...to Provide Remodeling Advice

It was supposed to be a small job. Replace the carpet, apply some paint, and maybe replace the bathroom floors. That's it! Just enough to make our well-worn home look appealing to prospective buyers. We are now six months into this simple remodeling job, and there is not one square inch of the house that has not been touched. Bathrooms:  gutted and rebuilt; kitchen: gutted and rebuilt; doors: every single portal both interior and exterior will be replaced by the time we are done; floors: re-tiled; carpet: replaced throughout the house.

It was supposed to be simple!

Turns out, you can't actually do a simple remodel of your home. Since all of the parts of your home are connected, you can't simply refresh parts of it and expect to have the look you want. Replace a door? You'll need to paint the trim and walls of the room it opens to. New paint means a new color and so you'll want to replace the carpet to coordinate with it.  Re-tile the bathroom floor? And then put a chipped and faded vanity on top of it? No, no. That will never do. Refresh your kitchen cabinets, and you're looking at a total redo of the kitchen. You can't put new cabinets on an old floor, and old counter tops practically advertise their years of wear and tear when sitting atop brand spanking new cabinets. Notice a pattern? Unless you have done small refreshes throughout your house each year you have lived there (and, really, who does that?), prepare for an avalanche of jobs, large and small, to consume your life until the house has been totally refurbished.

Say goodbye to your off season clothes; they go to out-of-the-house storage. Photo albums and books? Box 'em up. Extra shampoos and soaps you keep in the supply closet? Hey, if it doesn't sit on a rack in your one functional shower, it goes, too. Wrap up and stow your talismans that line your shelves and bring you joy throughout the day. Pictures of your children? They simply get in the way of painters and flooring folks and risk being damaged, along with the beautiful lamps that light your way through the house. Yep, they all have to go, and if you're like us and want the whole house done in one fell swoop, it all goes at the same time. What you are left with is an empty shell of your sacred  sanctuary dotted with a few cheesey torchiere lamps and tarp-covered couches. Construction equipment fills the spaces left by the good furniture you need to move out of the way or out of the house. Spackle dust coats every surface, even those you wiped down last night. All in all, the entire experience feels as if it were designed for breaking the spirits of fresh Special Forces operatives. 

Now, the Italian Mama is old enough to recognize a valuable life lesson when she sees one, and I'm happy to share it with you here. If you are planning to remodel your home, the first step is to find a realtor you like. For this kind of job, really any realtor will do, but sometimes it's nice to find a friendly face to help you with your plans. Then you should ask the realtor of choice to provide you with a FOR SALE sign which you must promptly erect in a prominent location in your yard. There! Remodeling done! Now, that is simple.

...to Survive without Mia Cucina

I spend a lot of time in my kitchen.  It is the one room in the house that I can call my own, well, sort of.  My kitchen is the workspace for one of my main functions in the home - to prepare and serve food for the two fussiest eaters on the planet and one teenage boy. I have always liked to cook and bake. When the Italian Mama was merely an Italian teenager, I loved to bake cakes and cookies from scratch, delighting in the notion that mixing and baking a collection of carefully measured ingredients that don't taste very good individually transforms them into something irresistible to eat. I felt as if I had performed a little miracle every time I pulled warm, aromatic chocolate cakes out of the oven. When I left my parents' home to live in my own apartment, I reveled in the freedom to cook whatever I wanted for dinner and loved hosting guests so I could make a huge pan of chicken tetrazzini or linguine with clam sauce in my tiny kitchen. Deep down inside, I took satisfaction in knowing that I was carrying on traditions that have been in my family for generations. Each special meal became an homage to my ancestors, especially my mother, who taught me everything I know about food. 

Today my kitchen is an empty shell. No cabinets, no utensils, no sink, no counter tops. Just a forlorn range and a refrigerator storing food that I can't cook and soon won't be able to eat. Yes, my husband and I made the difficult decision to remodel the kitchen which today sits hollowed out to allow for the installation of new tile floors and new cabinets. I should be excited, but I feel utterly depressed and displaced. The activity that structures my days, gives me a sense of purpose on even the most frustrating days, and helps me feel like myself has collapsed. I feel cast adrift and a bit like a piece of my self has been boxed up in put into storage. 

The Universe, however, has ways of providing me with the perspective I need to carry on without crumbling. Just as this remodeling job began, and I felt at my lowest, nearly in tears, in fact, anticipating a long stretch without my kitchen, I heard a news report from a refugee camp in Turkey where many Syrians have fled the violence in their hometowns. The reporter interviewed a woman who had left hastily in the night with a few bundles of clothes and food for herself and her nine children. Nine! According to the report the camps are becoming overcrowded and supplies are scarce. How will this woman feed her nine children? Where will they sleep? What will they do during the day? Suddenly, with a roof over our heads, comfy beds to sleep in at night, and a vast array of restaurant choices, my distress in my upturned home seems so trivial; my home, idyllic. I gain strength in imaging that this mother of nine must go deep within herself to find both the emotional and physical resources it will take to bring herself and her children through this ordeal. Surely, if this brave woman and her children can survive their existence as refugees, I am old enough to find similar resources deep within the Italian Mama to find my way through my kitchen's facelift.

Providing food and drink for my family without my kitchen will be the easy part. Feeling like a fully intact Italian Mama even without my kitchen will be a little harder but a life lesson worth learning because you never know when you might be truly cast adrift in the world without your loved ones, without your home, without your job, or even without your kitchen.

...to Know How Easy It Is To Mess Up a Life

Don't drive drunk, practice safe sex, don't do drugs. I learned from my parents and teachers to follow these basic rules (and a few others) to keep my life from turning into a train wreck. When I was a kid, I would hear stories of people's lives run to ruin and think, "That could never happen to me because I'm smart, disciplined, and follow the rules that protect me from myself and others. If my life were heading into a tailspin, I would know because I would have done something glaringly foolish or willfully destructive." Young people, like me back in the day, may cling to such a belief because it makes us feel safe and in control of our lives. But what about all of the decisions we make that seem reasonable, even innocent, that lead to devastating consequences:  becoming a friend to someone in need who turns out to be a con artist; choosing a college that seems like a good fit but ends up surrounding you with bad influences; or investing your life's savings in a sure thing that will keep you prosperous for the rest of your days only to lose it all in a sudden downswing? We make choices like these all the time, many times with great deliberation, and yet they can have unintended and irreparable consequences. Can it really be that easy to screw up a life?

The Italian Mama considered this question earlier this year as she watched the Paterno family and the Penn State community say a final farewell to the long-beloved coach, family man, and mentor. Sixteen thousand friends and fans who were lucky enough to secure admission in the eight minutes tickets were available, as well as thousands more in the TV audience, watched a moving memorial service honoring Joe. Underlying all of the heart-felt and stirring testimonials to Paterno's guiding light was a defense of his response to learning of possible child sex abuse by a colleague in the football facilities. Every speech honoring Paterno's leadership, wisdom, and courage bore an asterisk indicating that when it mattered most, when lives were at stake, Coach Paterno did the minimum of what was required of him, and since this was a day to honor him, well, that was OK by everyone. Except the victims and those who love them.  

The consequences of Paterno's merely reporting what he learned to his superiors were devastating to many people to varying degrees. The most serious consequences of Paterno's doing the legal minimum were for the many young boys who continued being abused and pursued by Sandusky. These young men lost their innocence and bear the scars of their abuse for the rest of their lives. Many of us can not even imagine the profound anguish these men continue to grapple with. By not following up on his report Coach Paterno himself suffered consequences that changed his life for the remainder of his days. In addition to losing the job he had devoted 61 years of his life to, Joe lost his nomination for the Congressional Medal of Freedom, the highest civilian award in the United States. After 61 years of a honorable and storied career, Paterno spent his dying days under intense media scrutiny and speculation about his measure of culpability in the Sandusky scandal. The Penn State community lost a beloved coach and mentor under a veil of possible disgrace. Students suffered mocking and abuse from their acquaintances back home who gloated as Penn State's glossy reputation took on a duller sheen. 

All because Paterno didn't make a few follow up phone calls. Didn't he at least wonder what became of the allegations against his long-time colleague? A call to the police to begin an investigation would have had serious consequences for the University and the football program.  Not calling the police to begin an investigation had serious consequences for the University and the football program and possibly caused years of more abuse. Joe said himself "I wish I had done more." 

But he didn't. The Italian Mama shudders to think that a few follow up calls might have ended this horrible story in a dramatically different way. Most importantly, of course, many young boys, now grown men, might have been spared lifetimes of self-loathing, distrust, and despair. The Penn State Community might have suffered a few days' shame upon learning that the perpetrator of the alleged horrific deeds used the football facilities to groom and victimize his prey. But they would have rebounded and used the opportunity to demonstrate to the world how they deal with those who would bring shame on Dear Ol' State. Joe would have retired with the dignity and untarnished reputation he had earned, and there would have been no question in the minds of his fans if he had died with a clear conscience. All this and more could have happened if Joe had picked up the phone.

Yep, it's that easy to mess up your life.  

...to Embrace (Finally!) the Power of Positive Thinking

Last week I heard Baylor University's women's basketball forward, Brooklyn Pope, talk about how they won the NCAA championship.  She sounded so self-assured, so much in command of her mental and physical resources, and yet so young. "Whenever you let negativity sink in your head, then it's possible. We never even gave it the thought [sic] of day."

Baylor University's Brooklyn Pope and Coach Kim Mulkey

Photo courtesy of Cheryl Vorhis

Hearing this collegiate champion made me wish I had been an athlete when I was a kid. Instead of training with a coach who encouraged me to think the best of myself in order to perform better, I trained with Marcia Dale Weary at the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet (CPYB).  Marcia is an internationally renowned teacher who probably produces more professional ballet dancers than any other unaffiliated ballet school in the US. She didn't get to be to internationally renown by passing out warm fuzzies every time you nailed a triple pirouette.  Marcia's training style is strict and unforgiving; the best you could hope for after a well-executed move was a slight grin and the instructions for the next combination.  Marcia pushed her dancers to work harder, to stand stronger, to jump higher, to stretch longer, to point feet better by showing them that what they had done so far was not enough. You were never thin enough; you never jumped high enough; your leg was never extended enough; the lines were never clean enough; the timing was never precise enough. As a young dancer at CPYB, you always knew that whatever you had done, it was never enough. Because I was young, naive, and thought that people only said things that were true, I believed her. So in my formative years, I grew up thinking I was just simply not good enough to do any of the things I really wanted to do, in spite of the voice deep down inside that told me that I was perfectly capable of  many things, including becoming a professional dancer.  Even though I recognized I had various talents and skills, I believed Marcia and others who focused more on my weaknesses than my strengths. This negative thinking dismantled my dreams of dancing, further eroding my faith in any of my abilities, and haunted most of my pursuits throughout my adult life.

It's taken the Italian Mama half a century to figure out what 23 year old Brooklyn Pope and presumably her teammates already know: believing you can achieve your goals turns that belief into reality. If you allow self-doubt, you have invited failure into the dream, and it just might take up permanent residence. 

With less to lose at this point in my life, the Italian Mama is old enough to shrug off the ingrained self-doubt that crippled me in my youth. At this point, I guess I just don't care that much if I don't achieve my mid-life goals. If I don't succeed, it's fine; if I do, that's great. Ironically, this nonchalance makes those goals more attainable. Certainly the more positive approach increases my chances of actually fulfilling my dreams, rather than walking into an endeavor with those nagging self-doubts that I'm just not good enough. Now that I am old enough, the Italian Mama wonders how many more dreams I might have fulfilled had I embraced the power of positive thinking when I was younger and the stakes were higher.

...to Cry at The Hunger Games

I didn't want to go.  All week I've been telling my kids and my friends they'd have to go without me.  Based on the half of the book that I was able to gut my way through,  I knew this movie, if faithful to the book, would send me into an emotional tailspin.  My sons encouraged me to finish the book, assuring me the experience of the whole book would redeem the emotional toll spent.  My friends made arrangements to meet at the theater so they could join the rest of America in sending the opening weekend's tickets sales soaring off the charts.  The Italian Mama declined each request to join them.

But when my youngest's plans to go with friends fell through, I volunteered to go with him so he wouldn't have to sit alone.  Besides, I wanted to know what my kids would be watching so I could do whatever damage control might be necessary.

Turns out, they were the ones who needed to control the damage.  From the opening scenes my stomach knotted and my throat tightened so that I had to remind myself to breathe.  By mid-film I was weeping.   With tears streaming down my face, I turned to check on my eleven year old, who assured me he was fine and patted me on the shoulder in a vain effort to comfort me.  That only made me cry more.  Why was he OK with this?

For those of you who missed opening weekend, think The Truman Show, Apocalypse Now, Survivor, Twilight, and American Idol all wrapped together with a pinch of Romeo and Juliet.  Like any other artistic endeavor, it's being derivative did not detract from the quality of the movie: it was devastating and riveting.  And therein lies the problem. Parents blithely dropped off their tweens; teens gleefully texted each other as they lined up with their friends; and grown-ups happily waited with anticipation while munching on popcorn and Big Gulps for a teenage snuff film minus the sex but just as obscene. 

After the movie, everyone streamed out of the theater chatting with as much nonchalance as they had while eagerly waiting on line to get tickets. Parents picked up their tweens, and teenage girls twittered about whether they liked Gale or Peeta better.  I choked back the tears until I got in the car and cried even harder when I saw that no one else seemed phased in the least by what they had just seen.   Perhaps they're not old enough to know that they hadn't just watched The Hunger Games; they had participated in them in no less grotesque manner than the fictional residents of the Capitol.  And for that, the Italian Mama wept all the way home. 

... to Perform Unnecessary Acts of Kindness

Long before I was old enough to be the Italian Mama, I was a newly minted college graduate with a degree in English literature which, when combined with a subway token, provided me with the means to get an uncomfortable ride downtown.  With the economy in deep recession and with few concrete career goals in mind, I set off to New York City to find some kind of track for my aimless young life.  With deep ambivalence, I took a job as a staff assistant at a major advertising agency in the heart of mid-town Manhattan.  Oh, sure, it sounds glamorous and exciting - working on the 55th floor of a mid-town skyscraper; riding elevators with top advertising executives and hired talent (including Bonanza's lead actor Lorne Greene, who looked a little surprised when I didn't recognize him); strolling Fifth Avenue in my navy pumps and matching handbag on my lunch hour; watching commercials I played a small role in producing run on TV - but the job consisted mostly of answering phones, delivering copy to the typing department, opening mail, and making travel arrangements for my bosses (I worked for twelve!).  I earned just barely enough money to pay a very low rent on an apartment in New Jersey that required a one and a half hour commute each way on jammed-packed, malodorous commuter trains and subways. (Yes, there were multiple trains and subways on this commute.)  I ate yogurt I brought from home almost everyday for lunch, and dinner often consisted of soup and croutons. I mention these facts not to evoke sympathy so much as to note that all of these circumstances tended to detract somewhat from the Hollywood image you might conjure of a young single woman working one block away from Cartier, Tiffany's, and Trump Tower. 

© Copyright 2012 Roy Tennant. FreeLargePhotos.com

Having grown up in a sedate suburb of a small Pennsylvania city, my time in NYC/NJ developed certain characteristics that I recognized as responses to this unfamiliar, hyper-stimulating, gritty, and somewhat aggressive environment.  One response to feeling very vulnerable in a place where danger seemed to lurk around every corner  (remember NYC in the early '80s?) resulted in my total mental isolation from the hundreds of strangers who crossed my path  everyday.  I made no eye contact; I assumed a conspicuous appearance of oblivion to those around me (all the while on heightened alert for any abnormal and possibly threatening behavior); and in many cases, I displayed hostile signs of shutting people out: a well-placed scowl to the skeevie guy sitting opposite me on the subway; a brief and perfunctory nod to the token lady in the kiosk; a gruff order placed to the hot dog vendor. (Yeah, I ate them and survived! Shocking!)

It wasn't until I left the city and moved to a small college town that I realized how steeled against the potential dangers around me I had become.  It is hard to go out of your way to be kind and courteous to others when dropping your hostile defenses could result in losing your matching handbag to a quick-thinking street thug.  (I actually witnessed just such an event right in front of me in the middle of the afternoon.  Remember, this was the early '80s before Mayor Guiliani cracked down on the rampant street crime in the city.)  In my new small-town home, I realized I no longer needed a death grip to hold my purse; I didn't need to muscle my way ahead of people to enter a building or elevator or public transportation; it was OK and even pleasant to politely ask for menu items at the local cafe and offer a genuine and friendly smile upon receipt.  I slowly abandoned my aggressive posturing and gratefully relinquished this toxic lifestyle. 

Now the Italian Mama revels in witnessing unnecessary acts of kindness, helpful or courteous actions that are completely uncalled for by any kind of handicap or need, but done for the sheer joy of watching people's reactions to the unexpected gift.  I suppose people who enjoy city living manage to muster the courage to commit these types of acts and still feel safe. I never found the strength to sustain the confidence such neighborly behavior requires.  Maybe I was never meant to live in a big city.  Or maybe I just wasn't old enough.   

...to Hold the Door for You

Waiting by the door to The Waffle Shop for my husband to arrive for brunch, I watched a man a few years away from his mid-life crisis rush ahead of his mother to open the door for her.  His gracious act struck me as all the more sweet and gallant because it was unnecessary.  While his mother rocked her totally grey do, she also appeared to be fit and able to open the door herself had she gotten to it before he did.  But he wouldn't allow that. He honored his mother by graciously performing this unnecessary act of kindness.  I could almost hear his words: "Don't trouble yourself, Mom, I'll take care of that for you," and a tingle of joy ran up my spine.  The Italian Mama  smiled not only for the man's gallantry but also for his mother who obviously had done her job well.

When I walk around campus, even students who don't know me always hold doors open for me, sometimes inconveniencing themselves to do so.  Granted the Italian Mama is old enough to look like she needs the help.  Let's face it:  I don't look twenty anymore, and  I'm always burdened with my giant "Mom Bag" (complete with children's emergency medicine, provisions for various contact lens crises, several different kinds of eyeglasses, and a wallet bulging with receipts (not money) slung over my shoulder and a 40 pound backpack on wheels.  But even with all of these impediments, I'm still more than capable of opening the doors myself, so I feel like a special courtesy has been granted me when these well-mannered students offer to help.  More impressive is when they hold the doors for each other.  They momentarily leave their plugged-in, digital realities and say with this gesture,  "I know you are there, and with this simple act I can make your life a little easier even though you don't need the help."  How lovely is that?! 

I thought about all of this as I waited for my husband. When he arrived, I opened the door for him,  not because he needed me to but just because I'm old enough to know the importance of unnecessary acts of kindness. 
 

...to Offer a Corollary to '...the Power of Name Calling'

You may want to address someone by name; etiquette may call for you to address someone by name; and you may sense that someone could use the endorphin rush that results from hearing his name; but you don't know the name and the moment does not allow for you to ask.  I experience just such an occasion at the beginning of every new semester.  I walk into class determined to establish rapport and community in my small classroom, but I don't know any of these twenty four students' names.  The Italian Mama is old enough to address individuals as "Sir"  or "Ma'am" and not feel like a newly discharged Marine.  In fact, I know that the community-building effect on both the speaker and each sir and ma'am at least equals the relationship formed when addressing someone by their name. Modelling this act of courtesy to young college students gives them an opportunity to feel the respect you hope they will pay forward to others, especially their elders. 

The Italian Mama is old enough to know that "Sir" and "Ma'am" work at least as well as names.

...to Find Beauty in a Fall from Grace

Thirty seven years later,  I can still hear the thud punctuate the 3/4 waltz; still see the swirl of bodies around me; still smell the rosined pointe shoes moving rhythmically near my face, and feel the air explode from my lungs as a tingle of adrenaline-laced humiliation surges through my flattened body.  It happens every year around this time, when the strains of The Nutcracker Suite bring the Italian Mama back to that performance I thought would disgrace me and haunt my dancing career forever.  

I had trained with Marica Dale Weary at the Central Pennsylvania Youth Ballet for four years and had finally landed a part in the Waltz of the Snowflakes in our annual performance of The Nutcracker. By then I was training in the advanced class and reveled in my place among Marcia’s best dancers.  I loved performing this holiday classic knowing that we helped to spread Christmas cheer throughout the community.  As kids, we felt the same excitement any child does as Christmas approaches; as dancers we positively vibrated with the anticipation of performing.  Although the wind blew bitterly outside, the stage lights spread inviting warmth behind the curtains, like the hot molasses Marcia encouraged us to image dancing through.

The party scene in Act I of The Nutcracker requires little technical work for most of the dancers.  This night I played the role of an adult party-goer dressed in a claret-colored gown with shiny patent leather shoes.  The theatrics of Act I provide a perfect opportunity to get accustomed to the stage and prepare for the rigors of Act II. I felt relaxed, ready and eager to dance.  Once the Waltz of the Snowflakes began, I danced in the zone, the music compelling me through the complex Balanchine choreography.  Counting “one… piqué, fouetté, tombé…, and two…, piqué, fouetté, tombé…” The rest of the universe faded away and the corps de ballet moved as one giant swirl of snowflakes blown by a gust of wintry wind.  “One, two, three, four; and one”— BOOM!  Suddenly, the swirl was moving without me; I was no longer on my feet and gasping for breath.  I lay front, center, and flat on the stage. 

Image from SnowCrystals.com

Thanks to trained agility and a healthy dose of fear, I managed to resume my fouettés missing a mere half beat of music.  Luckily, the choreography soon called for a complete halt to the action by the entire corps of snowflakes while the demi-soloists took their turn to twirl and swirl.  As if the wind had ceased blowing for us, we stood frozen, counting the music until it was our turn to dance again.  This pause gave me a chance to catch my breath and figure out what had just happened.  Apparently, a piece of confetti  “snow,” sprinkled from above for atmospherics, got caught under my pointe shoe just as I stepped onto it, sending me to the stage floor more like a meteorite than a snowflake.  Surprisingly, no one else on stage appeared shaken by the disruption, and I began to wonder if it had really occurred, this mere nanosecond of gracelessness. 


Now in my mind, the fear of falling had less to do with public humiliation and much more to do with disappointing Marcia, or worse, incurring her wrath.  When provoked, she could morph into a terrier, all four feet, nine inches and ninety pounds of her.  As it turned out, the collective response to my egregious display of non-ballerina-ness bemuses me to this day:  no one from the company ever mentioned it, not once.  Surely, Marcia would have some comment for me or some lesson for the young dancers on how to respond to a fall during a performance.  But, no.  Nary a word out of her.  I began to think that she hadn’t really watched the performance or had missed seeing my nosedive while she snuck a dip into her box of Hot Tamales candies (preferred because of their low fat content).  Once the performance was over and all the backstage chatter died down, still no comment surfaced about the fallen snowflake.  Through my mortification, I almost believed that maybe no one noticed the snowflake right in front fall flat on her face.  Hmmm, not likely.  Well, maybe they thought it was part of the performance; after all, the Waltz of the Snowflakes recreates a snowstorm in Candyland.  What do snowflakes do in a storm?  Yes, they swirl, and twirl, and flutter, and blow in the wind, but in the end, they fall.  

Just when I thought I could forget this moment of shame, a woman from the audience stopped me in the auditorium as I made my way home after the final curtain call.  She congratulated me on the beautiful performance and told me how much she had enjoyed the show.  “So professional!” she effused.  

“Thank you.  I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I murmured meekly, but smiled broadly hoping to steer the conversation to the bright parts of the performance and away from the meteoric snowflake.

“And when that snowflake fell …”   

Oooops!  Too late. Here it comes: my public humiliation when I compulsively confess to causing the one flaw in her experience of The Nutcracker.  But she finished her sentence before I could apologize for my lack of professionalism. 

“And when that snowflake fell and got right up, no one missed a beat!  They kept their composure and went right on dancing.  Amazing!”  

Amazing, indeed!  This wise and generous woman had made me feel almost proud of my fall. Instead of ruining an otherwise flawless performance, the cameo appearance of my carefully restrained inner klutz highlighted the maturity and professionalism of my fellow dancers. I walked away smiling and thinking that instead of apologizing to my friends, I should be thanked for shining such a favorable light on them.  Maybe Marcia should promote me to principal dancer.  

Neither of these happened, but I did come away from the experience thinking that our stumbles may be less important than the ways in which we stumblers and those with more grace react to them.  For fallen men and women (and maybe young snowflakes), true grace resides not so much in the flawless performance but in a performance that embraces the occasional fall as an opportunity to demonstrate the strength and skill necessary to get back up and dance on without looking back.