Philly Moms

Lessons Learned from a King

I am white. Very white. My ancestors hailed from Ireland, France, Germany and England. I look white. My golfing buddies call me "Notebook Paper Skin" (Get it ? Ghostly white with blue veins?). They say my legs could be confused with Out of Bounds stakes (for those non-golfers --they're the white ones). I grew up in the Midwest in a suburban WASP family. I didn't know any Jewish people until I met my freshman roommate in college. There weren't any African Americans in my town. Not a one. The mayor was re-elected for 40 years, running on the platform that he'd personally keep the city that way.  Now before you judge me please realize that you can't choose your gene-pool, your parents or where you live as a child. I just wanted to set the stage for story of the day that changed me forever.

Back in the early 90s I was transferred to a small town in the North Georgia mountains. A town that has a church on every corner, where liquor stores have to be called "Package Stores" and where the Ku Klux Klan was not only alive and well but still had rallies and marches. Even for this white bread girl it was culture shock, y'all.

I lived next door to an elderly woman who had a black housekeeper named Bernice. They would invite me over for fried pies. Yes, fried pies. In the South everything that can be fried will be, including tomatoes, Twinkies and pickles. We all became good friends.

One January morning in 1992 Bernice, sporting her new Martin Luther King Jr. sweatshirt, reminded me that it was MLK Day and asked if I was going to the rally in his honor later? Well actually I didn't have that one penciled in on my calendar but I said something like "yes I'd like to, but I'm not sure what I'm doing this afternoon." Then I went about my day.

Random Act of Kindness or Obstruction of Justice?

Have you ever watched the television show on A&E "Parking Wars"? You know, the reality show that follows Philadelphia Parking Authority workers on their quest to ticket, tow and boot illegally parked cars? I found myself a bit confused after watching it a few times. On one hand I felt really sorry for the people who were charged big fines for an expired meter or who had to endure the pound to retrieve their vehicles and especially those who went running to feed the meter only to arrive a minute too late. On the other I gained a little empathy for the workers who take a lot of abuse from really mad (usually guilty) people who generally think the rules don't apply to them.

Living on The Main Line, parking meters are a way of life. I always carry an ashtray of quarters around to feed the darn things and beat feet to make sure I don't let them expire. After watching "Parking Wars" I've also started my own personal mission -- dropping a coin into every expired meter I pass as I go about my day.

I consider it a random act of kindness, The Lower Merion Parking Authority begs to differ.

Dear Kate: Welcome to Single Motherhood

So it's official -- Jon and Kate Plus 8 will now be Jon and Kate's 8 Divided by 2. After lawyers and paperwork and arguments and signatures Kate, mother of eight will become Kate, single mother of eight. Her life will forever change in ways she can't even imagine so based on personal experience and that of my single mom friends I thought I'd give her a heads up of what to expect...

I called my doctor with an important question and he Googled it for the answer

For whatever reason -- a comedy of errors, inept employees, planetary transits or just plain bad medical karma, I've been having a hell of a time lately.

The saga started last year when I was referred to a specialist by my doctor to further investigate something that showed up during my annual check-up. After waiting a month to get an appointment I finally saw the specialist who ordered some tests and promised the results in a week.

Three weeks later I finally called them to follow up. They gave me the results of the tests they'd run except it turns out they'd ordered the wrong ones.

I went back into the office so they could re-do the test. A week later I called for the results. They ran a different but wrong test again. "Could I come back in again?" they asked, to which I responded "Could you have the doctor call me?

When the doctor didn't call me back after a week I scheduled another appointment to go back so that I could explain my frustration and concerns in person. After explaining the two prior screw-ups by her office she assured me that she would personally make sure the third re-do of the test would be overseen by her.

Imagine my disbelief and anger when I called the third time for the results...AND THEY DID IT WRONG AGAIN!

Wit or Witout? In search of the best Philly Cheesesteak

Before I moved here the only cheesesteaks I'd eaten were bar food fare. Tasteless white buns with chewy beef and melted cheese. Good for soaking up beer but not my first sandwich of choice. Outside Philadelphia you can get Philly Cheesesteaks in all sorts of shapes and forms  -- Hot Pockets in the frozen food section and nuked at home, at McDonald's, at some chain at the mall, even as a pizza. All of them are icky.

When I became an official resident of "The City of Motherly Love" I made it my personal vision quest to find the very best cheesesteak in Philadelphia. It quickly became obvious that if you asked ten people where to get the best cheesesteak in the city you'd get ten adamant but different answers. Who knew I would have to wade through more ick before I found the winner?

I Lost My House

We can't always hold onto the stuff that is important to us. Sometimes circumstances are beyond our control. There are some things you just can't anticipate.

I never expected to lose the house. It and the number that made the rotary-dial wall phone ring were the only constants in my life for forty years. The old neighborhood had, over the decades, changed from a hip subdivision of little ranch houses inhabited by young Ford Motor Company Mustang-designing engineers and their Baby Boomer families to a community where women wearing Jibabs and Abayas pushed their baby strollers around the cul-du-sacs. Still, despite the passing years and changing demographics, the houses looked the same as they did when we rode our decorated bikes in the annual Fourth of July parade or ice skated on the frozen fish pond -- like a subdivision of little Monopoly houses.

My brother and I both left Dearborn Michigan years ago and had no desire to ever move back so when it came time to settle my father's estate we (after I talked my HGTV-watching brother out of sinking a lot of cash into major updates and renovations) covered the school bus yellow exterior paint that was my dad's signature color with a nice neutral taupe and put the house up for sale.

Little did we know that by the time the tulips my mother lovingly planted years ago poked through the spring snow our house would be gone.

Gone. Bulldozed. Razed. And in its place: a McMansion

Fighting Cancer with Both Hands

When my mom was my age she was diagnosed with breast cancer. The year was 1972 and the things we take for granted today like yearly mammograms, lumpectomies or cancer-fighting drugs weren't part of the plan. Things like automatic radical mastectomies and radiation were.

Shocked and scared, she left the hospital without further ado and without her breast. The doctors didn't offer any sort of counseling, just dire predictions. The only hint of personalized help was a brief meeting with a Reach to Recovery volunteer from The American Cancer Society who gave her a booklet and rubber ball to squeeze for physical therapy on her arm. Her basic exercise advice was to make sure to walk her hand up the wall everyday a few times.

My dad and brother and I were so afraid of saying and doing the wrong things and even more afraid of losing her. We didn't know what to do to help her or ourselves. Neither did my mom. She had the dubious honor of being the first woman on our block with the disease. No one at work had it. None of her close friends had been through it. No one talked about it, donated to it, walk-a-thoned it. She was without any sort of support system. She faced her uncertain future alone.

If only there had been an organization like The Wellness Community  to help us all. They empower cancer patients and help their families deal. Besides all the wonderful, free programs they offer including stress management, nutrition, and mind/body wellness workout classes like Yoga and T'ai Chi, patients can connect with others who share their  struggles and successes. They can have someone to lean on who doesn't have sympathy but rather empathy.

Snubbed at The Merion Cricket Club

I decided to get in the holiday spirit today by attending the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia Holiday Sale at The Merion Cricket Club. You know, one of those holiday boutiques with nary a crocheted Christmas tree angel in sight. One with $500 necklaces and $100 belts with sailboats on them. I figured it was for a good cause since 25% of all proceeds go to the hospital so I got dressed up, put on make-up and headed down the road to lunch and shop.

Inside the door I was met by women at the ticket table who looked like the two snobby blondes on " New Adventures of Old Christine." You know, the kind of women who only wear pink (cashmere) sweaters, designer jeans and loafers with some sort of insignia buckle. The sign said "Shopping $10, Shopping and Lunch $35. The conversation went something like this: Me: "Hi! I'd like to buy a shopping ticket, and would you please tell me about your lunch?" (I usually don't spend $25 on lunch but I was going to treat myself in the name of charity). Pinkie #1 "Oh, well the lunch is in the other building. Everyone has their tables set up." (so I'm thinking it must be like a potluck or something) Pinkie #2 "Yes, everyone already has their table so unless you have a friend who wants you at their table and is saving you a seat then you might not want to go over there."

It's Time to Sell the Christmas China

Thankfully despite the stock market roller coaster ride we aren't selling off our worldly goods to support the three kids we have in college. It's time to sell the Spode Christmas china for a better reason: I'm over it.

That darn china was really important to me for almost twenty years. I thought it was the ultimate splurge to have designated dishes. I registered for them when I got married and racked up several place settings. When we got divorced it was one of three things he sued me for (besides alimony); the others being a picture frame and a missing part from the Salad Shooter.

I gave him the frame. I threw the missing part away thereby rendering him unable to shoot his salads with anything except the AK-47 he kept under the bed. (My inspirations were the nuns in The Sound of Music when they took the Nazis' car parts) As for the Christmas china, that's where I drew the line.

White Trash Barbie Birthday

I never considered myself to be White Trash. I grew up in the suburbs with parents who made me brush my teeth, finish everything on my plate, graduate from high school and go to college. Our house didn't have wheels or piles of dog poop and my family tree forks. I don't drink Tang, eat pork rinds, watch NASCAR or know how to do a two-finger whistle.

I always prided myself on creating the perfect surroundings. When my ex-husband and I bought our first house I took great pride and joy in decorating it myself. I copied drapes and dust ruffles out of The Laura Ashley Book of Decorating and whipped them up on my sewing machine. We threw lots of parties . His friends would flock to our house for ballgames because I'd feed them the latest recipes out of Southern Living. Anything less than perfection wouldn't do.

A few years later my daughter was born. A few months later my husband left and it was then that the door to White Trash Motherhood swung open wide and welcomed me in.