Xxoo

Here's one of my favorite things about my favorite mom: she signs all correspondence with love. It's little but important, and it certainly has not gone unnoticed. She started with the obvious: birthday cards. Duh. Though it should be noted that my mom still sends real birthday cards. Not just to people she gave birth to: my mom sends real cards to a LARGE roster of family, friends, children of friends, grandchildren of friends, her manicurist, people she sits next to in the airport, etc. She also sends Valentines. And Halloween cards. Occasionally she'll throw in a card for the 4th of July, and she's a master of the "just because" genre. All with Love, Mom.

My mom also sends clippings. Things from the newspaper or a magazine. Coupons or loyalty cards she doesn't need. She doesn't just throw them in an envelope. She includes a pretty Post-It with a brief note of explanation and Love, Mom.

She's not a Luddite. She sends emails, too. If she's the originator of the email, she always starts with Dear Liza. I love that so much. No one else Dear Lizas me in email, or really, anywhere. If she sends an email to multiple addressees with whom she has different relationships, she will make sure everyone gets the appropriate sign off: Love, Mom/Aunt Pat/Pat. And even if she just sends a three-word response to a question, she always concludes with Love, Mom.

When my mom started texting, it was clear she was uncomfortable with the brevity and informality of the medium. Her head told her that she didn't need to sign her texts, but her heart just couldn't let a message linger without a proper conclusion. It seems she has settled on a workable solution: Xxoo. Not XOXO, xo or xoxo -- it's a very specific capital X, lowercase x, two o's. I need to ask her about this unique choice, but I love it so much that I don't want to make her self-conscious about it, or, worse, stop doing it.

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day!

Love, Liza

Small tribute

Chris from Kris Kross died. How is that possible? Isn't he 13 years old? With a little boy voice and his jeans on backwards? While I feel bad for his family and the people who cared about him, I confess that I am not particularly sad about this: his musical contributions were not exactly extensive, nor have I given him a great deal of thought in the past 20 years. Well except for one time:



While I am at it, here's something even better:



I mean...please. I like this so much it's kind of a problem. Generally speaking, Justin Timberlake is a problem for me these days. Is it August 10 yet? Good lord.

It is okay to laugh?

Friday was horrible. Saturday needed to be better.  In search of distraction, I stopped by Jenn's house in the early evening. I sat on the couch with her two youngest boys, Jonah and Nathan. Our conversation was by no means linear. It wasn't even circular. Perhaps it most resembled a figure eight, because that's what you get when you sit on the couch with a six-year-old, a 10-year-old, and your jibber jabbery good friend. We talked about the dumb young adult book she was reading, and the start of their Little League baseball seasons. They tickled/punched each other while she and I talked in code about the latest news. They stopped. They told us to stop. To steer the conversation back to baseball, I shared that I had seen 42, the Jackie Robinson bio pic. She asked if I thought it was appropriate for them. "For Jonah, but probably not Nathan," I reasoned. "Because of the language." I lowered my voice: "A lot of the N word."

"What's the N word? What's the N word ? What's N word?" Oops. Apparently Nathan had been listening.

Jonah knew. He had done a book report on Jackie Robinson, and a whole Black History unit in school, which left him surprisingly knowledgeable about Ella Fitzgerald, of all people. He had clearly been briefed by teachers and his parents, and understood that we were referring to a terrible, hurtful word that people used to say more often, but shouldn't anymore, and it's in books and movies sometimes "for history." He's 10.

Nathan is six, and all he wanted to know was, "What's the N word? What's the N word? WHAT'S THE N WORD?" We pretended not to hear him, then Jenn tried to appease him by explaining it's a very bad word, and then she finally just said, "I am not telling you."

He grew quiet, and we started talking about other things. Then I saw a light bulb go off over his head.

"Is it......NUTS?"

He was so pleased with his guess. He thought he had outsmarted us, that he was finally in on our grown-up secret.

"You got it," I said. "That's it!" He knew I was kidding, and we all laughed, which felt good, even if it didn't feel quite right. It was the end of a very long, sad week, and I wasn't yet sure we were cleared to giggle.

"You better be careful, or you're going to end up on Aunt Liza's blog," Jenn warned him.

Hee hee.

Boston, you're my home

I live in Boston by choice. I lived here before my sister arrived, and it's just us -- no other family ties. I have had great professional opportunities here, but I very easily could have had similar opportunities is any other city. I used to joke that I would leave Boston when the Red Sox won the World Series, because I thought they never would. Then when they did (twice), I still never seriously considered leaving. I love just about everything about this city -- the culture, the history, the neighborhoods, the people, the spirit. And even the things I complain about -- the winters, the Massholes, the inefficient transportation system -- are the things I also love, because our collective frustrations with poorly plowed streets are a quirky part of the shared community experience that I value. We really do love that dirty water.

Of all the things I love, Patriots' Day and the Boston Marathon rank right near the tip-top of the list. It's our own special day, one that is completely unique.  It's the picture you put on the cover of the Chamber of Commerce brochure. It's a day off from work and the unofficial start of spring. It's a reward for making it through another long, cold winter. It's traditional and familiar, with all the trappings and comfort of a large scale family reunion. It's a home Red Sox game at 11 a.m. It's awe inspiring athleticism. It's a triumph of wills. It's cheering on strangers, thousands and thousands of strangers. It's a sporting event with no losers, only winners.  It's the party of the year, for which no invitation is required.

Yesterday was no different. I met Jodi and Kim and Dylan in Coolidge Corner. Jodi and I observed running fashions, picking out the sneakers we liked best. Dylan passed out water to thirsty runners. We clapped and cheered, reading T-shirts and yelling for the girl named Amy/Jenn/Ali/Maureen, the guy in the Tufts shirt, the man who had started walking but then found his inner strength to keep going. When I felt I had enough, I said goodbye to my friends. I headed up Beacon St., watching the waves and waves of runners, still working hard at close to 4 hours. I listened to the bottom of the 9th inning of the Sox game, and did a little skip/jump in Washington Square when Napoli drove Pedroia home for the walk-off win. I stopped to buy candy, and I made a point to say to myself, "This is just the best day!"

Fifteen minutes later, I was contemplating a nap and lazily checking Twitter, which is where I first got a whiff that something was up. I had all the feelings -- fear, confusion, sadness, anger. I was comforted by the concern of friends from around the country and grateful that all my friends and family had been spared serious injury. I was inspired by the images of volunteers and first responders running towards the blasts, proving once again that for every one evil lunatic there are thousands of kind, decent heroes.

Mostly, I just feel heartbroken. The place I love so much because it feels special is now just another city with a cautionary tale. I am angry that our day, and all the joy it brings, was taken from us.

But I guess I am also confident. I know we'll be back, and we'll be okay. We'll find a way to make the marathon safe, and we'll run it again next year, and the year after that. We'll keep riding the T, and going to Sox games, and complaining about the weather. When these types of tragic and unexplainable events happen, people often need something to believe in. I believe in Boston.

We are young

Today is my friend Tara's birthday. (Happy birthday, T!) And it's snowing in Boston (a little).  I thought to myself: "Hmm. March 7. I wonder if it has ever snowed on Tara's birthday before."

And then, like a slow-rolling snowball, I remembered: Oh yeah it snowed on Tara's birthday before! Her 21st birthday! It snowed a LOT. Like a blizzard. But we didn't care. We somehow made our way from Medford into a Boston bar, because that's what we did on someone's 21st birthday, blizzard or no blizzard. And then we made our way back to Medford. I am sure I wasn't wearing snow boots, and it's not a guarantee I put on a proper winter coat. And because the sidewalks weren't shoveled, we stood in the street, which was plowed, and yelled at each other and pushed each other into snow banks, because we were drunk and stupid. (This may or may not have been the night of some infamous couch peeing, but I am not naming names.)

The next day we woke up and walked, in the middle of street, to that diner in Powder House Square and ate a very large, very greasy breakfast/brunch. Then we probably came back and sat around and did nothing (on the couch that may or may not have smelled like pee) for hours and hours and hours, because that was the kind of thing we did when it snowed on someone's 21st birthday.

Today, I woke up three times before 6:30 a.m., because I was worried/wondering if I would get a call closing work (I didn't). I charged up my iPad and phone; I cleaned off my car; I checked to make sure I had enough gas. I came into the office and had a very responsible call with the Head of School about cancelling our evening activities. I put a bunch of documents in the Cloud so I can get work done if I can't make it in tomorrow. As the snow picks up, I'll carefully drive home and stay there. Because that is what grown ups do. They don't stand in the street. Even though the standing in the street is the thing they will remember 17 years later.

Hollywood humbug

I liked exactly three things about last night's Oscar telecast. Actually, two things about the telecast, and one thing that happened after the show. I watched the entire, excruciating thing and I enjoyed myself for approximately six minutes. That is not the return on investment I had in mind, and it's what I ask you to remind me of when I tell you I am excited for the Oscars next year.

1. Jennifer Hudson singing "And I Am Telling You." Holy hell. I am getting goose bumps just thinking about. There should be one musical number at every award show from now on, and it should be Jennifer Hudson singing "And I Am Telling You." The end. I almost felt bad for the Les Miz cast, who had to follow her, except then I remembered the cast included Anne Hathaway.

2. Daniel Day Lewis' Best Actor acceptance speech. Quietly, without much fanfare, Daniel Day Lewis (or as Sally Field referred to him during a red carpet interview, DDL) has become the best actor of his generation. He acts circles around Denzel and Philip Seymour Hoffman and all the other great actors. Just the sight of DDL and Meryl sharing the screen for five seconds when she handed him his statue made me a bit dizzy. I liked that his speech was funny and light, charming and smart, and humble in a plausible way. He won every major award in the last three months, and he still managed to keep it fresh and rise to the moment.  He was the only one. Too bad his speech came at the 3 hour and 22 minute mark.

3. Thanks to the Internet, one of my favorite Oscar rituals has become the Monday morning examination of the Vanity Fair party pictures. The concept of the Vanity Fair party makes my head explode. The guest list is everyone who was at the Oscars combined with every other TV star, rock star, fashion designer, writer, studio head and power broker who happens to be in town. It's Amy Poehler and Bono and Diane Von Furstenberg. Despite the fact that there are a million cameras everywhere, the celebrities always seem remarkably at ease. (I am sure the alcohol helps.) It's the exact opposite of the slow dredge of the Oscar telecast.  Even the quality of the photos is better; the pictures are more editorial, less of that ridiculous chin down, hand on hip red carpet pose. This morning, Vanity Fair posted 134 pictures, and I loved just about every single one them. But this is my favorite: 

I just want to crawl up into this picture and live.

You know what you did

I am breaking up with Downton Abbey. You know why. SPOILER ALERT. Just when we had all sort of but not really come to terms with the death of Lady Sybil, you decide to kill off the one and only Matthew Crawley in the most ridiculous way. The very second those scenes of blissful Mary and the baby in the hospital started inter cutting with jolly, joyful Matthew speeding along in his car, I said out loud (to no one), "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Yes, we all read that selfish actor Dan Stevens would not be returning to Downton, but I sort of forgot about it or naively assumed that meant that Matthew would be seeking business opportunities in America or called to take care of some peace time Army responsibilities in Bombay. And that he'd be home for Christmas. We're talking about MATTHEW CRAWLEY, people. Downton Abbey, I am so mad at you.

I am breaking up with boston.com/The Boston Globe. If you don't know why, perhaps this front page story sums it up. Yes, that's a lead story about cats on the Internet. This must have been how it felt to read The Washington Post during the Watergate days. Look out, Woodward and Bernstein. This is the front page that appears after new editor Brian McGrory gave an interview outlining his plans to "untangle" boston.com and The Boston Globe. According to McGrory, they're going to start "removing our in-depth Globe journalism from Boston.com," which is a super annoying bad strategy that leads us to believe that the in-depth Globe journalism -- also known as, the stuff worth reading -- is going to appear in the Globe. Fine. And then we get "Cat's Got Your Heart: The Internet showcases a cat fascination." In-depth Globe journalism, you're breaking my heart.

I am breaking up with long, laborious Oscar-nominated movies. I pride myself on seeing as many Oscar-nominated movies as I can, so when the envelopes are opened on Sunday night, I can agree or disagree with authority. With five days to go, I have seen six of nine Best Picture nominees. But it has not been easy. Les Miserables clocked in at 2:37. Pick up the pace, Anne Hathaway. Miserable indeed. Lincoln was 2:30. We get it, Sally Field: Mrs. Lincoln was a complicated women. Djanjo Unchained was 2:45, and it felt like it. How about just one less bloody slaughter scene, Mr. Tarantino? And quantity does not lead to quality. My two favorite nominees -- Silver Linings Playbook and Argo -- came in at a cool 2:02 and 2:01, respectively, because guess what: tight scripts and good editing often yield quality movies. A quality movie that people want to see, because it feels like entertainment, not punishment. Get your egos in check, filmmakers, and then get into the editing room. I am a very busy lady. There's a fascinating YouTube video of a cat that needs my immediate attention.

After (Blizzard 2013)

After (Blizzard 2013), a set on Flickr.

No soap for you

SPOILER ALERT: If you have not seen the Jan. 27 episode of Downton Abbey, do not read any further. Even if you don't watch Downton Abbey, but have even the smallest inclination that you might some day in the very distance future decide to watch Downton Abbey, then read no further. Consider yourself warned.

Pundits like to offer explanations in short, authoritative sound bites.  I have heard pundits attribute the success of PBS's Downton Abbey to the fact that it's a "soap opera, with period costumes."

I can assure you Downtown Abbey is categorically not a soap opera. On soap operas, there are no real consequences. Of course characters make mistakes. Terrible, horrible mistakes. They might lose friends or end relationships, but eventually they are forgiven/find redemption. Sometimes (rarely) they go to jail. But they usually escape. Or have their sentences reduced. Or they just get out on a technicality. Because jail is tedious.

Just ask Mr. Bates.

On soap operas, characters are often in life-threatening peril. Car crashes. Explosions. Gunshot wounds. Falls from buildings. Botched surgeries. Serial killers. Fatal, mysterious diseases with no cure. They rarely die. And if they happen to die, they often come back. And I mean OFTEN. So as viewers, we're never really that upset to see a character perish. Sure, we'll watch the funeral and feel sort of bad for the grieving widow, children, parents, frenemies. But not really. We know we'll eventually see that character, in some form, again.

And that is why Downton Abbey is decidedly not a soap opera. Lady Sybil is not coming back. She's not going to be a friendly ghost, dispensing wisdom to her sad sister Edith, or angelically watching over her daughter and widowed husband. She's not even going to be an angry ghost, seeking revenge on her stupid father. There's not going to be a miraculous recovery. Dr. Clarkson isn't going to find the cure for eclampsia and revive her. Her unexpected death was a horrible, real tragedy, with no outlet for the viewers.

Lady Sybil's death left me heartbroken, sad and angry, the way death is supposed to make you feel. Thankfully, Downton Abbey is not a soap opera.

Warm fuzzies

Holidays 2012 (Boca Raton, Florida), a set on Flickr.

It's the middle of January and super cold in Boston. Just like it's supposed to be, so quit whining. Here's a quick fix for your shivers: call upon your own warm memories, or here, have some of mine.

More, please

Just this. All day long. Thank you.

Home improvement

A friend of mine once told me that when she's a house guest, she always tries to leave her host's home better than when she arrived. I keep that in mind when I travel, and I take opportunities to do little things like unload the dishwasher, change the sheets, etc. I stayed at my parents' house for 16 days during my winter vacation, so clearly I needed to go beyond the "putting out fresh towels" level.

On the first morning of my vacation, my dad could not find the raisins for his oatmeal, which completely foiled his intricate, 25-minute breakfast preparation routine. He got so frustrated by the chaotic clutter of the pantry he decided to do something about it that very minute. My sister and I gave each other a look -- is he really doing this? We knew better than to stand in his way and instead provided advice, guidance and an extra set of hands as he systematically sorted an incredible amount of crackers, snacks and miscellaneous condiments. It was a pretty impressive display of determination and organizational skills, and even more impressively, it was still in order when I left two weeks later.
Pro tip: Gluten-free snacks are on the right. Just like my dad.

For Christmas, I gave my mom an index/organizing system for her purses and pocketbooks. I took pictures of all her purses, put them in album, and then printed an extra set to tie on to the storage bags in her closet, so she could see all of her options. This might not have been necessary if my mom had a normal, manageable number of purses. She does not. I am not going to name names, but whatever number you have in your head right now for normal and manageable, why don't you go ahead and double that.
Pro tip: This is a great gift for my mom, and a great gift for mom-adjacent people; in the process of indexing her collection, she found a few bags she didn't use/didn't like and decided to give them away to friends and family (me). Everyone wins.

I could have spent the whole vacation working on technology-related projects, and God only knows what my more-savvy sister could have done if she had my kind of vacation time or patience. Instead, I tackled three small issues:

1. Install Word on the house computer. Easy enough. I also created a "Pat's Word Documents" folder and left instructions on the whole "Save As" situation. Then I watched my mom type up a document and save it, just so we could both be sure she knew how to do what she needs to do.
Pro tip: Take a deep breath before you watch my mom use Word, because it's a sight to behold. She basically just uses it as typewriter. So there's no highlighting of text to change fonts or point size, there's no cut and paste. It's just type type type, return, type type type. She's not going to star in any new Microsoft commercials, but it works for her.

2. Explain the merits of the BCC option in an email, and watch my mom successfully use it. I think I had her at " a way to avoid the inadvertent reply to all," which is something she had clearly experienced.
Pro tip: Don't assume that everyone knows what BCC stands for. Blind carbon copy -- right, Mom?

3. Set up and introduce my mom to her own Kindle Fire. This was the big one. My dad had an extra Kindle (or two) that he wasn't using and graciously agreed to give it to my mom. I figured out how to uninstall his email account and add hers, along with her contacts. I then showed her some basics (how to check her email, how to shop on Amazon), and watched her get going. She's going to be great. Remember, Mom: use it every day and read your Users Guide. It's not difficult, it's just different.
Pro tip: Let's get real -- no matter how many bells and whistles you show her, or what kind of tasks you suggest she practice, the first and only thing that matters to my mom about her new Kindle Fire is getting a fancy case for it. My dad had a very basic black rubber case, which was perfectly fine, but I could tell it was really bothering her. I suggested she use her Kindle for a little bit to figure out what kind of case she might like. I showed her different apps, how to download a book, change the text size, search on the web and whole bunch of other stuff that I am sure she never even heard me say because she was determined to get a new, cute case. She had the thing for all of two days before she had a special colorful case ordered. Don't mess with my mom.

Shout out to my sister: during her much briefer visit she organized and labeled my dad's very serious cereal situation and helped him successfully send a color picture to Walgreens for printing and pick up. I liked doing all of these things for my parents. I mean, I am never, ever going to be able to tip the scales: they've done and do so much to make my life easier and better that there's literally nothing I can do to attempt to even that score. But, if I can bring my dad closer to his gluten-free snacks or help my mom find that red quilted bag that she forgot she even owned, than at least I am being a good house guest. Hopefully, they'll invite me back.

Walking in Memphis

Just had my "Really?" moment of the day, when I went to the FedEx website to track the express envelope I sent from Wellesley, Massachusetts to Rye, New Hampshire. Here are the results:

8:05 am	At destination sort facility		LONDONDERRY, NH
4:56 am	Departed FedEx location		MEMPHIS, TN
12:31 am	Arrived at FedEx location		MEMPHIS, TN
-    12/19/2012  -  Wednesday
8:35 pm	Left FedEx origin facility		NEEDHAM, MA
7:34 pm	Picked up		NEEDHAM, MA

Let the record show that Rye is about 70 miles from Wellesley, and approximately an 80-minute drive, but my envelope is making its way there via Memphis. I hope it gets a peanut butter and banana sandwich at Graceland.

Federal Express, you are On Notice.

Let's have a party, we'll all dance the Horah

It's about to get a little Christmasy all up in here, so let me document some Hanukkah happenings before the cookies hit the fan. Admittedly, my Hanukkah had sort of a weak start. (I was at a Christmas part on the first night. "Hey, it's Hanukkah. Oops.") But I finished strong with three straight nights of menorah lighting, latke eating, gift exchanging and yes a little dreidel playing.

On the sixth night of Hanukkah, I went to Jenn and Amiel's house (minus Amiel, who had to work). Latkes, three boys, lots of Legos, complete chaos.

Hanukkah 2012 from liza cohen on Vimeo.

On the seventh night of Hanukkah, I hit up Team Levine (minus Keith, who had to work). Latkes, traditional Hanukkah dessert (Party Favors cupcakes), indoor snow ball fight/apre-dinner cardio work out.

On the eighth night of Hanukkah, I went to my sister's apartment. (She's a little weird about pictures of herself on the Internet, so I cropped her out of the menorah lighting money shot.) Latkes, cocktails, cookies that would make our mom proud. And curiously, though this was the only celebration without any children, there was a spirited game of dreidel.

On a much more somber note, two of my three celebrations just happened to include my two favorite first graders. (And one incredible first grade teacher/BFF.) These two boys are six years old. They like Legos and Mad Libs. They're losing teeth and learning to read. I am lucky to know them, and as we absorb the horribly tragic news from Connecticut, I cannot help but think about them, my silly, sweet little friends. I am so grateful that they are safe.

Short hop to third

It's been a few hours since word got out about Kevin Youkilis signing with the Yankees, and I already have received a couple of e-mails/texts about it. I am feeling lazy, so I am just going to share my thoughts here, rather than respond to each of my friends individually. Bah humbug.

1. Youkilis IS that player who is going to swing with spite and try to stick it to Sox next year when he comes to Fenway. It will happen. Let's be prepared, because if he succeeds, it's going to stink. However, I am not convinced this gut-wrenching moment is a forgone conclusion. See his 2012 numbers.

2. For the first time in history, there will no anticipation or debate regarding the Fenway crowd's reaction to a former Sox player's return in Yankee pinstripes. Will he get booed? We'll never, ever know. Booooooo! Yoooouuuuuk!

3. It's kind of a boring signing, when you really think about it. The only way it gets interesting: if he happens to catch fire and tear it up in April, May and June, sparking a nice "What should the Yankees do with A-Rod now?" discussion that can only end badly. Bring it on.

4. When it comes down to it, I sort of like the signing, and here's why. One, I am happy for Kevin, because he's getting paid and a chance to start on a winning team, and I believe he deserves all that and more. Thanks for the memories. And two, Red Sox fans hate the Yankees, and vice versa, but we reserve a special circle of hate for specific players who get under our skin, usually because they behave like assholes, in our totally biased opinions. It's hard to define and changes with each roster, but man, we really hate those guys. For me, it's currently Joba Chamberlain and Nick Swisher. But for a whole lot of Yankees fans, it's Kevin Youkilis. For eight years, you actively and passionately hated everything about him, and you know it. Say hello to your starting third baseman, suckers!