gratitude-a-thon day 169: The story of GoldieBlox

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The inventor with a new toy that just might replace Barbie.

First of all, I really am digging the site Upworthy. It’s all positive and inspiring stuff that makes me want to stand on top of the world and yell, “I knew it, we ARE all good.”

Here’s a video of a Debra Sterling, an engineer, telling her story of what she did to improve the odds of little girls going into engineering. Did you know that 89% of the engineering jobs are held by men? Debra thinks a female perspective is necessary for us to have a good future. So, she created a building and reading (because girls like to read) game to replace Barbie dolls in the arsenal of toys that girls play with when they’re little, in hopes that the skills they learn from the game GoldieBlox will inspire them and help them understand that engineering is an option for them in the future. Cool idea. Great little game. Gutsy woman.

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God, I loved Barbie dolls.

I was all Barbie all the time when I was a kid. I made clothes, built houses and furniture, and created stories around my little doll friends with the mini 36-24-36 bods. I could “play dolls” endlessly. I never got my fill. Would I have been interested in Goldie Blox? I don’t know. I never had Legos. I did have Tinker Toys and I did love those. But let’s face it, for anybody who knows me, my worst skill is math. Even saying it that way does not truly drive home the point of just how HORRIBLE my math skills are. I was stellar at math until 7th grade when geometry began and things just just went to shit faster than you can say parallelogram. My dad was a super star math guy. He could add massive numbers in his head like a party trick. When he tried to help me with math homework in high school, it was a scream-fest similar to the movie Halloween. He had the patience of a fly, and when I didn’t understand, instead of trying to explain the concept, he would just yell at me. REALLY LOUDLY. It was anything but educational. Actually, it would set me up for a lifetime of hating numbers. The summer after freshman year, I went home and snagged a waitressing job at a restaurant/bar that was willing to train me,  and took the one math course I would have to take to meet my college requirement. It was like Math for Dogs (and I say that with all due respect), but still I had a hard time. I actually developed a case of hives for the length of the entire course. I squeaked by with a C and threw a fucking parade when it was over. I pledged never to have to take math again. And it is one of my daily gratitudes, THAT I NEVER HAVE TO TAKE MATH AGAIN, EVER, EVER, IN MY LIFE. My kids, by the way, are very good at math, like my dad and my husband. And man, I am grateful for that, too.

So, today it is Debra Sterling, helping little girls to know that they can do anything, be anything. I like her drive and her commitment (plus she has really cool hair), but mostly I like that she’s doing something about a problem that exists. Wouldn’t it be amazing if we could all take a problem and do something about it? Like everybody in the world would take one problem and set their minds to solving it. Mmmmmm. If only. Anyway, go Debra, and buh bye Barbie. I’ll miss you.

gratitude-a-thon day 167: take it to the streets

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What if Martin had been wearing a hoodie?

I grew up in a small town (cue the John Cougar Mellencamp tune). It was nearly all white, and all Catholic. There were two Jewish families, and of course, me, who had a Jewish last name, but a Catholic mother and parents who decided to be progressive and let us “choose” our religion when we were old enough to do so (none of us ever did). There were hardly any black families in our little town. In fact, I only remember maybe four. Donna was a good friend when I was young and came to all my birthday parties. Vesta and her sister Cindy were beyond friendly and smart. I never really thought about them being different. It just wasn’t in my head to think about. My family was very liberal. My dad taught us to be color blind. I always really liked that about him as I got older.

Probably the first time I ever had real feelings about someone black was when my cousin, going to her aerobics class in the Salvation Army building in the next town over, was attacked by a black man. She was unrecognizably beaten. It was traumatic and had long lasting effects. Still, I didn’t think all black people were bad, I just thought that man was bad.

When I had fallen in love with Peter, my husband to be, I lived on Newbury Street, and had a brand new Post Offices Etc. open next to me, just in time for Christmas. I excitedly brought a gift over to mail to my sister in NYC. The building was long and cavernous. I stood at the counter telling the proprietor that I lived right next door and how incredible it was that I would never have to go to the crowded and inconvenient Prudential Center post office again. A  black man walked into the store, which I didn’t really note, until I went to go on my merry way, and he blocked the door, and pointed something in his pocket (a gun, a knife, a finger?) at me and repeated the words he would say over and over for the next five minutes, “Give me all your money, or I’ll blow your head off.” This so took me by surprise, I nearly peed myself. One minute I was sending my sister an awesome sweater, and the next I was in danger of getting my head blown off. I was shaking, seeing red, nearly paralyzed. In fact, all I could think of was that I’d finally fallen in love and found the man I was going to marry, and I was going to be a front cover story in the Boston Globe for dying in a Post Offices Etc. because I didn’t have enough cash in my shiny red Le Sportsac bag (I only had $9.00 and change, which strewn all over the floor when I dumped the bad over to try and save my life with the contents). The man and his “pocket gun” which he pointed into my back, after collecting my paultry $9.00,  forced the owner and I into the back of the store and threw us in a dark bathroom together, where he told us not to move or he would “blow our heads off.” This man had a very limited vocabulary. I humped the owner and kept repeating, “Oh my God, oh my God,” until the poor man, who probably wished I didn’t live next door, said that he thought the robber only had a knife and that he was going to go see if he had left. I begged him not to go, since I thought he would be standing guard to make sure we didn’t move, which of course, made no sense. Was he going to stay there for the rest of our lives in an effort to keep us in the bathroom? Shortly after that, we heard a woman’s voice asking if anyone was there. This finally gave the owner license to leave my terrified embrace to call the police, leaving me frozen in the bathroom, still repeating over and over, “Oh my God, oh my God.” The police came and took a description of the man, said there’d been a series of these robberies up and down Newbury and Boylston and that it had most likely just been a finger in the guy’s pocket and not a gun, and that it was probably someone just trying to get drug money. That was that.

I remember not being particularly scared of black people after that, as much as I was scared of crowded places, where I realized if someone has a gun and quietly sticks it in your side and tells you to give them all your money, there’s not much you can do about it.

My nanny, Bevy was Jamaican. She was with us for five years. Nicest person you’d ever want to meet. I never had feelings about her being black. She just was. I loved her. We all did. She was part of our family.

I don’t know. I have been thinking about what it is to be black in this country for a long time. The Trayvon Martin trial isn’t the first time I’ve paused over the sad state of affairs that is our racially divided country. Yes, we have a black president, and that has done a world of good, but there is still too much prejudice, too much hate, too much division.

Today I am grateful for the people who took to the streets in L.A. in protest of the Zimmerman verdict. We should all be out there. We aren’t separate, we’re one. Why is that so hard to see?

sad-a-tude-athon: the watch

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Ok, so there hasn’t been a post for two days, and you might think I have been gathering up good things to write about, galavanting around the Vineyard, collecting enchanting stories, running through fields of flowers, and frolicking in ocean waves, but not so much, because I LOST MY WATCH. And I have been looking for it, while alternately crying and scanning my addled brain for any information that might lead me to my timepiece.

Now, let’s be clear, I understand that I did not lose a person, or a limb, or the DOMA vote. I lost a material object that can be replaced. But let’s also lay the cards down, I have had the watch for 10 years, and it was on my wrist nearly all of that time, except for when I bathed, or swam. ALL. OF. THAT. TIME. It was like part of me. Add that I really loved it. The way it dangled on my wrist, the heaviness of it on my arm. Yes, the watch had become an appendage all its own, and not having it on my wrist is strange and unsettling.

Let’s start with the search. I realized I had lost it, after a long day at the beach. My memory (such as it is) told me that I’d put it in my straw hat in my straw bag at the beach. When I returned home to get ready for dinner, it was not where I’d thought. I went to the car, hoping the bag had tipped over and the watch had perhaps found a happy home in my beachy trunk, but after examining each beach chair and sifting through the piles of sand, it was not to be. I ravaged my bathroom, my bedroom, each magazines that had been on the beach with us, but no such luck. On our way to dinner, we went back to Lucy Vincent Beach, closed now, with a gate, and Peter, my friend Colleen and I (while the kids watched the car) tromped down the windy parking lot and onto the gorgeous, empty beach. We moved our feet around, covering the entire area where we sat. We scanned each granule of sand, barely noticing the stunning beauty of one of the best beaches I know. Finally giving up after 10 minutes, we left for a stiff drink at The Tavern.

The next morning, Colleen and I headed for Lucy at 9. We told the guards at the gate about the watch, hopeful they might have found it, but no luck. They took my number. We began our weird foot dragging ritual and enlisted a whole family who wanted to know what we were doing, in the search. They were the kindest people and really helped us look. But, of course, we didn’t find anything, except, by the way, a bracelet that had slipped off my wrist from our breaking and entering night before! How odd is that? I went to the Chilmark police to see if anyone might have turned in the watch, but while nice, they just took my number.

I searched the car several more times, my bathroom, bedroom, going over and over in my mind where it might be hiding. I went back to Lucy yesterday and searched again. People probably think it’s some sort of new exercise program–“The-drag-your-feet-in-the-sand thigh-improver. Get your step-by-step video now for just $19.99.” I talked to the beach guard yesterday to let her know. She is really nice and has been there forever and used to have a million rubber ducks on the top of her Jeep, which always gave us a good laugh, especially when the kids were little. She felt awful. Told me I should rent a metal detector. That maybe it was stolen, since it was sort of surprising that I didn’t find it. I guess it could have been stolen. Maybe even by one of the aggressive seagulls who monitors Lucy for food. Not sure what they’d do with a watch, but who am I to judge. Anyway, she’s on the lookout now, too.

I thought about the night before and if perhaps I’d really lost the watch then–about a bracelet I had slipped onto my wrist in a store in Oak Bluffs. Could it have unlocked the clasp and fallen off? Could I have confused the day before’s watch-in-my-hat scene and really lost it in that store, or on the street’s of Oak Bluffs? I called the OB police, but nothing had been turned in. I went back to the store (who’s name I could not remember, or I’d have called) last night, but they said nothing had been found (although, I did think one of the girl’s acted really strangely, but at this point, I think I can’t be trusted).

Meanwhile, yesterday I called my insurance company, and found out that it was not covered. I had actually thought that it was, which was the only reason I had not totally lost it. I cried. Really hard. Because I knew that was the end of the line. The watch was really over.

Did I mention that it’s a Cartier Tank watch and that it will cost $5,000 to replace? Yeah…..

So, I’m doing my  thing with St. Anthony. And my friend Rania told me I also needed to  pray to Saint Longuinho,which is a new one for me. She said, you say,  “Saint Longuinho help me find my watch, you jump 3 times and scream 3 times. You have to offer something in exchange ( give up coca cola for a month) .” I am going to do that today. And what I’m giving up is wearing my watch to the beach.

Anyway, I am grateful I had the gosh darn watch for so long. I loved that thing. And I am grateful that Peter and Colleen and that really wonderful family helped me look on the beach for it. And I am grateful that I didn’t lose something more important, like a person, or my dog, or my health.

But, God, I’m sad. I have that lurchy feeling in my stomach. And I’m really mad at myself. I have been wearing the watch to the beach for 10 years, but I guess I shouldn’t have been. Dumb girl. Anyway, that’s my story. I’m going to just try and get over it today. Just get over it. It’s just a watch, which is now buried in the beautiful waters of Lucy Vincent Beach. I guess that’s a pretty good last resting place.

I keep wondering if there’s a message in losing my watch on this summer before Jake leaves for college. A certain time on this island has stopped for us. A new time will begin? Could that be the reason? Probably, it’s just because I was careless. And it’s a lesson in being more careful. But who’s to say? Ok, going to do my Saint Loguinho cheer prayer…….

gratitude-a-thon day 163: An untimely death, a really big tip

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Aaron Collins, left, (with his mom and brother Seth) told his family in his will, to  “leave an awesome tip.” And he wasn’t talking about ten bucks.  “I’m not talking about 25%, I mean $500 for a….. pizza.” Love that guy!

I’ve always been a good tipper. If you ever spent time as a waiter or waitress, or actually doing any job where you rely on tips, that’s what happens–you become a very good tipper. I was a really terrible waitress. I would forget the fork, the ketchup, the drinks. Thank GOD I had a good personality. That’s the only thing I had going for me out there in restaurant land! Tips were how I got through college. I waitressed in pizza shops, bars and finally at Faneuil Hall’s Flower Market Cafe, an outdoor restaurant that was jam packed at all times. It was hard, but when I would count out my $100 bucks in ones at the end of the night, I was always ready for my next shift, no matter how much of a sweat fest the previous night had been.

Anyway, a guy named Aaron Collins who died WAY TOO YOUNG a year ago in Kentucky, just before his 30th birthday left an interesting directive in his will. “Leave an awesome tip, ” he said. His brother, Seth decided to take it a step further and not just leave one awesome tip, but instead an awesome tip in all 50 states. He leaves $500 to an unsuspecting wait person and has recorded the results here. Isn’t that a good story? It has everything I love in it, except for the dead brother. But the rest of it, is just all that’s good about life. A real reminder that people can make good things happen. Maybe Seth won’t stop at 5o states and will do the whole world. That would be cool. That would be really cool.

gratitude-a-thon day 161: the sound of the ocean

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The sound of the ocean is like a bottle of valium to me. The gentle regularity of the in and out is calming and soothing and makes me feel I’m right where I should be. Maybe I was a mermaid in a past life? Somehow I’ve always felt a deep connection and longing to be near the sea. It’s where my bones settle in, and my mind feels peaceful and the corners of my mouth turn upward unconsciously. Today it sounds gorgeous. With summer breeze accompaniment, it’s a perfect day. A totally perfect day.

gratitude-a-thon day 160: the amazing little kindle

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It’s been pretty awful weather, so I’ve been reading a lot. Aside from all the magazines on the stands right now (Matthew Perry’s life of addiction (People), Ava Gardner and her wild life (Vanity Fair), The Pursuit of Happiness, (Time) the Doma decision (the New Yorker), Is Your House Making You Fat? (Real Simple), Paula Deans Race Rants, Worse Than You Think (Us), and so much more, I’ve been on my Kindle. Now this thing is the ultimate in reading. While I have to admit that I still am a real book person, I am outta my mind crazy about the fact that you can just sample any book, and then BUY it. And the best part is you could be ANYWHERE. You can be on the toilet, in the car, in your bed, on a bike, in a box, be a fox–well you get it. It’s just so fun. It’s better than internet shopping, or real shopping even.

Here’s to the Kindle. Instant reading!

gratitude-a-thon day 159: the west tisbury farmer’s market

One of the best parts of the Vineyard is the West Tisbury Farmer’s Market. Not only is it filled with great stuff to eat, from local farms and bakeries, it’s got flowers. BEAUTIFUL, INCREDIBLE FLOWERS. I just love to be there and look around, because it’s like a really fattening dessert for my eyeballs.

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Stannard Farm’s display is poetic. Really, this truck looked like a painting.
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I’ve been buying flowers from this guy for like 20 years. I don’t know his name, but he’s a sweetie.
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I always buy a topiary while I’m here. This year I bought a really cool one–it’s a scented rose geranium. You rub the leaves and it gives off this fantastic smell that’s supposed to ward off mosquitoes, which is really good, CUZ IN ALL THIS RAIN, THOSE GUYS ARE HAVING A LOT OF SEX AND MAKING MORE OF THEMSELVES.
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There’s also music, which just makes everything more fun! Here’s Kevin Keady.