Katy McDermott

It’s official. Fall is upon us. Well, it’s been official since September 22, but I’ve been in denial. The current trifecta of Halloween, Election Day, and Daylight Savings Time has made me (reluctantly) take my head out of the sand.

Actually, there are a lot of things I like about autumn – it’s winter that I really hate. When I was little, I used to love back-to-school shopping (for supplies, not so much clothes – all I wanted was a new pencil case – yes, I was an odd child). But the memory of last winter has scarred me.  WAY too much snow. Seriously, if I wanted that much snow, I’d move to Montana.

But thankfully, it’s not winter yet. So in honor of my former favorite season, here’s a list of pros and cons about this time of year:

Farmers’ markets – pumpkins, hayrides, cider doughnuts, caramel apples, mums. Farmers’ markets look gorgeous, smell amazing, and get you into the Fall spirit like nothing else can. (Good)

Daylight Savings Time – anytime you have an event that’s associated with a psychiatric condition (Seasonal Affective Disorder, aka the brilliant acronym SAD), you know you’re in trouble. I dread it every year, and seem to get SADder every year too. You can have your extra hour of sleep – I just want more light! (Bad)

Turtleneck sweaters – not only do I love how turtleneck sweaters look and feel, I love what they represent. Every year, there comes a time when you rediscover half of your wardrobe you haven’t worn in 6 months, and are therefore excited about. Also, you don’t have to worry about the horror that is bathing suit shopping for awhile! (Good)

Frost on the car – as if it weren’t bad enough that the mornings are getting colder and colder (we’ve gone from “brisk” to “chilling” and will soon be at “I don’t care if I get hat-head – I’m freezing!”), we now have to scrape our windshields too. Just a harbinger of the delightful snow-shoveling that awaits… (Bad)

Election Day – manipulative TV ads, radio spots featuring narrators whose voices drip with contempt when discussing the opposition… I’m almost tempted not to vote, because apparently all of the candidates knock little old ladies off their walkers, kick puppies, and/or worship Satan. (Bad)

Thanksgiving dinner – the knowledge that I’ll soon have to cook it. (Bad)

Thanksgiving dinner – the knowledge that I’ll soon get to eat it. (Good – so that one’s a wash)

Foliage – it’s a cliché for a reason, folks! The staggeringly beautiful sight of bright red, orange, purple, and yellow leaves on the trees – their last hurrah before falling off and carpeting people’s lawns – never fails to astound me.  (Good – I don’t have a lawn)

Halloween – when I was a kid, this was, of course, good. (It was especially good for us Catholic school kids, since November 1 was All Souls Day and we had off from school and could basically spend the day in our pajamas, watching cartoons in a Clark-bar-induced coma.) Now that my priorities have changed, I’m not so wild about it. In my office, there’s candy everywhere, and I also have to deal with reminders that I’m getting old. A 25-year-old colleague recently told me she went to a Halloween party dressed “as an 80s girl” – my misspent youth is now a costume, apparently. (Bad)

Baking supplies – I’m a pretty busy person, so I don’t bake that often, but this time of year puts me in a cookie-making frame of mind. That grocery-shopping trip when I stock up on supplies like cinnamon, allspice, brown sugar, chocolate chips, and flour is a delightful annual ritual. (Very very good!)

Christmas stuff – we have a radio station in our area that plays Christmas music starting the day BEFORE Thanksgiving. I first saw holiday ornaments in Hallmark back in August (not kidding – August). Malls are tricked out in tinsel and holly, grocery stores’ “seasonal” aisles are already filled with poinsettias, and Starbucks is using their snowflake-and-Santa cups. It’s too soon, people! (Bad)

Holiday specials – and here’s where I contradict myself. I know I just said it’s too early to be thinking Christmas-y thoughts in the Fall, but there’s one area where that doesn’t apply. Television. I don’t let myself watch them until we’re trimming our tree, but just the knowledge that soon I’ll get to see “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and “How the Grinch Stole Christmas” can cheer me up on even the darkest Fall day. Heck, the Grinch’s change of heart happened when he stood “with his feet ice-cold in the snow.” The least I can do is not grumble when I have to scrape my windshield. (Good)

Faraway family – I have several family members that I only see once or twice a year. Spending time with them pretty much cancels out all the things I rated as “bad.”

So if I total up, I find that I’m even – until I get to that family part. Then the “good” obliterates the “bad.” Which is kind of nice, when you think about it…

And now I’m off to have a snack – a nice crisp apple would hit the spot about now, I think…

Not long ago, I decided to try to use YouTube to promote my second book, “Meeting Darkness.” How to use a video to advertise a book? The mind boggles – or at least, mine did. At first.

Eventually, however, I decided on the idea of a slideshow – pictures from Chatham, MA (the inspiration for my fictional town of “Barcliff”) juxtaposed with excerpts from my book. All of it accompanied by my brother’s music. Thankfully, I have a brother who’s a professional composer, and he promised not to sue me for using his stuff… although I didn’t get that in writing… hmmm.

In any case, I was up in Chatham a few weeks ago for a book signing, and I took a bunch of pictures to go with certain excerpts from my book – my hope was that the viewer would fall in love with the area just as I have. This book may be a murder mystery, but it’s also a love letter to the Cape…

Fun bit of trivia: it was WINDY when I took a lot of the pictures, and I had to delete plenty that had stray locks of hair interfering with the image! Needless to say, I stopped caring about how I looked about 10 minutes in…

Cameos in the video include: my husband Jack, my brother’s house, the late Senator Paul Tsongas’ place, not one but two bars from which my husband “appropriated” glasses, my favorite place on earth, one wicked good bowl of “chowdah,” and some fairly realistic pictures of what commercial fishing is really like.

When we got home from the book signing trip, I put together a list of what pictures went with what excerpts, chose the music – and left the rest to my husband. He did an absolutely amazing job! See for yourself  -

YouTube Direkt

I’ve been trying to lose weight lately. I cut down on the sugary snacks, reduced my portion sizes, stopped drinking soda, etc. And I was losing – slowly. For a few weeks. Then I hit a stubborn plateau. The combination of that and the example of my newly fitness-focused husband made me face the inevitable: I had to exercise. But first, I needed to counter all my internal arguments, which basically boiled down to “I don’t wanna!”

There are many different ways to work out. The dedicated can go to a gym. The wealthy can hire a personal trainer. The uber-wealthy can hire a personal trainer to come to their house and oversee their workouts in their private gym. The self-motivated can do their own thing, coaching themselves to great results. I don’t fall into any of these categories. Also, the only “free time” I have is from 5:00am to 6:00am on weekdays. (Thankfully, a little later on weekends!) Consequently, I did what so many other busy women do.

I turned to DVDs.

Workout DVDs are actually quite fun. For one thing, you get to curse at the instructor and her 2% body fat – as loudly as your labored breathing will allow – and you don’t have to worry about running into her in the parking lot after the workout. I don’t know about you, but Jillian Michaels (of Biggest Loser fame and the instructor on my “Shredding It With Weights” kettlebell DVD) scares me. And I have bruises on my forearms from the kettlebell…

Jackie Warner (she had a reality show on Bravo called Work Out) claims to be a “trainer to the stars.” Well, if she means Himmler by that, I’ll back her up. Truly, her DVD is torturous. She seems to actively enjoy inflicting pain, which I guess is a good quality in a fitness instructor. Frankly, I prefer “I know it hurts – get over it!” acidity to “You’re doing great – stick with it!” perkiness any day.

Speaking of perkiness, I have a particular workout DVD that I no longer use. It’s not that I can’t do it (although some of the moves are hard-bordering-on-impossible – I use them as rest periods). It’s that the instructor is so incessantly cheerful. While doing the most insanely difficult sequences – honestly, there’s one exercise where she jumps up in the air, arms and legs akimbo, then lands in a squat and immediately kicks to the side – she’s not winded at all. Also, she never sweats. It’s very annoying to my drenched and cynical self.

Then there’s cardio. I use either the treadmill (which recently graduated from “coat closet” status to “actual piece of exercise equipment” status) or follow along with a walking DVD. But on the weekends, I do the whole “nature-girl” thing and either walk or ride my bike. When I walk outside, as on the treadmill, I can use my iPod and headphones – I just have to be careful not to listen to ragtime music or show tunes unless I’m safely incarcerated in our basement. My husband says I’m very “jaunty”…

With the bike, I can’t use the iPod. I have to be cognizant of not a) running over people/animals and b) not getting run over by cars myself. The “Guys and Dolls” soundtrack isn’t conducive to either. My family and I recently went to a lovely park, though. Despite the lack of music, I was captivated by the large, beautiful lake and many birds. We had a picnic afterwards, and I never felt that I deserved a turkey sandwich quite so much.

Of course, just when I feel like I can’t expend another morsel of energy on working out, just when I feel like all I want to do is sleep the heck IN (well, for an extra 45 minutes, anyway), it’s time for Pilates. Lovely, gentle, Pilates. Deceptively difficult Pilates… the instructor’s voice may be quiet, the music may be mellow, but make no mistake – the moves are tough.

Even though I’m not losing weight as fast as I’d like, I should be motivated by the knowledge that I’m getting healthier – my heart, my lungs (and as an ex-smoker, that’s particularly important). But no. What motivates me is <hangs head in shame> workout clothes.

Now there’s a whole other section of department stores – activewear – for me to shop in. And because of the novelty value, I’m like a kid in the proverbial candy store (hey, look, that fabric wicks away sweat! And check it out – yoga tops! And those biking shorts have built-in padding to cushion your butt!)

Oh, yes, I’ve bought some.

But in truth, at the end of the day, what really motivates me is as shallow as clothes, in its way. I just feel pleased with myself once I’ve worked out in the morning. Even for half an hour, and even if I couldn’t do every exercise or had to walk my bike up a particularly steep hill. Regardless, I start the day with a level of self-esteem I’ve never felt before. Sore muscles are a badge of honor. They’re muscles that I’ve used.

My job involves sitting at a desk or sitting in meetings. My passion is writing – another sedentary activity.

Recently, I’ve scheduled a few signings for my latest book.

And with luck, I’ll struggle to pick up a pen.

My husband and I didn’t experience much of the most traumatic event in our nation’s history firsthand. This is as close as we got (I wrote this essay just days after), and it was close enough. God rest the souls of those who lost their lives that day.

We saw the twin towers of the World Trade Center today. Painted on a homemade banner suspended from a highway overpass, they formed the letter “H” in the message “Home of the Brave”. Twenty minutes later, as we crossed the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, we saw the skyline of New York City, forever changed. The cloud of smoke and debris, still visible four days after the attack, drifted toward the Statue of Liberty. Her face was turned toward Ground Zero.

We were driving north from Philadelphia, fueled by rage and sorrow and an e-mail message from the New York City Fire Department, asking for supplies. Everyone I’d spoken to since Tuesday was desperate to help, to do something. Within 36 hours, the idea of a trip to New York had rippled out to family, friends and co-workers, and by Saturday morning we’d gathered over $1,000 worth of supplies for the men and women doing the unimaginable work at the site. 

The list of items they’d requested was as chilling in its way as the nightmare footage that filled the news. Dust masks, flashlights, work gloves and sterile eyewash. Lanterns, emesis basins and biohazard bags.

There was paperwork, of course. We would need a letter of authorization to get near Fire Department Headquarters in Brooklyn, now cordoned off and guarded. The woman I spoke to was sorry she wouldn’t be able to meet us when we came up. She had a funeral to attend, but she counted herself among the lucky ones because her firefighter husband had made it back from the scene alive. In a note on a fax cover sheet, she said that she would now have to go to Mass every Sunday for the rest of her life – that was the bargain she’d made with God if her husband came home.

The day was almost indecently beautiful as we loaded the car for the drive. It seemed impossible to reconcile this soft blue quiet with the video footage shot by a volunteer doctor in the moments after the first collapse – the nuclear winter of soot and debris, the unearthly high-pitched whistling of the firefighters’ locators.

It took four and a half hours to drive from the Philadelphia suburbs to Brooklyn – we spent most of that time sitting in traffic on the highways leading into the city, left lanes closed to all but emergency vehicles. 

We saw the best of America on that drive… a toll collector on the Pennsylvania Turnpike, catching sight of the flag in our window, saying “God bless” as she handed us our change… a beat-up hatchback full of college kids, the windows painted over with messages: “God Bless America,” “Keep the Faith New York,” “Honk If U R Proud To Be American.” We honked, & flew our flag, and exchanged pumped fists with strangers at 70 miles per hour. The closer we got to New York, the more banners we saw on overpasses, defiant slogans hand-lettered on bed sheets. 

The staff was so kind at Fire Department Headquarters. They added our shovels to a pile in the corner of the loading dock, and told us about the firefighters they knew who were missing. Supplies crowded the sorting room… pallets of water and Gatorade donated by corporations… cardboard boxes with the words “towels” and “flashlights” drawn in black magic marker. 

The drive home was quicker. On our way out of Brooklyn, we passed a federal office building, patrolled on each corner by an officer in a bulletproof vest holding a pump-action shotgun.

But we saw a passenger jet as well, gliding peacefully into the Newark evening. 

The next night, walking up to the door of my townhouse, I heard the usual late-summer chirping of dozens of crickets. It made me feel anxious for some reason I couldn’t define. 

And then I realized why.

It sounded exactly like the whistling of the firefighters’ locators in the video from Ground Zero.

“Watership Down” is one of my favorite books of all time – and I believe there’s a lot of wisdom in it too, assuming you can get past the whole “but they’re rabbits” thing. I even think it’s relevant to the current business setting. Here are some thoughts I had about the main character…

Has there ever been a more unlikely hero than Hazel? Not very big, not unusually intelligent, not even particularly charismatic, he nonetheless leads his friends through “a sea of troubles,” as Shakespeare would say, and sees them safely home. How on earth does he manage it, this unassuming Everyrabbit?

The first thing we see Hazel do is trust. His brother Fiver, a prophet of sorts, is terrified by a vision of nameless horror that threatens to destroy their home. Hazel believes him, and determines to escape with his brother – and anyone else who wants to go. And several do: Bigwig, Blackberry, Dandelion, Silver, Buckthorn, Pipkin, Hawkbit, Speedwell, and Acorn.

 Hazel is decisive. Even in the face of uncertainty, he takes a position and sticks to it. He is generous – how much easier it would have been for him to sneak away with just his brother, saving his own skin with no one else to worry about! But he chooses his course, swallows his fear, and sets off into an unknown night.

Their first night’s wandering is surely the worst. Venturing into strange country, no one knows who is in charge. Why should Hazel be the leader, simply because it was he who decided to go? Bigwig and Silver are stronger; Blackberry is smarter. Nothing has been proved to them, no authority has yet been earned.

Early on, the rabbits are forced to cross an unfamiliar stretch of land where any manner of dangers might lurk. Hazel goes first, to make sure it’s safe, and with his quiet courage sows the first seeds of his leadership. The rabbits make it through that first night, but in the morning, a fresh challenge is laid before them – a river that must be crossed.

Hazel’s tenuous leadership is put to the test. His friends are weary in body and spirit, Pipkin appears to be hurt – and Bigwig simply doesn’t like to swim. Challenged by Hazel to test the waters, Bigwig reluctantly crosses the river, only to return moments later with news that means they must all swim immediately or risk being killed. But Hazel will not leave the injured Pipkin.

Enter Blackberry, with the clever idea of floating Pipkin across the river on a loose board. Hazel doesn’t entirely understand Blackberry’s idea, but he agrees on faith and orders them all into the water. The crossing made, he searches for a safer place while the others finally sleep.

What a manager Hazel would make! Who hasn’t worked, at one time or another, for someone who is threatened by the talents of a subordinate, who looks to increase his or her own importance by diminishing a colleague? Not Hazel. He seeks the greater good – a better life for those who have chosen to follow him – and is grateful to have so intelligent a comrade as Blackberry. When morale is low, he does not try to inspire his friends with grand speeches, but turns to Dandelion – who has a way with a story – to hearten them with tales of the great rabbit hero El-ahrairah.

Hazel recognizes, and appreciates, the strengths of his compatriots. He knows that he belongs to them, as they belong to him, and he values that belonging.

Hazel isn’t perfect, though. His greatest faults, shared by many a suddenly-elevated leader, are pride and overconfidence. When misplaced certainty almost costs Bigwig his life, Hazel loses no time in rallying the rabbits to save their wounded friend. He admits his mistake, learns from it, and guides the group to the high hills where Fiver assures him they’ll be safe.

Hazel may be effective in a crisis, but he displays his leadership most strongly in his ability to see the big picture. It is Hazel who realizes that the new warren will die out unless they can find female rabbits to join them; Hazel who suggests that they befriend an injured but threatening bird and use him as a scout; Hazel who organizes the expedition to free the imprisoned females of a faraway warren and secure the future of the rabbits of Watership Down. He marshals the unique talents of each of his followers to achieve the result they all need.

He asks for help.

He leads by example.

Above all else, Hazel never gives up; his love for his friends won’t let him. Diplomat, strategist, CEO, general – he manages to be all of these things simply because he cares so much. Witness our greatest leaders:  Abraham Lincoln fighting to hold a nation together; Harriet Tubman guiding slaves to freedom in the face of overwhelming danger; Winston Churchill battling the ultimate evil of Hitler.

Their dedication transformed these once-ordinary people into history’s heroes.

When you think about it, they’re a lot like Hazel.

Democrats mock Republicans. Conservatives despise liberals. Jesse Jackson and Rush Limbaugh vie for the hate-fueled rhetoric crown. Welcome to the United States Of You’re An Idiot.

There doesn’t seem to be any gray area anymore. In America today, you’re either a patriot or a communist – no in-between. We’ve become more polarized (and polarizing) than we’ve been for over a century. It scares me.

Where did it start, this extreme “Us vs Them” mentality? That part, at least, is easy: blame it on cable. Plenty has been written already about how the insatiable demands of our always-on televisions have led to the proliferation of Keith Olbermanns and Glenn Becks. It’s a sad fact, our “new now,” and we can only hope that people put down their verbal BB guns before they really do take someone’s eye out.

But before I go any further, a confession seems warranted: I’ve been a willing participant in this country’s increasing broadcast contrarianism. As a liberal Democrat, I read Slate.com, listen to NPR, howl at Jon Stewart, and think Stephen Colbert’s a genius. How is that any different from those who get their political information from Fox News or nod in heartfelt agreement with Sean Hannity?

Perhaps I need to reevaluate my own media choices, lest I continue to be a hypocrite…

It’s one thing to turn a spotlight on the divisiveness that characterizes so many of our country’s arguments – that’s become a virtual truism. The real question is: where will it lead?

For eight years, we liberals bashed Bush for not being able to pronounce the word “nuclear” and for leading our fighting men and women into a war founded on a lie. Now that Obama’s in the White House, conservatives gleefully enumerate his every broken campaign promise and point out the exorbitant cost of his healthcare plan.

Yes, the Democrats will probably lose their majority in Congress in the mid-term elections. And Sarah Palin may even become President in 2012 (in which case, I’m moving to Sweden, but that’s another story…) But then what? It’s not difficult to envision a future where every four years, the power changes hands from arugula-chomping “elitists” to beer-swilling “real Americans,” with the time between elections filled with sneering media commentary and total political gridlock.

And then we’ll have a revolution.

A Second Civil War.

What will it be like? Will there be uniforms? (“In this corner, wearing real American jeans, flannel shirts, and rugged work boots, are the Rip-Roarin’ Republicans; in the other corner, sporting three-piece suits, wingtip shoes, and wire-rimmed glasses, are the Debatin’ Democrats!”)

How about songs? “Over There, Where The Ideas Are So Wrong.” “When Johnny Comes Marching Home To A Two-Mommy Family Again.” “The Battle Hymn Of The Republicans.” “How You Gonna Keep ’Em Down On The Farm After They’ve Seen L.A.?”

I dunno – the titles seem a little long.

One thing’s for sure. Families would be torn apart. Even now, pre-revolution, there are dear friends with whom I don’t dare talk politics, since our discussions lead nowhere but to incendiary remarks and pejorative comments. We don’t listen to each other, and we don’t hear each other either.

If the Second Civil War comes, we’ll have to draw a line, establish a place for “us” and a place for “them” – which will, inevitably, leave many of us displaced.

How about other countries – in Europe, the Middle East, Asia? They’d have to choose sides – an odd position for them. Usually, it’s us meddling in their affairs, not vice versa.

Ultimately, who would “win” this (mercifully hypothetical) war? A colleague of mine brilliantly commented that it would be the conservatives, of course: “We libs would have to hide behind the trees we hug, because we don’t know how to shoot.”

So the idea that Lincoln (a Republican, I know) had – a more perfect union – would turn out to be a fantasy after all.

Is that really possible, though? Is the conviction that “I’m right and you’re so wrong that you should move to another country before you embarrass us any further” worth killing for? Worth dying for?

Maybe we won’t have to fight a war after all.

Maybe we can focus on the United States part.

And stop calling each other idiots.

I don’t live by the gulf coast or anywhere near it. The only time I ever went to Louisiana was years ago, for a corporate meeting, and like pretty much every other tourist I drank too much and ate a beignet. But I don’t think you need to have a lifelong shrimper’s clout to be enraged by the idea of a way of life dying thanks to cost-cutting by Big Oil.

The closest I’ve come to understanding this way of life is listening to heavily-accented fishermen with French-sounding names lament their losses on CNN. How can they ever be compensated for the fact that the ocean on which they depended for their livings is now glutted and streaked with oil – so much oil that there are reportedly “dead zones” where nothing will ever grow, or swim, again?

This is the power of the media at work. I see long stories – mini-documentaries, really – about the lives of gulf coast fishermen, and I feel as if I’m there. It is – well, was – beautiful. Mile after mile of mostly calm ocean, sea birds swooping after the shrimpers’ boats, one generation sharing the secrets of net-making, boat-building, and gumbo-stewing with the next.

You see, it’s not just the fishermen, shrimpers, and oystermen affected. It’s everyone who supports those industries too. And of course, it’s everyone who serves tourists like me by running restaurants, motels, sightseeing tours, and the like.

All of them – every single one of them – need a gulf coast that is unspoiled.

Unoiled.

They say it could be decades before the region comes back to the way it was. At least a generation.

Imagine you’re a netmaker’s daughter or a shrimper’s son – your parents and their parents and their parents before them all earned a living from the coast. You knew your future was secure – after all, you’d been out on the water or in the portside shop since shortly after you could walk. Now, though, you have to find a different kind of life, because this awful thing has happened and ruined in a few short weeks what has been there for centuries. You can’t even shake your fist and rage at God or fate – this curse is manmade. Oh, it’s okay for you – you’re young, you can find another way to live. But what about your parents, and their parents? Your heart twists with pity at the thought of them spending their close-to-retirement years clad in BP-issued vests cleaning tarballs off the beaches and laying thousands of feet of useless boom in the rust-colored ocean…

But there are no telethons for this. No generous fellow Americans donating money to help rebuild your way of life, compensating your parents and their parents for everything they’ve lost.

When a friend of mine pointed this out, it got me thinking. Why aren’t there telethons? There were telethons to benefit the tsunami victims, the Haitian earthquake victims, the victims (many of those same people who are now suffering because of the oil spill) of Hurricane Katrina.

I think there are a lot of reasons – and the reasons are complex.

First, no one died – well, no one after the initial eleven rig workers who perished in the Deepwater Horizon explosion that started all this. You don’t hold telethons for eleven people, plus, none of the eleven were children. Nothing gets people to open their checkbooks like footage of shattered parents sobbing over the broken bodies of their dead children. We hold our own children tighter – and quickly call an 800 number to make a donation.

Second, for many of the workers on the gulf coast, theirs were cash businesses. And “it was a cash business” often translates to “we didn’t pay taxes on our income.” Americans may pay one of the lowest tax rates of countries in the developed world, but there isn’t one of us who doesn’t feel unfairly burdened when we fill out our tax returns and send in our checks to the government on April 15. Why should we give money to people when we assume a lot of them didn’t even pay their taxes? So they’re being punished. Serves ‘em right, right?

Third, I don’t think we want to look too closely at what this spill represents. It’s terrible, to be sure. But BP wouldn’t have been drilling if we weren’t so dependent on oil in the first place. That’s the real conundrum – what should we do? Return to the Middle Ages? Stop traveling, stop driving? Stop doing the things that are so entwined in the American way of life? If we’re to continue as we are – this dependent on oil – then this sort of thing is going to happen. As I said, I don’t think we want to look too closely at it.

It’s a whole lot less complicated to seethe on behalf of the wildlife.

The issue that seems to upset people most is the fate of the pelicans. Who can forget that iconic picture of a drowning-in-oil bird, wings flailing, mouth wide open as if screaming “why have you done this?”

Perhaps we could organize a telethon for them.

My closet smells like feet. There is only one conclusion I can draw from this: I don’t have enough shoes to rotate them appropriately during these sweltering summer months. I must – must, do you hear? – go shoe shopping.

Most women would consider this a no-lose situation: shoe shopping as necessity. But I’ll admit, I was born without the shoe-shopping gene. It’s not that I don’t like to spend money – as my husband will woefully attest, I do. Just not on shoes.

Shoes are definitely a barometer of economic condition, though. Here in the Philadelphia suburbs, we associate going barefoot with two things: 1) summer vacation at the beach and 2) Revolutionary War soldiers shivering through a brutal, shoeless winter in what is now Valley Forge National Park.

I don’t know about you, but I didn’t give much thought to shoes until I needed to pay for them myself. Funny how things like rent, heat, the phone bill, and food take precedence over footwear when money’s tight. Back in the 1980s, I held on to one pair of light blue sneakers for well over 10 years. In addition to one pair of sandals, one pair of loafers, and one pair of pumps for special occasions, they comprised my entire shoe wardrobe. Things have changed. I have three pairs of pumps now, and my lone pair of sneakers is only about 7 years old.

I’ll probably need to replace those sneakers soon – but I don’t know if I’m technologically advanced enough to do so. Sneakers used to be just sneakers. Today, there are “athletic shoes” for almost every sport you can imagine: running shoes, walking shoes (totally different, of course), tennis shoes, basketball shoes, biking shoes, hiking shoes, workout shoes, and so on.  “Water shoes” to wear in the pool, ocean, or running on the beach. And something called “skate shoes” – I have no idea what these are, but I can only assume they’re for ’tweens, based on the predominant decorative elements of rhinestones, charms, and glitter.

Have you seen the features on “athletic shoes” lately, by the way? They have light-up soles and criss-cross gel inserts to enhance arch support and improve posture. Some of them even have a system of mysterious internal alchemy that actually tones your butt for you.

Guess I won’t need those “workout shoes” after all…

Truly, though, with their racing stripes, complex engineering, and streamlined design, modern sneakers look kind of like speedboats to me. And seem equally intimidating.

Perhaps I’ll wait on the sneakers (and on working out too, come to think of it) and start with sandals. It’s summer, after all.

Of course, sandals require a fair amount of foot maintenance to pull off. When it’s 20 degrees out and there are only 9 hours of light per day, you just hide your feet in thick socks, pull on boots, and hope you don’t get frostbite while you de-ice your car.

Sandals call for pedicures. Sloughing, buffing, polishing… Jeez, it’s like feet are classic cars!

But it’s June, so a pedicure it is…

To buy the shoes, I met my 22-year-old niece after work a few days ago at a nearby DSW. It’s a good thing I had her with me. Left to my own devices, I’d have gone straight for the sturdy, serviceable, crepe-soled, low-heeled, black loafers in the “Nun Shoes” section.

I hadn’t been shoe shopping in quite a while, needless to say, and I felt like the epitome of a Country Mouse as I walked, goggle-eyed, up and down aisle after aisle.

Here’s a snippet of my internal monologue:

“Could never wear those… wow, those are some high heels… are those made of Lucite???… how would I walk in those ones?… 6-inch stilettos? Don’t think so… how am I ever going to find shoes here? I can’t see a single pair I’d actually wear to work… Holy Mother of God – look at THOSE!”

Like I said, I’m missing a gene.

However, in the face of my niece’s rolling eyes and disapproving stares, I’m now in possession of 2 pairs of brand new shoes she deemed “hip.” (God help me.) One is a pair of pewter wedge sandals with 3½-inch heels on which I’ve already gotten comments. The other simply defies description. All I can say is that she told me I wasn’t allowed to leave the store without buying them, so I bought them. I haven’t tried to wear them yet…

I did, however, get a pair of serviceable, black, crepe-soled loafers as well. Gotta be me, after all…

’Tis the season for greeting cards – Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, graduations, communions. ’Tis also the season for intensive therapy.

I never realized how inadequate card stores can make a person feel. According to greeting card writers, all mothers are “the best Mom ever,” all graduates face a future of unlimited brilliance, and any child who makes First Holy Communion is second in piety only to the pope.

What about the lapsed Catholic, the unemployed MBA, and the Jerry Springer Show guest whose mom stole her boyfriend?

Card stores celebrate stereotypes, which I suppose is only natural when you have two lines to sum up a type of person or major event. And much like McDonald’s TV commercials, they have separate sections for African-Americans. (Apparently a Kente-patterned border and a Maya Angelou quote are sufficient to represent an entire ethnicity.)

Perhaps I sound a little like Eeyore, but I find it interesting to note how card stores grapple with genuinely serious issues. Long-term care for the elderly: an accent pillow featuring the stitched message “Be kind to your children – someday they’ll choose your nursing home!” Divorce: carefully worded “starting over” cards. Disease: “support” wristbands and ribbon-shaped “awareness” car magnets. And speaking of thorny issues, those car magnets are also available in both pro-Democrat and pro-Republican varieties, so you can bash whichever party you choose…

But I guess I need to ’fess up: I love Hallmark.

Why? That’s easy: I want the kind of life they’re marketing. I know exactly what they’re doing, but it works. Also, some of the merchandise makes me laugh out loud. Right there in the store. It’s kind of embarrassing, actually.

As an advertising copywriter myself, I’d like to shake the hands of the people who come up with some of their wittier messages (“You don’t look a day older than whatever age you’re claiming to be.”) A humorous or (much harder to do) heartfelt turn of phrase can inspire a shopper to make the all-important leap from chuckling or nodding at a coffee mug on the shelf to marching up to the cash register and paying $9.95 for it.

Slogans may not be high art, but they can be funny. Or even moving.

I’ve also loved seeing the evolution of the card sections in recent years. Where once there were only “You’re expecting!” and “Congratulations on the Birth of Your Baby!” cards, now there are cards celebrating single parenthood and both heterosexual and same-sex adoption. Need a social change barometer? Forget Twitter – just visit your local Hallmark.

Unfortunately, card stores often remind me of the life I don’t enjoy. There are entire sections devoted to plaques, flags, and doormats for one’s summer home. Additionally, there are racks of “Hallmark Hall of Fame” DVDs featuring women who are much better-looking and pluckier than I will ever be, and CDs of inspiring music I feel as if I should like but rarely do.

Some card stores have chocolates, though. I like those!

To be fair, card stores also make me think of the things I do have – and am very grateful for. They may translate a 30-year friendship into a moderately amusing cocktail napkin, and a profound love into a light-up Valentine’s Day lapel pin, but even so, card stores serve their purpose.

One of those purposes is gift wrap. As long as you don’t think about what you’re paying for paper that’s destined to be ripped, scrunched in a ball with other presents’ wrappings, and thrown out with last night’s potato peelings, Hallmark gift wrap is a great deal. And for the truly lazy, you can go the “gift bag” route – no tape or scissors needed, perfect for “wrapping” a present in the car on your way to a party. They even offer coordinating tissue paper, ribbons, and embellishments. It’ll look like Martha Stewart wrapped your birthday present. Kind of lost on an 8-year-old, but still…

I visit my local Hallmark every other week. Birthdays, anniversaries, engagements, retirements, even funerals…

Sometimes I fall prey to the lure of the “impulse buy” book – those small square tomes extolling the beauty of friendship or exposing the funny side (there is one, apparently) of middle age. If I’m feeling particularly sorry for myself (and I can almost always find a reason to), I get a couple of chocolate-covered pretzels as well…

In fact, I was in there just the other week. I got several birthday cards, two graduation cards, a communion card, and a Father’s Day card.

And, I admit, a coffee mug.

Featuring Eeyore.

In case you’ve been wondering where I’ve been lately (I know – it’s been keeping you up nights, hasn’t it?), I’ve been getting my second book ready to send to the publisher. I LOVE the cover illustration, but the trouble is, I can’t decide what color my title text should be – blue or purple. What do you guys think? (Actual cover visuals follow!)

Here are the choices: