public. Immediately after that horrific day, a wave of patriotism and unity engulfed the nation... but that's faded. An article in the NY Times recently documented the decrease in the number of flag pins on lapels of public officials in Washington. They've been replaced in many cases by ceramic ribbons signifying one cause or another. Swell.

Let me end with another excerpt from my 10/14/04 Zeitgeist:

"...maybe it's because my 'baby' lives and works in New York, or maybe it's the prospect of grandkids in my life someday , but my attitude toward Islamic terrorists is pretty hardcore and basic -- eradicate them totally..."

I still hold that view, and it's now been further hardened, because my other daughter has taken up residence in Manhattan. The spectre of an attack in that city is even more chilling. So, I hope the London incident -- awful as it was -- will remind Americans that, when it comes to the terroists, it's them or us.

07/14/05

Please feel free to email any comments or questions directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com. All opinions expressed are solely Maureen O'Keefe Aptowicz's and NOT her LIBERAL daughter Cristin's opinions.



hspace="7" vspace="7" width="184" height="240">Hey... Where's My Empty Nest?

There's a poem that compares children to kites.

It extols the virtues of gradually winding out the string and letting your offspring fly free and independently. In our household, snapping the string when the brood went to college was effortless.

By the time our youngest was heading to NYU, Bruce & I had expended two decades tripping over sneakers and stuffed animals in the living room, schlepping our athletically-untalented progeny to soccer and softball games, cleverly hiding foodstuffs from the after-school eating machine that was Kevin, and generally tending to the endless wants and needs that three kids generate.

Around this time we also purchased a second home at the Jersey shore that has been a post-kid paradise for us. Imagine... when I clean the kitchen and go to bed for the night, I can be assured that I won't awake to empty bread loaf wrappers and opened jars of mayonnaise on the counter.

For the past ten years, my children had wandered across country to pursue their academic lives. Caitlin spent six years on Chicago to secure her doctorate; Kevin traveled to Colorado and Connecticut to get his. Cristin stayed close at hand in New York City, but her urban instincts recoiled from the land of sea, sun and seagulls, so visits were infrequent. But Cait is now joining Cristin in NYC, and Kevin & Katie are migrating back to Pennsylvania... so...they're baaack!

Yes, the flock is returning to the nest... and how! In addition to my three darlings, there are now 'significant others' flapping their way into the flock. This requires accommodating dietary considerations ("Shappy likes birch beer..." "I only eat low-glycemic foods..." "I'm hoping that these are cage-free eggs..."), and making room for nautical additions.

We already have a fleet of eight vessels (20' fishing boat, 14' aluminum boat, one canoe, one 17' sea kayak, and four 'shorty' kayaks). But one returning nesting pair, Kevin & Katie, has already added a 14' bright yellow sailboat (loving called "Chicken of the Sea") and some wind surfing apparatus to our shore storage space. Since they're relocating to the Philadelphia area to accommodate Kevin's career as a professor at West Chester University, we're surmising that weekend visitations to their maritime acquisitions will become part of our shore existence.

Don't get me wrong, we love having company at the shore. We have groups of folks practically every weekend -- Philly neighbors, theater group cronies, college buddies. But the returning fledglings are filling in the free weekends that we used to treasure. In the past month alone, we've hosted Cait & her beau Leo (May 18-19), then Cait & Leo, Kevin & Katie (Memorial Day weekend), and finally Cristin & her guy Shap with Kevin & Katie (Father's Day weekend)....yikes!

Of course, as adults, they're more attuned than their teenage selves were in guest etiquette. They bring wine & beer, prepare a meal during their stay, and agree to join in the dreaded 'Daddy card games' in the evening.

And there's great parental joy in seeing the six of them interact and bond -- creating a new next generation family circle that will soon experience the 'unwinding of the kite string' that being a parent entails.

So, come on back, kids. Just put away the mayonnaise and keep the DVD player at a reasonable sound level after 11:00 pm.


(from left to right) Caitlin's beau Leo, daughter Caitlin, King and Queen of the manor, daughter-in-law Katie and son Kevin


And here are the paler members of the extended family -- Shappy and Cristin -- and me doing my best Munch impression

06/29/05

Please feel free to email any comments, questions or letter of adoration directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.



Your participle is dangling, Miss O'Keefe!

Several education stories caught my eye this weekend. The first was the highly publicized release of the Yale grade point averages (GPA) of Messrs. Bush and Kerry, our November electoral warriors. It turns out that neither of them set the academic world on fire (Kerry's pathetic 76 GPA versus the President's woeful 77). Yikes!

More inspiring was the second news story. On June 12th, New York Times chronicled the remarkable increase in reading and math test scores that was achieved by New York City fifth-graders, especially in poor neighborhoods. And what was the 'secret' of the 20% increase in reading scores and the 15% jump in math? Hard work!

A coalition of parents, teachers and school administrators who mapped a strategy that included extended school days, Saturday tutoring sessions and relentless focus on basic skills. There were inevitable complaints that this focus on rote learning and of 'teaching to the test' wasn't true education...bull!

In my grammar school career, which included classes of 50-60 students, such rigorous attention to the basics was the norm. Instruction in all our subjects -- geography, history, spelling, arithmetic, religion -- centered on memorization of facts.

The nuns had a particularly punishing practice called "drill and mental." The sister would stand in the front of the classroom with a stack of 5x7 flashcards.

Depending on the subject, they could be math problems (9x7=?), historical facts (What year did Pizarro land in Peru?), or geography tidbits (How long is the Nile river?).

The students stood up row by row and the nun would quiz us using the cards. You had to respond rapidly, because one perverse, Darwinian feature of the drill was the ability of the kid behind you to bark "Too slow!" if you hesitated. I have to admit that the factoids that were memorized had limited use later in life, but the mental discipline required couldn't have been a bad thing for us. Remember, this was the 1950's...the schools were churning out future assembly line workers and secretaries for the post-war economy in Philadelphia. Critical thinking skills weren’t high on the list of desirable employee traits.

Grammar lessons back then were even more grueling, they centered on DIAGRAMMING SENTENCES! Students were called up individually to the blackboard and stared at their challenge: "John and Fred eagerly pulled the wobbly red wagon that their Uncle Gene had given them"

Dear God!

The resulting diagram would be a doozy -- compound subject array, adjectives and adverbs dangling beneath, and dependent clause skewing madly from the main diagram line. I break into a cold sweat, even today, just thinking about the ordeal.

Although I prided myself on my diagramming expertise, Sister Bernardus did utter the phrase that adorns the top this essay -- a comment that brought expected guffaws from the fifth-grade boys.

But, times change, of course. By the time my brood was in elementary school, such archaic instructional practices were long gone. Experiential learning was the rage. Instead of memorizing the dates of European exploration to the New World, my children had to make Native American corncakes or get dressed up like Incans -- more work for mom. Thanks, teacher!

And my last noteworthy news clipping was a book review for a new tome entitled "Everything Bad is Good for You" by Steven Johnson. The author's premise is that video games, television and movies are more complex than ever, and that the complexity is beneficial to viewers' cognitive skills. Whether mastering the intricacies of the simulation game SimCity or tracking the multiple plotlines in the TV drama 24, we are "honing ... mental skills that are just as important as the ones exercised by reading books," Johnson writes. The learning does not come from content but from form, Johnson says.

Video games, for example, enhance our problem-solving and decision-making skills as we test the limits of a game's logic. Reality television shows like Survivor can be viewed as "elaborately staged group psychology experiments" that stimulate rather than pacify the brain, and subtly teach lessons in group dynamics and emotional intelligence. Wow -- couch potatoes rule! Shappy for president!!


06/16/05

Please feel free to email any comments, questions or letter of adoration directly to Cristin's Mom at maureen@aptowicz.com.



Bluebloods and a Pirate Queen


The past month has been an eventful one.

Last year, Caitlin (our older daughter) received a Ph.D. from the University of Chicago. This year, was son Kevin's turn.

Over the past few years, while his wife Katie was earning her law degree at Yale and clerking for a federal appellate judge, Kevin was pursuing a Yale Ph.D. in applied physics. He achieved this accomplishment on May 23, 2005.

The Yale commencement was appropriately ceremonial. There was a phalanx of trumpeters heralding the arrival of a convoy of faculty members in fussy and colorful academic attire processing to the commencement stage. And -- as befits an Ivy League university -- a corresponding flock of self-important family members in the audience.

I lost count of the number of navy blue blazer-and-khaki slacks ensembles on the male relatives, and many of the female kin sported a Katharine Hepburn, ash blonde pageboy look, with appropriate lock-jawed elocution. And there were celebrities, too! Last year, at Katie's law school ceremony, we spotted David Gergen (he's tall!). This year, New York governor George Pataki was 'in da house.'

The Aptowicz contingent, which included Katie, her mom Ingrid and her sister Jessie provided a nice proletarian contrast -- Bruce even wore an Aloha shirt. We scored good seats near the Ph.D. grad's seating area, then Bruce took off with our 'good' camera to snap Kevin in the entry processional. This usually involves elbowing old ladies, toddlers and folks with walkers out of the way... although with his Albert Einstein hair and aforementioned shirt, I think the crowd parted on its own.

Anyway, the Ph.D. candidates marched into the quadrangle and took their seats well before the "University processional" started in. I was worried that Bruce had missed Kevin's entrance (he hadn't) and turned to Katie who had a disposable camera. "We should get a shot of Kevin in his seat." Katie agreed to go, but she returned shortly... ushers had turned her back at the seating area.

Well, the mama tigress in me came out at that pronouncement. I grabbed her hand and braved a gauntlet of old money crones and their investment banker consorts to get to the cordoned-off area. Sure enough, a lovely, blonde Yale co-ed (Chloe... Aurelia... Cameron?) was guarding the entrance.

So, here's the cast of characters:

"Samantha Peabody" (ancestors on the Mayflower)

Maureen O'Keefe Aptowicz (ancestry: Grace O'Malley, 16th century pirate queen of Ireland, as well as 20th folks who habituated a Philadelphia after-hours bar called the Kensington Bubble Club).

Puh-leeze! If this were a boxing match, whom would you bet on? Exactly.

Her nicely manicured hand was barely raised by the time I swept through with intrepid (embarrassed?) Katie in tow. I found my grad. And, like a true Philadelphian, he turned to us when I yelled "YO, KEV!" He turned, smiled, and we got a great shot. As we returned to our seats, I felt the spirit of my labor organizer grandfather permeate the proceedings... I felt like humming a Woody Guthrie tune.

Actually, the day was wonderful. The Yale general commencement in the quad was grand, the subsequent Ph.D. ceremony in a gilded auditorium was exciting and moving, but by the time the third proceeding -- a Yale Engineering convocation -- occurred, the whole Aptowicz troupe was running on empty. Tired... but very proud of Kevin's achievement. Way to go, Doc D!

~~~

Postscript: My mention above about the peculiar speaking pattern of the upper crust types surrounding us at the commencement reminds me of a pet peeve that I have about. A few weeks ago at work I was stuck doing some tedious administrative task that required me to sit in a conference room alone for several hours. To speed the time, I brought along a transistor radio. My luck! The only static-free channel was the local NPR affiliate. The afternoon interview shows were in full swing. After 20 minutes, I could feel my teeth grinding away ferociously -- and it wasn't the political slant that raised my hackles (although, Lord knows, that was there).

Am I the only person who HATES the hesitant, stammering, 'qualifying' interviewing style of the Public Radio staff? And it's not just one person, although the 'queen of questioning,' Terry Gross is the biggest offender. The show I was listening to, Here and Now, is a collection of short reports, so I got a sampling of contributors. I swear to God every exchange with and interviewee went something like this:

"So, um, does that mean that, that, that, um, you sort of knew, um, from an early age that you, um, wanted to be a musician?"

If I had a dime for every stammer, "um" and the use of "sort of" by these nudniks, I wouldn't be slaving away as a federal government drone.

And the other totally exasperating NPR verbal twitch is the prevalence o