Tales of Stolen Shoes

The story on the front page of today’s Sunday Times sounds like something out of Sex in the City. Remember the time Carrie Bradshaw arrived at a friend’s party in Brooklyn and was asked to check her trademark Manolo Blahnik’s at the door? The shoes were stolen -- presumably by another guest -- and the rest of the episode focused on whether Carrie should demand that the host reimburse her for an obscenely expensive pair of shoes.

The difference is the story in the Times is set in Seoul, South Korea, and deals more with men’s shoes than women’s. One thief allegedly stole 1700 pair of expensive, designer shoes. The police believe he took them from – among other places -- funeral homes connected to hospitals. The story goes on to say that Korean culture encourages people to remove their shoes not only at funerals but at restaurants and other places too.

According to the story by Choe-Sang-Hun, the Seoul police set up a massive lost and found after discovering the cache of shoes. Unfortunately only 95 out of the 400 victims who showed up could be matched with their stolen footwear.

I admit to having a no shoes rule in my home – particularly in winter weather. We have a small Oriental rug in our vestibule, the gift of one of Dennis’ Persian clients. It absorbs water, sand, salt, and mud particles beautifully, and that’s where most people volunteer to leave their shoes. But I wouldn’t dream of asking anybody to leave their shoes in the hallway of our condo complex, and wisely chose to suspend the rule the day we hosted Daphne and Etan’s engagement party.

The shoes we wear are a part of our identity, and losing them can feel like identity theft – though I would never pretend the consequences are as severe. Unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I own no Manolo Blahnik’s. Aside from the fact that I’m in no position to pay close to $1,000 for a pair of sandals, my bunions preclude me from wearing high heels.

Similarly, on the advice of an orthopedic surgeon who advised against bunion surgery, I’ve stopped wearing the Ferragamo Vara bow pumps I used to purchase in multiple colors. My dressiest shoes are of the Taryn Rose variety, black ballerina flats accented with a silver rhinestone on each vamp.

With Boston experiencing sunshine and 50-degree weather, on Friday evening, I felt compelled to order a pair of new Mephisto sandals. After talking with a very helpful Zappos customer service rep., I decided to settle for a style called Halona in black. Though I preferred the silver, the likelihood of a new shipment in my size seemed unlikely.

The shoes are what my Mom would have called scuffs, the type secured to one’s foot with just a narrow band – just like the Dr. Scholl’s exercise sandals I wore in college. I suspect the shoes identify me as a woman who puts comfort before style.

Though my Dad has always discouraged me from leaving ANY of my possessions in public places, I have no choice when it comes to rowing. With sneakers mounted on most racing shells, rowers typically leave their shoes on the dock.

My rowing club is a place where everybody knows one another, and I never thought what happened to the Seoul funeral goers could happen there. Still somebody tried to steal my Nike rubber scuffs with the Velcro closures the year I rowed in the 2005 Head of the Charles Regatta.

When I returned from my race, my shoes were not on the dock where I’d left them. After gathering my belongings from the locker room, I decided to run down to the dock just one last time in my socks. The scuffs had reappeared, and I scooped them up with great pleasure – knowing that whatever jerk had “borrowed” them would be walking over a lot of gravel.

I’ve learned my lesson. Despite abhorring the identity conferred on the wearer of Crocs, I own a pair just for rowing. Unlike those really ugly ones in bright colors that look like clogs, mine are baby blue and open toed. I bought them for $14 at TJ Maxx, and if anybody wants to steal them, be my guest.

In Seoul, Police Link 1,700 Pairs of Shoes to Just 2 Greedy Feet

Carrie Bradshaw's Stolen Manolo Blahniks

Boomer Friends Foursquare

(Photo Courtesy Tippingpointlabs.com)

It’s 5:18 a.m., I’m at home blogging, and a burden has been lifted from my shoulders. Since I’m not at my gym, there’s no need to whip out my iPhone and check in on Foursquare. Huh? About a month ago, Daphne turned me on to a new, mobile smart phone application that tells “friends” exactly where I am.

When I asked my daughter how to use Foursquare, her response was of the try it, you’ll like it variety: “Oh Mom, just go online, open an account, and play with it.” I’ve since learned that if I check in often enough at one place, I can earn “badges.” So, for example, I am now the “Mayor” of Healthworks Brookline, the Milk Street Café, my default lunch eatery, and my favorite Chinese restaurant, Jumbo Seafood in Newton Centre. Too bad the first person to “check in” at Jumbo got its name screwed up, and there seems no easy way to change it, which irks me.

As a baby boomer, my only Foursquare “friends” are two women I’ve met at national conferences for communications professionals, a friend who’s in charge of new media for the Governor’s Office, a college professor who’s a friend of my son-in-law, Etan, and of course Daphne and Etan. Recently a reporter for the local NPR affiliate whom I met through Twitter accepted my “friend” request.

Since Foursquare provides people with my precise physical location, I’ve made a point of accepting “friend” requests only from people I know and like. I know when the WBUR reporter – also getting familiar with Foursquare – has arrived at work, and also when he’s arrived home, because he, too is taking the time to “check in.” I also know when my friend, Brad, is at his gym swimming laps for yet another one of his upcoming triathlons.

On my recent visit to Atlanta, Daphne and Etan laughed when they saw I’d already checked in at restaurants like Six Feet Under – where I used Foursquare’s “Tips” function to report a 45 minute wait, and Ria’s Bluebird, where I gave a big thumbs up to the caramelized banana pancakes floating in hot maple syrup.  

The developers of Foursquare presumably had a serious business purpose when they created this new smart phone app. Real friends in search of something to do on a Friday night can use the app to see who’s gathering at which bar, and use Foursquare’s little mapping function if the location is unfamiliar.

Some people use it to see what trusted friends think of a particular bistro – the value of the tips function is obviously a function of the number of “friends” one has. Supposedly restaurants or other vendors may eventually choose to reward people with frequent check-ins. The latter seems a little silly, since Dennis and I are regulars at most of the places we eat, and get greeted by name.

Yes, Foursquare can be irritating, and my niece, Ruth, who presumably is not using this hot new app, didn’t hesitate to call me on what she considered annoying behavior. I thanked her for telling me to de-link Foursquare from my Twitter account because she would prefer not to receive a Tweet five times a week telling her I’m at the gym – even if I provide tips about Zumba instructors.

If truth be told, I began using Foursquare for the same reasons I opened LinkedIn, Facebook, YouTube, and Twitter accounts, and also purchased my iPhone and flip video camera. As a new media newbie, I learn best by experimenting. 

FourSquare How to Videos on YouTube

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xm12GMKBF2w

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qnq_mWhUH9w

A Warm ATL Welcome

(Photo Courtesy of Wikipedia)

Growing up in New York, we saw my father’s parents every weekend. An only child, Dad also saw his parents solo at least a few times during the week. If we didn’t trek down to the Lower East Side on Saturdays, they came to Queens on Sundays. Though I enjoyed spending time with a Grandma who came bearing chocolate and raisin Chunkies, and a Grandpa who handed out quarters, I don’t think Dad had any input into the timing or duration of their visits.

Some Sundays, Mom could be heard muttering under her breath about her in-laws arriving earlier than she’d wanted them to. It was the pre-dishwasher era, and my grandmother, so unnerved by the sight of dishes in the kitchen sink, would begin washing them. No doubt mom would have preferred that Grandma stay in the living room.

As of this writing, I’m headed back to Boston from Atlanta -- following a fun, but all too brief, visit with Daphne and Etan that began on Friday night and ended early Sunday afternoon. I will connect with my son-in-law at the South by Southwest Interactive conference in Austin in less than two weeks. A digital media maven, he has promised to walk me through the schedule before I go, just to make sure I select the best out of what seems like hundreds of workshops.

Like Dad, Daphne is an only child. So I want to believe I’m sensitive to the perils of turning into a high maintenance mom and mother-in-law. As it happens, the earthquake in Chile required that Etan head into work at CNN International early Saturday morning -- scotching his plans to join us for breakfast at the Flying Biscuit near Piedmont Park, and providing us with time for a little mom-daughter outing.

With blue skies and cool crisp weather, I asked Daphne if we could explore her new neighborhood, East Atlanta, with a four-mile run. My heart rate monitor reflected a terrain of rolling hills, providing some assurance that we were burning calories – anticipating a weekend of Southern restaurant cooking.

After a quick shower in the plush carpeted parents/in-law suite the kids have in the basement of their new home, Daphne and I stopped at Joe’s, a wonderful, independent coffee house within walking distance – just to fortify ourselves for what we knew would be at least a half hour wait for a table at the Flying Biscuit.

I needed to see all the places the kids might visit in the course of a week -- mostly to assure myself they’re happy in their new environs, but also to be able to visualize how they’re living. Daphne and I strolled through Piedmont Park, where we looked at the Noguchi Play space she and I last visited when she was a toddler. I got a kick out of seeing seesaws with rubber tires bolted to the underside of the wood planks to ensure soft landings.

Saddened by the tragedy in Chile, I still looked forward to getting the back story about what a digital media producer does when a breaking news event like that occurs. That would come with our tour of CNN late Saturday afternoon, and during the course of dinner at a packed dive bar cum Southern seafood restaurant called Six Feet Under.

Sunday morning, before heading to Ria’s Bluebird for buttermilk pancakes with caramelized bananas and hot maple syrup, I got to see some of the news segments Etan has helped produce since starting his new job – all lovingly recorded on Tivo by Daphne. The kids suggested that I return to Atlanta in April for the Dogwood Festival at Piedmont Park.

Etan’s parents are planning to visit the kids for the first Passover Seder in late March. Daphne is delighted about the prospect of Etan’s mom, Janice, helping her plant flowers along the walkway leading up to the entrance of their new house.

I think Janice and are both determined to be model moms/moms-in-law. With the kids living far away, it’s important to make the visits fun and memorable.

House Guests

This particular Courtyard by Marriott radio ad hasn’t run for while, but I loved it because it dealt with that perennially sticky issue of house guests. It went like this: An entire extended family is staying in a house with one bathroom. A really irritating male relative takes it upon himself to schedule a shower time for every guest, starting with Aunt Martha. He warns that anybody violating the rules will be required to shower with the garden house. 

Flash back to 1972. My first husband, Jerry, and I – transplanted to Boston – often stayed with his parents at their home in Roslyn when we returned to New York. Assigned to sleep in his tiny childhood room with two twin beds perpendicular to each other, we would joke about having gotten the presidential suite.

Both middle children, it wasn’t lost on us that his older brother and his wife got to stay in a wing of the house that once served as a grandma apartment, and had its own bathroom. Jerry and I would grumble to each other about staying in a hotel the next time, but I don’t think we ever did.

My mother-in-law, Pearl, was a relaxed hostess, and if she was anything less than happy about our showing up for a few days, she never showed it. Though she would often guilt Jerry about visiting other relatives in the area, I don’t think he took her demands too seriously.  

I would be the first to admit that I’m anything but a relaxed hostess, despite my best efforts to change or at least pretend I’ve changed. Pearl’s visits to Boston sometimes coincided with Passover. We were living in a vast apartment in Brookline at the time, and without consulting me, she began giving her sister the grand tour, leaving a trail of matzo crumbs on the hardwood floors. Poor Jerry got an earful about what I considered an egregious breach of houseguest etiquette.

Years after Jerry died, I began dating a widower named Dennis, who’s now my husband. After his first wife died, Dennis always had a house full of guests. He joked about his house being a hotel, with him playing the role of concierge. My “new” husband is not one to worry about things like particles on the floor.

Dennis does cherish his privacy, which is why any time we have visited his grown children in New York or Chicago, we’ve stayed in a hotel. Similarly when in the past we went down to Florida to see my daughter and son-in-law, Daphne and Etan, we have booked a hotel room.

In addition to enjoying poolside chaise lounges and a gym, I’ve gotten to behave like a slob – tossing wet towels on the floor, just so that housekeeping knows I’m not going to be “green” and re-use them. I can also feel that I’m not doing anything to irritate the kids.

This weekend will be a first. Daphne and Etan have moved to Atlanta, and purchased their first home several weeks ago. With three bedrooms and three bathrooms, they have insisted that I stay in their home.

Knowing that they have stayed in our condo in Boston – putting up with my no shoes, beach sand or crumbs on the hardwood floors rule – I feel a little anxious about how Daphne and Etan will evaluate my performance as a houseguest. Of course I promise to re-use whatever towels they give me and spray the anti-mildew stuff on the shower after each use.

Should I ask Daphne and Etan to provide me with house rules? Oh, dear, am I starting to sound like that obnoxious relative in the Courtyard by Marriott ad?

No Thank You, OMNI-Carb

This is the second time I’ve received the OMNI-Carb brochure from Brigham & Women’s Hospital that says “Come Dine With Us. . .” I have some reservations about agreeing to eat one meal at BWH five days a week while participating in a 21 week research project – even if helps wipe out killer diseases.

Still, intrigued by the opportunity to receive “up to $1500 for completing the study,” and “meals and snacks for 21 weeks at no cost,” I went online to get more information. Apparently OMNI-Carb stands for Optimal Macronutrient Intake for

Carbohydrate. The point of the study is not to help participants to lose weight, but to determine which of four different diets is most likely to reduce the risk factors leading to diabetes and heart disease.

At first I thought I could meet the eligibility requirements. I’m not taking medication for blood pressure, cholesterol or diabetes. I’m over 30 and have normal blood pressure. I suppose if there were enough of an incentive, I could change my eating habits for 21 weeks.  But here’s the catch. . . Participants need to have a BMI (Body Mass Index) of 25 or more, which I think means overweight.

Every time I’ve inquired about the weight loss programs advertised on posters outside the office of my primary care physician in a BWH practice, my doctor, Suzy, always laughs. She’s often expressed concern not about my overindulging in food, but about my overdoing the exercise.

The only time I’ve come close to “dining” with the good folks at BWH is going into the Au Bon Pain there in search of coffee before my appointments with the orthopedist who’s treating me for wrist tendonitis, most likely the consequence of poor form during my spinning classes at the gym. Though the most recent cortisone shot coupled with a really uncomfortable wrist splint seems not to have made any difference in the pain, I want to believe the wrist will be healed in time for the rowing season, which could come as early as March.

But let’s pretend. Imagine I did have that BMI of 25 or more, how would I fare in the study? With an early a.m. exercise schedule followed by a full day at work, I’d most likely need to eat dinners at BWH five days a week.

Start with the desserts, because that’s where I like to start. I’m not sure if one gets a choice, but these are the “desserts/snacks” offered in the OMNI-Carb study: Water Crackers, Peppermint Patty,Twix Candy,Unsalted Pretzels,Dove Chocolate Minis, Jelly Beans, Peppermints, Vanilla Wafers, Angel Food Cake, and Caramel Rice Cake.

The jelly beans sound o.k. but I suspect portion control would rule the day, with perhaps a cherry, licorice, pineapple, orange, and lime but nothing more. The study hasn’t even begun and I’m thinking about going to bed feeling hungry and deprived.

Not on the list are those little packets of whole wheat fruit Newtons at a mere 130 calories or the Dulce de Leche Luna energy bars at 180. Nor do I even see sorbet, my dessert of choice when I’m dieting. Of course when I’m not dieting, my weekend treat is some sort of warm fruit in puff pastry concoction with a small scoop of ice cream.

As for sources of nutrition, the study seems to require the consumption of foods I consider less than mouth-watering. Granted I’m not fussy enough to cause me to be a “problem guest,” but I don’t eat eggs, egg beaters or cod. Ham turkey sounds unappetizing enough to make me feel that I was working really hard for the “up to $1500.”

Unlike Patti Blagojevich, who reportedly ate a spider just for the money, I guess I’d be a lousy reality show contestant. OMNI-Carb, please remove me from your mailing list!

Mom Blogging & February Vacation

Photo Credit: Go Caribbean

Tell me we need yet another mom blogger! Daphne -- now all grown, married and living in Atlanta -- has requested that I pen more posts about my days as a young mother. Though I’ve largely resisted that suggestion, I can’t resist talking about February school vacation, unfolding right as we speak.

For the record, I’m working this week, with no worries about childcare. But be assured I can empathize with my younger colleagues who have scrambled to make arrangements.

Flash back to February 1985. With Daphne having started third grade the previous September, I abandoned my career as free-lance journalist -- with flexible hours and lots of work at home time -- for a full-time gig as a public affairs officer at an environmental regulatory agency based in downtown Boston.

With plans for a trip to Paris in place before I’d started the job, I’d been able to negotiate three weeks of unpaid leave in April – handily covering my daughter’s spring break. Her dad and I even had our summertime childcare arrangements in place, signing her up for eight weeks at a lovely overnight camp on Lake Winnipesaukee.

I may have taken Christmas week off to be with Daphne, perhaps taking her to visit grandparents in New York for part of the time. But February was a problem. The best option I could think of was the vacation week program at the Jewish Community Center – filled with gym activities and a few museum outings.

Daphne balked at the idea, and I was riddled with guilt at the prospect of my little darling spending her school vacation in what was frankly an institutional setting. While other working parents were lobbying the Brookline School Committee to eliminate this particular week off, I took a more pragmatic approach.

My daughter had wanted a pair of expensive Guess overalls, all the rage among Brookline third graders at the time. We ran out to the Chestnut Hill Mall and made the purchase. But the deal was Daphne couldn’t wear the overalls until she completed the JCC vacation program.

Curious about the origins of this particular week off, which didn’t exist when I went to school, I did an online search, and found a story in the Albany News-Tribune citing the energy crisis of the ‘70’s, when schools in the Northeast closed to save on fuel costs. Citing the hardship for parents, the article also seeks balance, quoting sources from the travel industry and a teacher’s union.

Recently I heard my stepson, Jeremy, lamenting the high price of airfare for a trip to Disneyworld during school vacation week. “Suck it up,” I said jokingly, having paid through the nose during all those years when trips functioned partly as family vacations and partly to alleviate the hassle of childcare arrangements.

Still, I have to admit that we avoided places like Disneyworld or any venue that was likely to be especially mobbed during a school vacation week. Next time I speak with Daphne, I’ll have to ask her if she remembers the fights over beach chairs at Barbados Beach Village during February vacation week.

Eulogy for a Rower

(Photo credit: Row2k.com)

For the past several weeks I’ve dreaded receiving an email from my rowing club with “Alan Fischer” in the subject line. It was six years ago that he had been diagnosed with cancer. I don’t think Alan had even turned fifty when he got the news.

But somehow I hoped this wonderfully smart, kind, athletic and thoroughly decent man would beat his illness. Out of respect for his privacy, I never sent him a note or told him that he was in my thoughts and prayers.

More than a year after Alan had been diagnosed, I admired his courage -- learning that he had been rowing with a chemo pack on his back. I also worried because I knew this meant his cancer was not yet under control.

Last fall brought bittersweet scenes of Alan out on the Charles. Two of his dear friends and rowing partners, Larry and Allison, were out in a canoe on late Sunday afternoons. As I passed them in my rowing shell, I noticed a man in a life jacket sitting in the middle seat. I assumed he was the parent of one of them.

When they shouted across the river to announce Alan with was with them, I was stunned. Having lived through my first husband’s bout with cancer, and seen how the disease accelerates the aging process, I didn’t want to believe that Alan might be in the autumn of his life. On the other hand, knowing how much he loved the Charles, I was glad that he could see it at its most beautiful – mirroring red, orange and yellow leaves.

In late December, I was at a meeting at the boathouse. Telephone research assignments were handed out, and I volunteered to call Alan.

He had been given between two weeks and two months to live. Because of the complexity of his medical needs, he could no longer be at home with his family, and was in a palliative care facility.

When I reached Alan on his cell phone, we had a warm conversation that would have given me no indication how ill he was – except that he used the word “precarious” when referencing his condition. We spoke for a few minutes on how things were going on the club’s board, and what suggestions he had for people willing to commit time to the club.

Ostensibly I called Alan on official rowing club business. But my real reason for volunteering to make the call was that I wanted to thank him for having been so kind to me over the years.

In typical Alan fashion, he had no recollection of three really sweet deeds I remember in vivid detail:

(1) The boathouse, under construction to add more boat bays, was jacked up on temporary supports. Overhearing my lament that I wished I could row with my own oars – instead of the club oars that were too big for my hands – Alan offered to climb up a ladder on the side of the building to retrieve them. He had such a nice way about him that a member of the construction crew put up a ramp to make Alan’s task easier.

(2) One day Alan asked me how I liked the new electronic logbook. Presumably he had been part of the group designing a state of the art system for determining how many miles each rower logged, and which boats were being used. I responded that I had never used a laptop, which was part of the new system. The next time I came down to row, Alan had added a mouse to the laptop, making it user-friendly for people like me.

(3) It was race day for the Head of the Charles Regatta, but I suspected that Alan wasn’t feeling well enough to race. Despite a torrential downpour, he was working the dock. Sensing my nervousness as I launched, Alan instructed me to fold the paper cup I had for bailing and wedge it between my seat and the side of my boat. The epitome of kindness and patience, he offered to steady my boat for as long as it took me to get myself comfortable.

Alan died earlier this week, and a lot of us have been hit hard by this loss. Still I’ll try to remember what he told me when last we spoke – that having been blessed with such a loving wife and two terrific daughters he could say that life had been good to him. Though this is a very difficult time for them, I hope life ultimately allows them to savor the memories, and feel lucky for having had him as husband and father.