Living In A Police State

Los Gatos and Monte Sereno enjoy a low crime rate. That is unless you count the delinquents like me. In the past few months I’ve had a few tussles with the law and managed to become public enemy number one. I got a ticket for talking on my cell phone. I got a ticket for having my front tires in a cross walk. I had Animal Control leave me multiple warnings for “allowing” my dog to jump our fence. Tonight, I almost ended up in the slammer.

I had to pick my son up from a friend’s house one mile from my home. My 12 year old was watching TV, his 5 year old brother napping beside him. I grabbed my cell phone and told my eldest I would be back in 10 minutes.

The play date went well and my 9 year old was telling me all about it when the flash of blue and red lights caught me by surprise. What in gods name did I do now? I thought to myself doing a quick inventory. The phone had wrung but I opened it “hands free” using the speaker phone. I wasn’t speeding. Ryan was sitting in the front seat (for the first time ever) but no way could the officer determine he was a half inch shy of the 4’9” requirement in the dark. The flashlight glared at me interrogation style as I rolled down the window.

“Can I see your license and registration,” he said.

I reached for my purse. It wasn’t there.

“Oh no, I left my purse on the kitchen counter,” I said. “I just live down this road if you could follow me for a minute?”

“I can’t do that,” he said.

“I do have my registration and proof of insurance,” I offered fumbling through the glove box and handing him the documents. “Can I ask why you pulled me over?”

“You’re registration sticker isn’t up to date,” he said.

“Oh, it really is,” I explained. “But I made a mistake and put it on the front plate instead of the back and haven’t moved it yet because I don’t have the proper wrench.”

He wasn’t interested in my registration sticker. He had bigger fish to fry. He went back to his car for a moment and when he returned said, “You aren’t a licensed California driver.”

“Yes, I am. I have the license in my wallet,” I said, mind racing.

“You aren’t in the computer system. And if you are driving without a license I will have to tow your car,” he said.

““We could resolve all this if you drove up the street with me,” I offered. And as he went to do another computer check, I explained that my son was home waiting for my return.

“How old is your son?” he asked.

“Twelve,” I replied.

“It’s illegal to leave a child under the age of 14 alone Ellen,” he said in that “Mighty Oz” tone. “It’s a misdemeanor and I could report you to Child Protective Services.”

“Twelve year olds babysit where I come from,” I offered.

“Well it’s against the law in the state of California,” he reiterated. “Penal code blah blah blah blah.”

At that point panic began to set in. My car was going to be towed. My unpaid cell phone ticket was going to land me in the slammer. My kids were going to be taken from me. And the lawyer bills would be mounting. I could feel the tears welling up inside me.

I called the kids father. He was a good 40 minute drive away. I called home and assured my responsible 12 year old that I would be home shortly.

The officer returned to my car window and handed me my paperwork. “You need to have your license on you at all times and you need to go home and take care of your children,” he advised me. “I’m going to let you go with a warning.”

I think I nodded. I don’t remember much other than the tears streaming down my face and the mix of fear and indignant anger burning inside me.

According to the local police department’s website, their officers “work hard to provide a full range of services often beyond what other communities are able to provide.” Perhaps a nice bank robbery, once in a while, would help put their world in perspective? Then again, that’s the thinking of a criminal mind and a neglectful mother.

Mind Your Own

There’s a law on the east coast that I never really appreciated or even consciously recognized until I moved out west. It’s an unspoken rule, a kind of social contract that everyone enters into “Thou shall mind thy own damn business.”

On the east coast we walk with our gaze fixed ahead of us, hands in pockets, with an “I’m on a mission” attitude that says without words “I got places to go and people to see. Don’t slow me down.” Don’t get me wrong, people are often friendly. We yield the right of way on the streets giving the mandatory wave; we smile at adorable babies and we nod empathetically at overwhelmed moms. But we don’t often offer our two cents. That’s not the case in California.

I first noticed it on the roads. And before you ask, I am a good driver with a clean license. I learned to drive in New York so I have no trouble asserting myself behind the wheel. But in California I found myself with an endless supply of backseat drivers, and they weren’t in my car. They were in the cars around me. Dozens of them. Pointing angrily at my front tires if they inched into the crosswalk. Waving disapprovingly if I answered my cell phone (and this before the cell ban law was passed.) And all too often flipping me the bird for whatever supposed infraction I’d committed.

Fourteen years in Philadelphia and I only recall being flipped the bird once. Yet in Cali, I’ve been told to “read between the lines” by a least a dozen civilian officers. Maybe living outside the city people feel they can “express themselves” without fear of being shot?

Where are the laid-back, bohemian, surfer, hippie types? They aren’t in the supermarkets either. Today in the P&W (not your warm and fuzzy Piggly Wiggly) with my three kids in tow, I got another dose of unsolicited advise. The market was empty, so I told the kids they could explore as long as they kept track of where I was. They ran off giggling and didn’t get down one aisle before an employee admonished them to “Stop running!” Ok, that was wise; I agreed. Not five minutes later, my little one ran up to plea for Twix yogurt, when a well-coiffed, silver-haired, schoolmarm asked me in semi-horror, “Are those your children?”

“Yes, they are. Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Well they are climbing the boxes in the detergent aisle!” she explained, lips pursed.

“I will take care of that,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.”

I turned to walk away, thinking that would suffice but it didn’t.

“You would think you could maintain some degree of control,” she went on.

I was rather floored. “Didn’t I just say I would take care of?” I replied.

“I would hope so,” she said.

That was it. I’d had had it. My default position is to be polite but when strangers stick their nose in my business –especially as it relates to my children, it just presses my buttons.

“Thanks for the input Grandma,” I sneered and walked off to gather my kids, who were enjoying an innocent game of hide and seek among the toilet paper packages.

Despite their laid back, sunny reputations, not all Californians model the “live and let live” lifestyle. In fact, I’m thinking the whole Silicon Valley could use a nice heaping portion of good ole East Coast “Mind Your Own Damn Business!”

Mind Your Own

There’s a law on the east coast that I never really appreciated or even consciously recognized until I moved out west. It’s an unspoken rule, a kind of social contract that everyone enters into ‑‑“Thou shall mind thy own damn business.”

On the east coast we walk with our gaze fixed ahead of us, hands in pockets, with an “I’m on a mission” attitude that says without words “I got places to go and people to see. Don’t slow me down.” Don’t get me wrong, people are often friendly. We yield the right of way on the streets giving the mandatory wave; we smile at adorable babies and we nod empathetically at overwhelmed moms. But we don’t often offer our two cents. That’s not the case in California.

I first noticed it on the roads. And before you ask, I am a good driver with a clean license. I learned to drive in New York so I have no trouble asserting myself behind the wheel. But in California I found myself with an endless supply of backseat drivers, and they weren’t in my car. They were in the cars around me. Dozens of them. Pointing angrily at my front tires if they inched into the crosswalk. Waving disapprovingly if I answered my cell phone (and this before the cell ban law was passed.) And all too often flipping me the bird for whatever supposed infraction I’d committed.

Fourteen years in Philadelphia and I only recall being flipped the bird once. Yet in Cali, I’ve been told to “read between the lines” by a least a dozen good-doers. Maybe living outside the city people feel they can “express themselves” without fear of being shot?

Where are the laid back, bohemian, surfer, hippie types? They aren’t in the supermarkets either. Today in the P&W with my three kids (not your warm and fuzzy Piggly Wiggly) I got another dose of unsolicited advise. The market was empty, so I told the kids they could explore as long as they kept track of where I was and met me at check-out. They ran off giggling and didn’t get down one aisle before an employee admonished them to “Stop running!” Ok, that was wise. I agree. Not five minutes later, my little one ran up to plea for Twix yogurt when a silver haired, well-coiffed, schoolmarm asked me in an irritated tone, “Are those your children?”

“Yes, they are. Is there a problem?” I asked.

“Well they are climbing the boxes in the detergent aisle!” she explained, lips pursed.

“Oh, well I will take care of that,” I said. “Thank you for telling me.” I turned to walk away, thinking that would suffice but it didn’t.

“You would think you could maintain some degree of control…” she went on. I was rather floored.

“Didn’t I just say I would take care of?” I replied.

“I would hope so!” she said.

That was it. I’d had it. My default position is to be polite but when strangers stick their nose in my business but when it relates to my children --that presses my buttons.

“Thanks for the input Grandma,” I sneered and walked off to gather my kids, who were enjoying an innocent game of hide and seek among the toilet paper packages.

I thought Californians were supposed to be laid-back? Chill. Relaxed. Boho. Live and let live. Not so in the Silicon Valley where I think they could use a nice heaping dose of “Mind Your Own Damn Business!”

The Key to Romance (or Kiss My Ass Naked Butt Man)

Chuck’s marriage had lost its spice. He felt the connection he once had with his wife disappearing. So, he brought home a magnetic poetry kit that had an assortment of romantic and erotic words. Chuck imagined he and his wife could leave tantalizing musings for each other on the refrigerator to rekindle their connection. Day one he awoke to this message from his wife: "kiss my ass naked butt man."

Despite rumors to the contrary, romance isn’t dead. An online study conducted by Yankelovich in February 2008, explored ways of connecting among 1001 couples. The study found that American couples are lacking ze romance and they want more! In fact, 76% of those surveyed said they wish they could add more romance to their relationship.

So, what exactly is romance? The dictionary says it’s “the ardent emotional attachment between people.” Romance is almost as hard to define as love. Professor Richard Wiseman conducted a survey among 6500 men and women all over the world in July 2009. He found that there is a huge rift between what men and women believe is romantic.

“Contrary to what many men believe, you do not have to spend large sums of money to woo a woman -it really is the thought that counts,” Wiseman said.

Men mistakenly believe women value expensive gifts or sexy lingerie as the ultimate in romance. But that is not the case. Women, in fact, prefer little loving touches, such as a morning cup coffee in bed or a gentle foot rub or a relaxing hot bath. And these romantic gestures cost little to nothing.

In the Yankelovich study, people said what was lacking most from their relationships was intimate conversations (41%) and time together (40%) and sex (45%.) Even with all of the communication technology options available today, many people feel less connected than they would like to be with their significant other. One possible solution is to bring on the romance because romance fuels connection.

So, what’s a romance-starved nudnik to do? Dr. Wiseman had women rank romantic gestures and the top ten may surprise you.

1) Cover her eyes and lead her to a lovely surprise.
2) Whisk her away somewhere exciting for the weekend.
3) Write a song or poem about her.
4) Tell her that she is most wonderful woman that you have ever met.
5) Run her a relaxing bath after she has had a bad day at work.
6) Send her a romantic text or email, or leave a note around the house.
7) Wake her up with breakfast in bed.
8) Offer her a coat when she is cold.
9) Send her a large bouquet of flowers, or box of chocolates, at her workplace.
10) Make her a compilation of her favorite music.

Now with all this research data in mind, men –it’s time to draw the bath, ply your woman with compliments, bring on the chocolate truffles and rustle up some va va voom.

Bagel With a Smear

I come from New York which, second to Israel, is the most Jew-packed place in the world. I raised my kids in Philadelphia, where neighbors go sukkah-hopping in the fall. My life as a Jew has never been closeted. I grew up worried I would be made fun of for my braces or my pimples or my father --who had a penchant for walking around the house in his tidy whities with his undershirt tucked in and his black socks pulled up nice and high. But being Jewish was never a source of angst for me. On the East Coast, no one stood out for being Jewish. Things are different on the left coast.

Birds of a feather do tend to stick together. So when we relocated to Northern California, I was careful to find a town with all the signs of a robust Jewish Community. There is a large reform synagogue and an impressive Jewish Community Center. Yet, despite these signs, finding a box of egg matzo at Passover time is like discovering the Holy Grail. Explaining to the cashier at the posh supermarket that you want a loaf of chhhalllah for Friday night dinner (not “ch”allah) is like speaking Greek.

The Jews of Northern California seem anemic if not invisible compared to the Jews I know. There is a lot less “shhhhh” in their “shmear.” In fact, the menu at Noah’s Bagels out here reads “smear of cream cheese.” This invisibility is particularly evident at holiday time when the classrooms are filled with Christmas-themed decorations; the stores are dripping with Christmas-messages, Main Street is bursting with Christmas lights, and from November 27th on, everything is “beginning to look a lot like Christmas.” Only Christmas.

It’s surprising too, because Northern California truly is a melting pot of cultures. The classrooms are more diverse with students of Chinese, Korean, Indian, Japanese and other backgrounds. But, where on the East Coast, the schools acknowledged Chanukah and Kwanza in their holiday parties, here no one seems to bother. Perhaps the Jews of Northern California have assimilated to the point of being unrecognizable (at least to me!)

Don’t misunderstand; I’m all about holiday spirit. But now I realize growing up Jewish on the East Coast was a very different experience for me than it will be for my kids here on the West Coast. This realization is a wake-up call for me. It means I will have to work harder. I have to run the Hanukah table at the classroom parties (which I did.) I have to put up extra Hanukah decorations (not one electric menorah but two!) I have to give my kids the tools to fight the self-consciousness they now feel about standing out for being Jewish. In fact, I have to take that self-consciousness and massage it into understanding and pride.

Happy Cholidays everyone!

Mom, You are Smokin’!

My 12 year old son Ethan is learning about drugs in school as part of a drug awareness and prevention program. The goal of the program is to ensure our children understand the damaging affects drugs and alcohol can have on your mind and body, so they never abuse them despite social pressures. Sounds good, huh? But it’s clearly difficult to explain the difference between “use” and “abuse” to kids who are perfectly comfy in a world of absolutes where the good guys always do what’s right and the bad guys always do what’s wrong. Last night, I think I tarnished my good guy image in my son’s mind when he asked me straight up, “Mom, have you ever tried pot?” and I stopped for only a moment before saying, “Yes.”

Ethan is very passionate about his opinions on drug --an of course, tobacco is considered a very dangerous drug. When he sees a person smoking he is apt to say “Look at that dumb guy smoking! How gross!” When he was younger he did this without any self-editing. Now, that he is older, he realizes expressing his utter dismay this could hurt a smoker’s feelings. But despite not screaming it in stranger’s faces, he still feels a sense of shock and horror. I’m sure I must be part of the reason he is so anti-smoking biased. I’m not a smoker and I sure don’t want my kids to partake in this deadly and dirty habit. So, with the school as my partner, I’ve taught my son that smoking is a bad choice. And I stand by that.

Unfortunately, as a side effect, when it comes to smokers Ethan sees things as black and white. “Why does your friend Carolyn smoke?” he’s asked. “Is she stupid?!” And so, I’ve set out to teach him that making bad decisions doesn’t make you a bad person. It just makes you a person who made a bad decision. And it’s likely that most smokers regret ever starting the habit because it is a very hard habit to break. So, while it’s okay to dislike smoking, it’s not okay to dislike smokers. If anything, he should feel badly for them.

At the tender age of 12 he is more comfy seeing things as cut and dry. I was reminded of this when he was done giving me his Drug Awareness Inventory Test. He seemed a smidgen impressed that I scored 100%. I knew that smoking pot does not make you drive better and that drinking too much alcohol can be deadly. I was better prepared for the test than for Ethan’s question about my own drug use.

When he asked me if I liked it pot, I also told him the truth. “I hated the feeling of the hot smoke in my lungs.” When he asked me if I felt happy when I was high, I told him, “No, I never got high. I just got the munchies, which made me eat more.” Another truth.

He was clearly confused, running head on into a “Do as I say and not as I do” moment. There is a difference between drug use and drug abuse and I tried to explain this to him. “I was very curious and decided to try it,” I said. “If you decide to try it one day, it won’t make you a bad person either, Ethan.” He shook his head, “Well, I’m not going to!” Interestingly his 9-year old brother who is my mini-Quentin Tarantino, ball of creative energy, found the whole thing rather absurd. He didn’t get the big deal at all and said he was sure he would give it a try one day. (Note to self: Keep an eye on the midget in the Bob Marley t-shirt.)

So, I’m a parent who makes choices –good ones and bad ones. In this case, I chose to tell the truth. I could have gone the Bill Clinton route and waffled ala “I didn’t inhale.” But my gut told me that in the long run Ethan would respect my George Washington-like honesty. That said, his next question, which was screamed from down the hallway, took me a bit off-guard.

”Hey Mom, what’s this big blue plastic penis doing in your nightstand?!”

I didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“Ohhhhhh, that?! That was a joke gift my girlfriends gave me for my birthday, honey. Don't touch it!”

I’m just not ready for that discussion. In fact, I think I need a joint.

Who the hell am I?

When I first fell in love, I did what every future bride does with her groom to be. I checked if our names were compatible. Mrs. Ellen Stephanie S-k-y-w-a-l-k-e-r. It rolled off the tongue at the time. And when I double checked our destiny with AEIOU/12345 test (remember that?), I knew Luke was my future. Unfortunately, my beloved at 12 had other plans for himself --like kissing his sister and saving the galaxy—so I never did become Ellen Skywalker.

At 27, I did decide to go all out traditional and change my name when I got married. My grandmother did. My mother did. And, as I wanted nothing more than to meld my life with my then fiancée, I decided to do the same. The notion was a charming one. And I wasn’t alone in my thinking. Even today, some 70 percent of the respondents in a study conducted by the Center for Survey Research at Indiana University, felt they should take their spouse’s surname - and 50 percent said that it should be a legal requirement for a woman to take her spouse’s last name. Rush Limbaugh can do the happy dance.

It sounded simple enough but actually taking on another name and using it day to day kind of flipped me out. If after 27 years, I was no longer Ellen Stephanie Simon, who was I? Names are a big deal in Judaism. We name our kids after deceased love ones in the hopes that they will be imbued with that person’s positive traits. I was named after my great grandmother Esther, who was considered a very strong woman. I’d been told that my last name, Simon, was originally Siminovitz but it was hastily shortened by some lazy scribe at Ellis Island.

My name had meaning to me. If something that was such a big part of my identity, could be changed so easily (“sign right here”), who was I? I reasoned that nothing important was changing. It was just a label. And I started to think of myself, not as Ellen Stephanie Simon or Ellen Stephanie Pifer or Ellen Stephanie Simon Pifer or even Ellen Simon Pifer, though I tried them all on for size. I started to think of myself as simply “Ellen.” I figured, I’d follow in the footsteps of a long line of powerhouse women like Cleopatra, Cher, Madonna and Pink. Did they even have last names? Or did they change them seasonally?

Now with the dissolution of my marriage, I have the opportunity to change my name yet again and I find myself craving old me, wanting to shed this now ill-fitting name. It might be nice to symbolically slam the door on life as Ellen Pifer. But, as with most decisions there are other issues at play. Three big ones. My three sons have their father’s last name and I wonder how reclaiming my maiden name might affect them. I would never want them to feel I was leaving our family or rejecting them in any way. And Lord knows, I’m no longer a “maiden”. So, I’ve got a lot to think about in the coming weeks. And in the meantime, I’ll just be imagining my name up in lights “Ellen” On second thought, I’m shortening it to the much hipper “Elle”... Elle Skywalker. Yeah, I like the sound of that for my next great adventure …This is Red 5, I’m goin’ in.