NonEssentials

I didn't think much of it -- I have a couple of nice afghan throws if it gets too cold in my house. (Note: It's cold in my house because I am cheap and every time I hear the furnace click on, it sets my teeth on edge) Mom II tells me one day,"I got a surprise for you. I'll bring it over." I thought nothing of it. Then she handed me a plastic bag with something red in it. It was...(cue music here) The students who work in my office are hysterical that I have this in my house. Notice that all the people wearing this get-up are white, very white. And scary, very scary. And if they could wear a Snuggie all day, every day, they sure would. Me, not so much. You see, I cannot do anything when I have this on. I cannot walk in it, I cannot use my hands. The outfits the actors are wearing in this video are not Snuggies. A child the size of the one in the commercial would get lost inside of a Snuggie. I am over 5'9" tall, and if I try to walk in it, it's so long

Don't we all love "snow days?" I never tire of that feeling when work/school is cancelled. Sleep is never as gratifying as it is when the alarm goes off, you listen to the radio while in bed, find out school is cancelled, roll over and go back to sleep. Isn't that the BEST.SLEEP.EVER? Here in Texas, we don't have snow days, because when it snows, you can blow the stuff off your windshield and drive. We have ice days. Without going into the science of it (i.e., the ground is warm, the air cold, add precipitation, you got ice), I promise you -- it's something to fear and dread. I have been a New Yorker for most of my life. I've braved the elements. The ice in Texas is lots worse than you can imagine. That's because it's "black ice." I don't know why it's called that -- it should be called "clear ice," or "scary ice." Here's why: you see a damp street/pavement and you walk/drive, and everything is copacetic.

I need a stylist. When my daughter moved away ten years ago, my fashion consultant left me. I can't count how many times I asked her, "Do these shoes go?" She often just took me by the hand and picked out the right pair, usually not the 2 choices I was wearing. To her credit, she recently spent a couple of hours with me and my closet, giving me tips on how to combine colors and styles. When she's in town, she'll even accompany me to buy clothes. But when she leaves, that part of my brain that controls fashion sense creeps out. Like check out these shoes I bought: They look okay, don't they? Well, first of all, I wore them for the first time the day that I had to teach for about 5 hours, but to hell with the pain -- I wanted to make a good impression. The problem is, my feet are huge, and I was clunking around in front of the class, looking like God-knows-what. Wait, I can give you an idea: add 80 lbs, and this is what I looked like:

My mom is unintentionally pretty funny. For instance, the last time I visited, she vetoed one of my childhood memories. I was reminiscing with my sister about summer nights in the bedroom we shared. TRUTH: when it was muggy and over 90 degrees at night, our only relief in our 3rd floor bedroom (a converted attic) was this box window fan. Problem was, the fan didn't really work. If there was no breeze to move the fan, all you'd hear was the whirl of the motor while the blades stood still. My sister and I would be spread-eagle on our beds, gasping for air, and I was always the one who got up and pushed a finger through the shield to try to move the blades to "jumpstart" it. Honest to God -- it was like those old propeller planes you see in silent movies. If I pushed it just right, the blades would start turning and I'd hurry back to bed for the 3 minutes of air that I squeezed out of the fan. My mom overheard me talking about this, and she said, "That didn'

Just when I get all starry-eyed, seeing infinite significance in every living thing -- Paul Blart: Mall Co p wins the weekend box office. Oh, Americans, I love your taste for fluff!

I was thinking of an argument that my father and I had back when I was a teenager. I was listening to the song "Eve of Destruction" for the umpteenth time, when he told me how much he hated that song and how untrue it was. He thought it was a terrible message -- that this country was moving towards disaster. I, on the other hand, thought it was absolutely the truth. I really believed humanity would be lost forever in my lifetime. A good part of that had to do with the anger and uncertainty of the times, and a good deal of that had to do with racism. But I didn't know what to do about it. I didn't understand the anger that was directed at me as I walked from the subway to school at Eastern Parkway/Crown Heights, or the resentment I felt when I walked those few blocks with trepidation and anxiety; I didn't know why I was friends with the African-American girls on my basketball team during practice, but we never sat together in class or at lunch. I don't think

There's something in the air. I'm convinced there's something in the air. People are different. I took Angel for a walk in a park this afternoon. It was a gorgeous day -- the weather was sunny and about 62 degrees. We went to a park to walk the path around the pond. Usually when I take a walk in one of the parks around here, there are people out, but they often seem so within themselves. They are inside their own self-drawn circles, or they're focused on a purpose: walk/run 4 times around the trail; push the kid on the swing; take the dog out for a walk. Today was different, and I hope I can explain it articulately. Today I couldn't stop smiling because everyone I saw made me happy. First of all, it was like a mini-UN at this park. There were some Chinese children riding their bikes around the pond. One was about 4 years old and he was so filled with joy that he was smiling and laughing to himself as he pedaled past me (3 times, and he made happy noises each time)

This has to be real, right? I mean, Charlie Gibson says it is, so it must be so.

Who would imagine the changes that occur as one ages? We all know that physiologically, things happen -- we get gray hair, the waist disappears, joints creak, etc., but I have experienced some startling changes that remind me I'm no spring chicken (NOTE: Using the term "spring chicken? -- definitely a sign of aging). I find partially used tissues around my living space. And by "living space," I mean the recliner I sit in each night to watch TV and in the pockets of my comfy robe that I wear religiously every evening. When I was a kid visiting my grandmothers, I was saddened and puzzled by the random tissues I saw in their wake. I don't know why this happens, and it doesn't matter because it's just me at home, but it's kinda disturbing when I do my vacuuming and find one tucked into the side of the chair cushion. How did I become so attached to tissues? I distinctly remember when I was young, thinking how strange it was that lunch ladies had to wear ha

Katie Couric, you are a cutie, But Anderson Cooper makes you seem Like a gallumphing wildebeast. The boyish twinkle in his baby blue eyes, His looks, his hair, his sense of humor-- I have no choice but to crown him Twinkles. Pray, give to him the throne and sceptre. But be consoled, because Katie, what you did to Sarah the Alaskan Cooper could not do to Mr. Skittles.

A friend of mine told me about a cleaning product. First, let me tell you, I'm a clean person. I'm not OCD, but I'm not a slob. I have a ton of cleaning products, and I need them because I decided a few months ago that hiring a cleaning service was too extravagant. After all, I live alone and so I really should be able to clean things myself. It's just me, a neat cat and a dog who doesn't drool, but isn't exactly sanitary. Just the other day, she came in from the yard and proceeded to shove her butt across the carpet, leaving a skid mark that made me gag. Well, hellloooo to you, too, Angel. That's her name -- Angel. It's not my choice. I tried to call her by another name, but she ignored me so I reverted to the name the shelter worker said her previous owner gave her. That reduced, but didn't eliminate, the number of times she ignored me. Real Simple magazine sent me a mailing, which included a handy-dandy little pullout section to help you clean the

The idea behind this blog is to allow myself and others to share ideas about the world. I wish I could tell you that topics will only be political, personal, legal, pop-cultural, but I can't because I'm an ordinary person whose opinion isn't valued in dollars and cents. I'm from Brooklyn, NY, but now I live in a suburb of Dallas (with a capital P and it rhymes with "draino" and there aren't any poolhalls here). How I ended up here is waaaay too long and boring, so I won't go into that right now. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll treat you all to my personal story. But really. You don't care. So, let's get down to business. Here's what I want to talk about: My work, my interests, and whatever you may bring up as topics. Life is good. Let's see how we handle it.