Little Chicken Media

Posted By Hinda Mandell on January 11, 2010

This article was cross-posted with the Forward’s Sisterhood Blog.

As if us single ladies didn’t have enough pressure to deal with. (No, mom, I would not like to meet the emcee from the Goldenblatt’s Chanukah party.) We now have this to consider: It’s not only our biological clocks that are ferociously ticking before our female hardware is incapable of conceiving. That concern is oh-so 1990s. Try this on for size: If we don’t have a kid soon – as in now – we may be too old to technologically connect with our tot, who will be born twiddling an iPhone.

But maybe I’m being overly sensitive.

In Sunday’s New York Times, Brad Stone wrote about a growing technology gap not only between parents and their toddlers, but also the “mini-generation gaps” between youngsters on the technological front. Two-year-olds are in love with smart phones – who isn’t? – and they assume other technological devices will act just as smartly. For instance, toddlers touch computer screens (What old-fashioned and heavy machines!) with a baby finger swipe. They’re disappointed when the screen doesn’t respond to their light touch. At the same time, parents remain hypnotized playing endless rounds of brain-cell destroying solitaire on the iPhone. In short, iBabies are tech savvier than their parents. They are born into a world where everything, literally, is available at their fingertips. For them the smart phone is the norm. For us, it’s still the coolest toy in the world.

The article doesn’t connect the iBaby trend to a related development of women having children later in life. But I can’t help think about repercussions for some women. I’m a month shy of 30, unmarried, unattached and without smart phone. In techie parlance I have a dumb phone. I guess I’m just a late adapter – and waiting for Verizon to gift me with a free smart phone.

Perhaps it’s a coincidence: I’ll be late to the game with my own smart phone and conceiving my first child. Therefore, there’s a high likelihood that my hypothetical child may indeed end up coaching me on my finger-swiping screen technique. And how to use my phone as a GPS. Or something.

My lackluster iSkills may embarrass my hypothetical child, but isn’t embarrassment a key dynamic in the mother-child relationship? Heck, I still scream to high heaven when my mom asks me how to complete the “copy and paste” task. (Yet my mother conveniently knows how to maneuver around EBay, executing the ins and outs of how to nab her item, like a stealth undercover operative.)

After some rumination, I don’t feel so bad about my potential collision of the technology gap with late motherhood. Don’t we want our children to be smarter and more nimble than us on technological and many other frontiers?

I’m now off to give my father a Facebook tutorial.

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Posted By Hinda Mandell on January 5, 2010

By Faigel

Is it too late for a self-indulgent new year’s resolution post?

Oh well!

I realized my new year was off to a good start when I attended a New Year’s Eve party entitled “Hooch and Tits.” That’s right. The fact that it was thrown by my family is beside the point.

Despite the title, it was a pretty tame night. It was also the first New Year’s Eve celebration in six years during which I did not exchange heated words with a boyfriend/partner/date/romantic interest. A small feat, no doubt, but I’m taking this as an auspicious omen and running with it.

2010. What the fuck? How did I get here?

I’m not quite 30, and I’m not quite finished with grad school. And I haven’t gotten it quite right in love yet. And I could eat healthier. And drink less. And deal with my anxiety by meditating and attending a yoga class (again). And learn to be braver in my mistakes. And submit for academic publication.

Who am I kidding? Just making this list was exhausting and leaves me craving a Beefeater martini (up with a twist, please!).

I realize there’s some peace in self-acceptance. And I’ll spare you the Hallmark line about how this is just who I am, and I should just learn to accept these things about myself. Not that there’s no truth in these statements, but at this age they come off like platitudes leaving me so bored I could die.

So, 2010, what do I want from you?

Let’s coexist.

Be good to me, and I won’t try to put too many expectations on you. Deal?

Fine, I’ll stop drinking so much.

Just as soon as I finish this martini …

Cheers to another year, everyone. (This one will be different).

Category: Maidel & Faigel | 1 Comment »
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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 31, 2009

 

 

This bit was cross-posted with the Forward’s Sisterhood blog.

 

A post-Chanukah, pre-Christmas epiphany has guided me to a new understanding about Jews and Gentiles: While we both love a deal, there’s a difference in how we snag it.

 

I arrived at this inter-religious realization at the tail-end of this holiday shopping season, when newspaper circulars, emailed promotions and Facebook ads tell us to buy, buy, buy. As if we actually needed any instruction in that department. Sales promotions attempt to take the pain out of holiday spending with a promise of free merchandise – stuff we really want but really don’t need – if only we first jump through a number of hurdles.

 

I was ready to jump through those hurdles for three free pairs of socks offered by an outdoorsy retailer. And yes, I said socks.

 

It happened three nights before Christmas – a holiday I celebrate with Kung Pao chicken and a movie (what else?). I received an email alerting me I could score three pairs of socks at no cost if only I bring a copy of that very email to the store when it opens. Simple enough. And I so very, very badly wanted those socks. But more than wanting them I needed those socks; “needed” as in food, water and shelter “needed.” In fact, I reasoned that it would be irresponsible and wasteful of me to not take advantage of this deal. A Christmas steal.

 

Suddenly, my previous poo-pooing of holiday consumerism went the way of Santa in summertime. Certainly, it was worth getting up early to net free merchandise. The hurdle? I didn’t have a printer. How was I supposed to claim my socks at no cost without a copy of the promotion? I called the store to find out if showing them a copy of the email on my computer sufficed. (Answer = No). I phoned my local Kinko’s but learned they opened too late in the morning, leaving me little time to stake out my spot before the retailer opened its doors.

 

What began as a consumerist itch grew into red-hot frustration of gimme, gimme I need it now. And then just as suddenly as I entered the craze, the haze blissfully lifted.

 

A sense of calm prevailed: Why do I need to jump through hoops to score socks that no one sees in boot season anyhow?

 

And that’s when I realized the fundamental difference in how Jews and Gentiles approach snagging a deal. And, don’t kid yourself, we all love a deal. And we all make an activity out of it one way or another. For some Gentiles it involves brown-bagging breakfasts and waiting in line before stores open. For some Jews it involves searching for diamond-in-the-rough merchandise, hoarding coupons as plentiful as manna and then charming clerks (or badgering them) into a discounted sale.

 

We come from a culture historically saturated with peddlers who eventually became merchants, some of whom eventually became department store founders.

 

Jews practically invented retail. (Hello Macy’s, Filene’s, Bloomingdale’s)

 

And we feel oh so comfortable in its hallowed halls.

 

A few weeks ago my mother came home from Bloomingdale’s with the glow of fresh love on her cheeks. For the cost of two pennies she purchased two bracelets: Truly a Christmas miracle of the Jewish variety. She said the scene unfolded something like this:

 

Out of a pile of bracelets in a clearance bin marked 60 percent off, she picked up two copper numbers. Out of curiosity, she brought the jewelry to the clerk to scan. One never knows when a deal might make itself known.

 

The clerk: “Oh, that’s odd,” she said. “No price is coming up in the computer. This must be very old stock.”

 

My mother, remembering the time I purchased a brown mini-skirt at Bloomingdale’s for one beautiful red cent (my proudest moment), since no price came up in the computer that time either, seized her opportunity to snag a deal:

 

“When that happens you can sell it to me for a penny,” my mother said.

 

“Alright,” the clerk said. “I guess it’s possible you can have one for a penny.”

 

My mother pressed on. “I’d like two bracelets for two pennies,” she said.

 

And that’s how my mother effectively got two bracelets from Bloomingdale’s for free. No lines. No promotions. No printed emails. Yet there’s something fundamentally similar, too, to the Jewish-Gentile shopping divide: And that’s perseverance. In order to score the goods, you gotta work the scene.

 

Even free socks aren’t really free.

 

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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 29, 2009

Category: Maidel & Faigel | 4 Comments »
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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 28, 2009

Home for the holidays.

A phrase so simple, so idyllic and so normal.

A phrase that so completely manages to bypass the family neurosis that comes with it.

A quick Google News search of “family stress” reveals 9,769 hits. (As a point of comparison, fruitcake nets a mere 1,155 and eggnog scores 3,144.)

Newsday’s article on coping with family stress offers a few oh-so-helpful hints. Consider, “be a grownup.”

I’ll tell that to my mom. And perhaps I could have avoided this situation:

The scene: my best friend’s house.

Present: Me, my best friend, my best friend’s mother.

My mom picks me up from a visit with my best friend and stops in for some tea. (Quaint, right?)

My best friend’s mother, a neurologist, talks about taking a medical board exam in sleep medicine.

“Maybe you can talk to my husband,” my mom says. “He sleeps on his back and I tell him, ‘Fred, why do you sleep on your back?’ The sounds he makes, they’re not even snores. They’re puffs. So every night I have to roll him onto his side because I’m telling you I can’t take it anymore. It’s unseemly.”

I try to shove cake into my mom’s mouth to distract her.

“So should he see a sleep specialist?” my mom asks, cake crumbs sputtering from her mouth. “Because it’s the puffs I can’t take. It’s like a whole orchestra at 3 in the morning. And all I want is to get some sleep.”

Happy neurosis holidays. Putting the oy back in joy.

My best friend turns to me and remarks that now she understands why it’s so utterly impossible to embarrass me. My mother, bless her, has completely inoculated me from feeling embarrassed.

I’m immune.

I guess that’s why I go home for the holidays. At 29, I still need my yearly booster shots against possible embarrassmentitis.

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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 22, 2009

Category: Maidel & Faigel | 3 Comments »
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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 21, 2009

By Faigel

One of the perks of being gay is that when you date someone, you stand the potential for doubling your wardrobe.  No matter how you slice it, this is aces.  Dating a jock? You’ll never run out of comfy t-shirts or ankle socks (how are socks always disappearing anyway?).  Dating a business exec?  I haven’t had such a selection of ties since high school.  Dating a stoner?  Flannel is so, so warm, especially during these long, cold Northern winters.

The uncomfortable part comes, I suppose, when the break up occurs.  Do you return his (now your) favorite hoodie along with his pile of DVDs?  Those mesh shorts, spattered in paints stains?  You know, the ones he lent you when you “unexpectedly” spent the first of your thousand nights at his apartment.  And what about those Diesels?  Sure, they look good on him, but they look (and feel) even better on you.

Decisions, decisions.

I’m an advocate of hanging tight to lovers’ threads.  I guess I’ve inherited quite a collection of clothes over the years on account of this.  Hell, if you were half invested in your relationship, then you’ve rightfully earned what you’re keeping.  It’s always awkward, though, when a new romantic interest compliments you on something that belonged to an ex.

“I love that tie! Where’s it from?”

“Thanks … uh …” Suddenly I flashback to relationships past – to every smile and every fight.  Why didn’t those relationships work out? How will this one be any different?  I start to sweat.  A Coldplay song begins to play in my head.  And then my eye catches his handsome Prada loafers, which look like a size 11, too. “Uh, Saks, I think,” I answer as I collect myself.

Maybe my heart can’t stand another round of this, but my closet surely won’t mind.

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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 15, 2009

Only once did someone tell me I resembled Barbra Steisand. But once is enough. Telling a 29 year old that she resembles a 67 year old famous for her shnoz is enough to humble an ego fit for Alexander the Great. And my ego is more on par with a muppet’s.

Perhaps I’m a masochist. Or perhaps I just wanted a bit of truth serum. Either way, I wanted to find out whether I did resemble the great songstress.

Imagine my delight when a night out on the town with the Faigel and another friend brought us to the city’s gay dance establishment. I was the only skirt in the place and feeling particularly punchy. I looked up at the televisions playing over the bar and saw my likeness crooning back at me. Oh Barbra, there she was circa 1970.

Maybe it was the strobe light or the dance pole or the company: Regardless, a light bulb suddenly went on upstairs. Here, in this hot-blooded location, I could find the answer to my question by asking the dance club’s patrons! If anyone would be able to give me a straight answer, it was them.

The Faigel helped break the ice by approaching the fellows at the bar.

“Excuse me,” he began. “This woman would like to know if she resembles Barbra Streisand.”

Response rates varied, but only slightly. One man asked me to turn my head so he could examine my profile (that was encouraging). A couple others simply smiled and nodded yes. Two men on two separate occasions poo-pooed the Barbra Streisand comparison. To them, I more closely resembled our co-religionist Sarah Silverman.

That made me feel a wee bit better.

I can’t report the exact tally or whether there was a decisive verdict that evening. While I kept tabs of the nays, yeahs and what-do-you-say’s, I also happened to misplace the napkin that acted as my scorecard.

Oh well. Something to write a song about one day. In the meantime I’ll be my own Funny Girl.

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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 10, 2009

I am certainly not the worst gossiper on the planet. But I do generally like to talk. While I know there is a fundamental difference between talk (“Mom, will you please pass me a fork?”) and gossip (“Mom, can you believe the Goldbergs use plastic forks on Passover?”) the two forms of chatter often converge.
And when they do, I am more than happy to partake in a little verbal schmoozing. It may not be chicken soup, but it’s still good for the soul.
Well, not according to everyone. Imagine my paranoia when I read this New York Times bit on a workplace that contractually forbids its employees from talking about others behind their back.
Sure, backstabbing is mean and unprofessional. But not being able to say anything about someone who isn’t present? That sounds downright totalitarian!
The purpose of gossip (hey, I know, I took an independent study relating to the subject!) is not just to reinforce social ties and impose a moral code. It also helps people monitor their environment and learn what others are saying about them. That, comrades, is crucial for our evolution! After all, if Shlomo Epstein plans to buy all of the Annie’s Sour Cream & Onion Bunnies from the local co-op, and if everyone’s talking smack about his digestive habits, I’m gonna want to know about it. After all, I better get to that co-op first.
Shlomo silliness asside, I do recall an instance of workplace gossip that I found helpful because it clued me into what others thought about me.
In my mid-20s I was an editor of an East Coast Jewish newspaper. I came into the job with excitement for editing copy and a penchant for fitted denim and blousy tops. I dressed age appropriate. Perhaps my wardrobe did not convey nerdy seriousness. No bother, I thought.
That is until the publisher’s secretary took me aside one day.
Someone called the publisher, she said.
Wow, that’s great, I probably responded.
They didn’t understand why the editor of the newspaper was wearing tight black jeans and pink go-go boots at the gala fundraiser the other night, the secretary continued.
Go-go boots? I retorted. They were all-weather, made in Canada, moon boots, I said. I don’t do 70s fashion. I’m an 80s girl.
Besides, what did this caller have against hot pink?
The point is two-fold: One, the secretary and publisher perhaps sought to tone down my dressing style by conveying this third-party comment to me. I was supposed to dress the part. Second, I valued knowing what was said about me behind my back.

Even if I did choose to still rock the hot pink moon boots at work.

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Posted By Hinda Mandell on December 4, 2009

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