Dollar Dollar Bill Ya'll

Photo: Anna Cervova

I have a friend who builds banks for fun. You know . . . the way some people knit or other people skydive? (My apologies to any skydiving knitters who may be out there -- I recognize the two activities are not mutually exclusive. Within the context of an individual life, that is. I mean, probably they ARE mutually exclusive -- likely even fatal -- if done at the same time . . . you can hardly count stitches, knit, purl and pull a rip cord at the same time. Though that magician fellow, David Blaine, might be able to do it . . . but I digress. SO unlike me! Where was I? Right. Talking about my bank-building friend.) From scratch. He builds banks!

Why? In part because he's an adrenaline junkie. He's much more likely to skydive than knit and banking is like skydiving for the entrepreneurial spirit. If you don't have an entrepreneurial spirit, then think of it like falling in love. The same risk of landing softly or not; the same heady rush of exhiliration and feeling totally and completely alive. Entrepreneurs crave this feeling and they get it by taking risks that look crazy to folks who weren't born with that gene. (Artists have the gene, too, but they get their rush from writing books and painting murals and carving statues and writing symphonies and singing folk tunes and making movies. In other words, by spending big chunks of time doing things that look crazy to folks who weren't born with the gene. Ditto for athletes who punish their bodies in pursuit of that performance rush. But back to the entrepreneurs.)

Given an economy whose performance rivals that of Linda Blair in The Exorcist, it's worth talking about that entrepreneurial spirit, because it is one of this country's greatest natural resources. We not only breed entrepreneurs, we attract them from other countries. Entrepreneurs are to our economic model what an engine is to a car; we can't move forward without them. We can wobble on a flat tire and we can creep forward even if all four tires are low on air . . . but if the engine quits, we come to a standstill. When entrepreneurs bring their dreams to life, they create jobs. They create products and services. Which brings us to another reason my friend builds banks: he believes that there is a need for local financial institutions that serve their communities in a way banking conglamorates often fail to do. He believes in local merchants who serve their neighbors . . . you know, the folks who are driven out of business when Walmart comes to town.

I can't pretend to understand what's happening in the market. It's mind-boggling, in the truest sense. And like everyone else, I'm frightened by what looks to me like the little Dutch Boy with his finger in the dyke. If this particular dyke breaks, the aftermath could make our economy look like New Orleans after Katrina. There are forces at work here that we can't control.

But I do know this: you vote for the economy you want with every dollar you spend and the way in which you spend it. And that is completely within your control. Support your local entrepreneurs.

Time To Buy Your Snow Shovels!

I am firmly of the opinion that every person on this planet has a life story worth sharing. Every person. No exceptions. Every. Person.

• The teenage boy who bags your groceries.


• The man flipping you the bird after he cuts you off in traffic.


• The Columbian woman who cleans your office.


• That rude lady who sat next to you on the plane who wouldn't turn off her cell phone.


• The IRS agent who processes your tax form.


• The man at the hardware store who sells you a snow shovel.


• The person who hands you your coffee in the morning -- whether it's your significant other or the barista at the local Starbucks.

Without exception, every human being on the planet has a story that is full of passion and joy, agony and ecstasy. When we remember this, it's much more difficult to treat one another disrespectfully because we recognize ourselves in one another. This, or course, is not news to the enlightened souls who read this blog!

But it does bring me to this point -- one we all need to be reminded of from time to time: EVERY person has a life story worth sharing and that includes the person you see in the mirror.

It's extraordinary that we don't, as a rule, honor our own stories more. We take them for granted -- think they're unimportant or even boring. Psssst. Lean in close: They aren't. Your story -- yes, YOURS -- is one of epic proportion. For one thing, the fact that you're even on the planet is a miracle. If you're reading this, and on a computer no less, you are a person of extraordinary privilege whether or not you recognize this fact. And that's just for starters! Start working childhood and love and loss in there and suddenly, no one can look away. Your story has the power to mesmerize masses. Trust me on this. And if you don't trust me, ask William Shakespeare. (If you actually get him, tell him I say hello. And then call the tabloids because boy will you have a story worth sharing! I'm just saying.)

What does any of this have to do with snow shovels? There are no snow shovels in Shakespeare! Truthfully, it's tangential . . . which will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me. Here it is:

During a recent conversation, one of my most extraordinary friends -- who is, among other things, a gifted writer with several published books to her credit! -- told me that she had "blog envy." Being the supportive, loving friend that I am I of course replied "Well, you could have a blog, too!"

"Oh, I don't have anything to say," she protested.

Again with the loving and supportive friend. I told her that wasn't true. That, in point of fact, she had mentioned at least four things that would have made GREAT blog fodder.

Now, I AM a loving and supportive friend. (I think I made that point clear. Right?!) BUT. I didn't go beyond this because, frankly, this woman is a) brilliant; b) funnier than the Sunday comics; c) endlessly creative and d) I think her life is infinitely more interesting than my own!! (Naturally!) And if you only have time to read one blog, I want it to be mine! (Naturally!)

With that said, I'm convinced that one day soon you'll be able to read her blog. Why? Because, of the topics we discussed -- including a family member who was an honest-to-goodness spy during World War II! -- she gave me permission to share just ONE with you.

Here it is: It's time to buy your snow shovels! She bought five . . . one for each door of her home. When she does start that blog, remember you read about the snow shovels here . . .

Bundle of Joy

We have a new member of the family! (And no, I'm NOT in this picture!!! I have NEVER been the woman who would look THAT BEAUTIFUL after giving birth! Except in my dreams. When I'm using the Lulu Guinness travel wallet. The rest of the time . . . well, let's not dwell on it. Let's celebrate the new arrival. Welcome, Little One! And blessings to all!!

Multiple Choice

In case it has escaped your notice, this is an election year.

Almost every day, my in-box is littered with e-mails from my conservative friends. The gist of most of these is that Barak Obama, Joe Biden and the Democrats have no respect for this country or the values on which it was founded. If you vote for a Democrat you are a) an idiot; b) a traitor; or c) an idiot and a traitor. And your father wears stilettos.

I also get e-mails from my liberal friends. The gist of these is that John McCain, Sarah Palin and the Republicans have no respect for this country or the values on which it was founded. If you vote for a Republican you are a) an idiot; b) a traitor; or c) an idiot and a traitor. And your mother wears combat boots.

Okay, I made up the part about the footwear. But the rest of it is accurate. Frankly, I find it exhausting. I challenge anyone reading this to show me even one person whose voting record was changed because someone questioned her intelligence, her morals, or used – um – a more scatological reference to describe her, her candidate and/or her party.

“Well, I was going to vote for Obama, but then last week at the office, Jim pointed out to me that I was a moron in a party full of buttheads and I thought, ‘You know, Jim has a point there!’ So come November, I’ll be voting for McCain.”

No flippin’ way. Not going to happen.

I have friends at both ends of the political spectrum. On the far left is a brilliant, red-headed actress and poet who lives on the Lower East Side and hasn’t paid taxes since I’ve known her; she uses her original voice to create powerful, beautiful art. On the far right is a dangerously handsome Marine-turned-Special Forces sergeant who was a first-responder at Ground Zero on 9/11 and subsequently served and was wounded in Iraq; now that he’s home, he’s counseling other vets and helping them to readjust to civilian life. Politically, these two individuals couldn’t be more different. But both are true to themselves and are giving the world the best of what they have to offer. I love and respect them because of it.

Abraham Lincoln said, “I care nothing for a man’s religion whose dog and cat are not the better for it.” I feel the same way about politics. I really don’t care whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat. What interests me is whether you’re working to achieve your own personal best and whether you’re doing something to make your corner of this country a better place. Forwarding poisonous e-mails doesn’t count.

Lulu Guinness Changed My Life

About a million years ago, I played a blonde bombshell in a staged reading of a frothy little comedy. Actually, the role was written for a blonde who was supposed to be sort of a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly; I was not blonde at the time, nor was I tall and leggy, but they gave me the role anyway. Hair color aside, I thought the role was a HUGE stretch for me. I thought I was much better suited to the main role . . . an Everywoman who was constantly a little disheveled and harried, with too much to do and too little time to do it. But I was thrilled beyond belief that they felt I was better suited to play the bombshell!

What I remember best about my character is that she carried a small, chic and flawlessly organized handbag. The Everywoman character did an entire monologue about this bag, and how it was indicative of a certain kind of woman. Grace Kelly springs to mind. Maybe Audrey Hepburn. Beautiful. Serene. Composed. A woman as charmed as she is charming. (I told you it was a stretch for me!)

Those of you familiar with the bottomless Bag of Despair – or Bag of Da Spare, if we’re being kind – that I tote almost everywhere will understand why I remember that character note lo these many years later. Last night, for example, I pulled two smashed peaches from the bottom of the Bag of Despair; chic, flawlessly organized bags rarely contain produce of any kind – and definitely are devoid of any that is just-this-side of rotten.

Which brings us to Lulu Guinness. This being an especially meaningful birthday for me, I bought myself a gift to commemorate the occasion. I purchased a cherry red leather travel wallet from Lulu Guinness. Did I say travel wallet? Oh, it’s so much more! It’s a gorgeous little clutch. It closes with a zipper adorned with Lulu’s signature red lipstick toggle. It’s lined in suede the palest shade of violet and will hold a passport, boarding pass, credit cards and more than one kind of currency. It has a handle that folds flat against the spine when it’s not in use. There’s a pen holder that’s the perfect home for the slender, silver Tiffany pen a friend gave me years ago. It’s functional. It’s gorgeous. It’s chic and flawlessly organized! A rhapsody in leather. (And no, I NEVER throw it into the Bag of Despair. Perish the thought!)

What’s really remarkable is that when I use it, I feel like the kind of woman I played so many years ago. Like a cross between Marilyn Monroe and Grace Kelly. And I try to behave accordingly, even when the wallet isn’t it my hand. A Course In Miracles defines a miracle as shift in perception; I think the real Lesson of the Wallet is that sometimes a big paradigm shift can come from something quite small and ordinary that makes you see the world – or yourself – in a brand new way. And that is the stuff of which miracles are made.

Thank you, Lulu. (And thank you, too, Fifi.)

Remembering Phillip

The holiest of all holidays are those
Kept by ourselves in silence and apart.
The secret anniversaries of the heart.
-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

More soon . . . today my heart needs the silence of memories.

Overheard

Okay, so I'm having lunch in the Village, innocently chewing lettuce while poring over my copy of Blogging for Dummies. Suddenly, the conversation of the young women behind me pierces my concentration. One (a slender, dishwater blonde) says to her companion:

"I don't want to get old. I mean, I don't want to die when it's like 'Oh my God! What a tragedy! She was so young! I mean, not Heath Ledger or anything... But like . . . maybe 45. I mean, some people still look okay at 50 . . . like that model? What's her name? You know I'm so bad with models' names! Twiggy. I think that's the one. She's like, 50 and she still looks okay. Not great. But okay. But probably 45 to be safe."

(Ummmm . . . okay. Right. I'm thinking you may want to revise that date of departure . . . round about when you're 38 and realize how much you still have to do . . .)

As for me, I'll live by the example of my Aunt Maude and my Aunt Mabel, both of whom passed the 100 year mark: Live until you die! Squeeze all the juice you can out of each and every day! Or, to put it in more erudite terms, "Carpe diem!!"

September 11th

Today is September 11th, the anniversary of the terrorist attacks of 2001. Like every New Yorker, I have memories of that day that probably will be with me always . . . what follows is a piece I wrote a few days after the attack, on Yom Kippur, as the title suggests. I share it today hoping that this country will lead with its strengths, showing the world the best of what we are as a nation.

And on a more personal note, I remember this day for much happier reasons . . . Happy Birthday Karol, Darlene and Karly!! I love you all!!!

Reflections of Hope on Yom Kippur

Today is Yom Kippur. The Day of Atonement. The holiest of all holy days on the Jewish calendar. It is believed that between the ten days which separate Rosh Hashanah, which is the Jewish New Year, and Yom Kippur, the gates of heaven are open. I thought of this late this afternoon as I started my walk across the George Washington Bridge. Thought of it because I was given a stunning visual reminder.

Most of you know that I have been walking across the bridge nearly every day for more than a year now. I've walked it rain and shine, in all seasons, at sunrise, sunset and even high noon. Once, I walked in a virtual blizzard, with the snow so thick that my footprints were obliterated as quickly as I made them. Always I use my time on the bridge for reflection -- enjoying the sun or rain on my face and the river breeze ruffling my hair, but also working out things that might be troubling me personally or professionally. But it is only since September 11th that tears have come to my eyes as I've crossed that bridge.

When I reach the Jersey side of the river, I stop and use the bridge railing as a ballet barre . . . stretch and admire the view. The magnificent skyline of New York, the city I call home and love above all others, is before me and usually my heart swells with affection and pride. But since September 11th, that skyline has been permanently altered. With the Twin Towers gone, it seemed to me that New York had been symbolically castrated. I could not look out without grieving for all that we lost that day. The tangible loss of life and property, certainly. But moreover, the loss of intangible things we thought inviolable -- a degree of personal liberty and privacy. The right to move about our country freely and without fear. On the day of the attack, the bridge was closed and I had promised to stay off it anyway to give my loved ones peace of mind. But the day after, Wednesday, it was opened again. I headed out for my walk that day because it is part of my routine and I desperately needed that anchor of normalcy. But of course nothing was "normal." Not that day nor the days which have followed.

For days, the columns of smoke and ash rose from lower Manhattan like ghosts of the Towers, every bit as high as those landmarks had been. Even after the rain on Friday, the day President Bush set aside for national grieving, the columns were not visibly lessened. It was an eerie sight. But perhaps most disturbing was the smell. Even up here, at least ten miles from Ground Zero as the crow flies, the air was thick with the smell of destruction so that it was hard to breath. My lungs would burn and my clothes would reek by the time I got home. Gradually, the columns settled down. And the smell changed, too. The scent of destruction still wafts upriver. But now it is mixed with the smell of death, the smell of more than 6,000 bodies decaying under the tons of rubble still remaining. I haven't heard anyone in the media talk about that smell. But New Yorkers are certainly talking about it amongst themselves. When the wind is strong and coming straight through lower Manhattan, the smell can literally make you gag. None of which is very hopeful nor uplifting.

But tonight, as I started to walk across the bridge, I had lowered my head and was steeling myself for that first sickening look at the amputated skyline. And when I raised my head what I saw brought tears to my eyes again. But for the first time since this horror began, they were tears of hope, tears of awe. Because where the Towers used to stand, two brilliant shafts of light pierced the cloud cover and fell to earth like a benediction. I stopped, not quite trusting what I was seeing. And as my vision broadened, around those two dominant shafts of light I noticed others . . . the whole lower tip of the island was illuminated by these radiant beams of sunlight coming through the clouds. The scene was all the more dramatic because a dark cloud literally hovered over the space where the Towers once were and yet still the light came through. It was awe-inspiring.

I thought of my Jewish friends and the prayers they must surely have sent heavenward today about the attack. Prayers for guidance. Prayers for comfort. Prayers for healing. Truly, it seemed that on this Jewish holy day the gates of heaven had opened and I was witnessing a message of hope. That we will find guidance and comfort and healing. That like the mythical Phoenix, we will rise from the ashes stronger and more compassionate than before.

Recently, the father of a friend became ill and his family came from near and far to pay their final homage to their patriarch. My friend invited me to meet his family and while I was concerned that I might be resented as an outsider intruding on a private time, I could not pass up the opportunity to meet the people I had heard so many stories about during the past year. And so, in spite of my trepidation, I went. And discovered that I needn't have worried. Everyone was so gracious, treating me with such kindness and warmth in spite of the difficult circumstances, that I was reminded of one of my favorite quotes from Elisabeth Kübler-Ross: "People are like stained glass windows; they shine and sparkle when the sun is out, but when the darkness sets in, their true beauty is revealed only if there is a light from within."

In the days ahead, may the world see the United States as a nation that is lit from within, just as surely as my friend's family is. For just as this family's kindness to a stranger paid homage to the man they had come to honor, by showing that each of them is guided by the values he lived by and taught them, so too will our behavior as a nation reveal to the world what we truly value and believe. May we be true to the best that is in us.

Love,
Deborah
New York, New York
September 27, 2001

Welcome to My World (Won't You Come on In?)

Welcome to the world of Debbie Scribble! That's a nickname my godfather gave me many moons ago . . . he pointed out that I always had a pen in hand (okay! at that point in my life it was a crayon!) The point is, he predicted I'd be a writer . . . and, since there are several people out there using my name (da noive of dem!), I decided I'd launch this blog with my childhood nickname. At this point, I'm just looking for a forum to post some random thoughts and musings to entertain my family and friends and maybe (just maybe!) make some new friends along the way! Then we'll see where it goes . . .

I'm launching this site on September 10th. Let the adventure begin . . . !