By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

One reason I’ve loved living in Manhattan for the past 27 years is that I don’t need a car. Whenever I do, I rent.

I’ve always believed that I had the whole “car thing” down, so I’d shake my head in disbelief as my car-owning friends engaged in the insanity of alternate-side- of-the-street parking, monthly garage fees the price of studio apartments and having conversations with a guy whose name is embroidered on his shirt along the lines of, “It’s making a noise like, CACHUNGA. Think you can fix it?”

I swore I’d never become one of them, until this summer’s family circumstances dictated a set of wheels. I struck a deal with Hertz for 42 days that would test whether I could cope with a car.

On July 1, I picked up a white, 2010 two-door midsize Chevrolet Cobalt complete with GPS and EZ-Pass. With the cost of the auto, plus tolls, as well as the price of gas looming over us, I decided that even though I could park at Hertz’s garage for a “mere” $14 a day, I wasn’t going to add parking to our new list of expenses. Surely, it couldn’t be that hard to find a space on the street?

Within 10 minutes and only half a block from my house, I struck urban gold. Convinced now that I had car karma, I was positive there’d always be a stretch of curb with my name on it. And there was, even if it took hours to find.

“You’re becoming obsessed,” said my husband, Neil, six days into “ownership,” as I grabbed the keys at 10:30 p.m. just as our doorman was going off duty, hence freeing up his coveted spot in front of our building.

By day 10, parking fever had spread to Neil, who suggested he take our son to his Randall’s Island doubleheader via taxi, as not to give up the car’s amazing placement across the street from our house. A position I procured by stalking a woman leaving the corner Chase bank.

Although I appreciated Neil’s gesture, I had to laugh at the absurdity: One reason we got the car was to travel to the games, and here we were considering alternatives to relinquishing our auto’s valuable “real estate.”

“Lorraine doesn’t like driving, she likes parking,” was Neil’s response when someone asked me how week three was going. True. Parking gave me a sense of accomplishment. I was engaging in urban warfare and winning—most of the time.

“My sister’s going to park here,” said a college-age girl, who blocked what could’ve been my space, at one point during the experiment.

When Project Car began, Neil made me promise not to throw down with anyone over parking. So, I waved her off. Enjoy the spot. I’d find another.

By my fourth and fifth weeks, parking had become second nature.

As my sixth and final week came to an end, someone asked if forgoing the garage had been worth it. The $588 I saved didn’t seem as big a gain as my realization that there’s always an opportunity around the corner, even if you have to go around the block a few times before it appears.

On August 11, I pulled out of my spot to return the Cobalt, and as usual, there was another car sidling up to take my space. I was tempted to finally ask, “Would you jump in my grave that quick?” but already knew the answer: “Yes,” if it were big enough in which to park a car.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Oops, I did it again—I stood in line for Shakespeare in the Park, this time to see a fabulous performance of The Winter’s Tale.

I’ve attended this free outdoor event since 1980, using the same M.O. every time: get there at dawn to camp out. And every year I end up about 200 people back by the big rock. Hence, I always end up in virtually the same seats, which are in the section that could be deemed “the nose bleeds.” There were years I felt like they saw me coming and whipped out the same old seats just to mess with me. This year, due to an alternate side of the street parking matter that I had to deal with, I broke tradition and arrived “late” at 9 a.m.

My position was parallel to the north of the Great Lawn, just before the line turns off the path and veers uphill towards the west side. Farther back than usual, but for the first time ever I got to sit on a park bench. (I’ve always had bench envy of those who did not have to bring or rent a beach chair similar to the one I usually squirm in.)

As I sat for four hours, instead of my usual six or seven, I found that life at the back of the line is pretty much the same as it is closer up, except with a smidge more anxiety regarding whether I’d make the cut for tickets. That lack of smug assurance that seats would be scored actually added to the cachet and excitement of waiting.

Not only that, but the tickets I did get were two of the best my husband and I have ever had: middle section right on the aisle. My over-diligence in years past, that without fail reaped tickets but nothing more in way of perks for my early morning arrival, has made me question if being hyper conscientious—which goes way beyond the ticket line—is really worth the effort?

I’m always the first mom to hand in the permission slip and money for the class trip, even though the child of the last mom to pony up still gets to go on the outing. I pay my bills when I get them, even though ConEd doesn’t turn the lights off if you’re only a little overdue; also American Express gives you 10 days grace after the “pay by this date” stamp. Oh, and my last doctor’s visit ended with a need for a blood test. I arranged it for the same day it was requested, figuring the sooner I did it the sooner the MD would get the results. They reached him within a couple of days, except it really didn’t matter since he had left for vacation.

Of course, I’ve passed the need to get things done now on to my children. During the school year I start asking if homework is done before they’ve finished their after-school snack and, most recently, by insisting that they crack open their summer reading books before summer had even begun.

Clearly, there is a fine line between being a good Do-Bee and manic candidate of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Doer)—and I’ve crossed it.

Perhaps procuring Shakespeare in the Park tickets even though I showed up at least three hours after the “first responders” is the universe’s wake-up call for me to calm down. Not easy to do in NYC. Good thing I’m heading off to Montauk.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Last week I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s again for the first time.

Even though I can practically recite every line by heart, I viewed the classic with fresh eyes when it played at the Sunset Film Festival in Carl Schurz Park because I had just finished Sam Wasson’s behind-the-scenes book about the movie, Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.: Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and The Dawn of the Modern Woman.

The film is a light-hearted version of Truman Capote’s dark, rather bitter novella, and I love it. I always put aside the fact that Holly and Paul sleep with people for money, and chose only to see the depiction of everything that is fun, carefree and glamorous about striving to make it in New York. The Wasson tell-all has changed that for me.

Now I see a big ol’ mess that somehow turned into a masterpiece.

Let’s begin with the novel. I know it’s hard to make it in the city, but even Truman Capote, the cause célèbre of the literary world, found his manuscript turned down by Harper’s Bazaar, despite the fact that they had a publishing deal with him. I guess that was all for the best, since it ended up as a book rather than as a few pages in a magazine.

Next, the film almost wasn’t made because the producers didn’t know what to do with a novel that had no second act, a nameless gay protagonist, as well as an unhappy ending. This was not the stuff of which Hollywood hits were made.

This time, as I watched the willowy, elegant Audrey Hepburn exit the taxi in front of Tiffany’s in her sunglasses and black gown, Danish in hand, I kept envisioning a crass and curvaceous Marilyn Monroe, who Capote originally wanted for the part.

I listened to “Moon River” trying to figure out how the producers could have possibly thought that Oscar-winner Henry Mancini was not up to the task of scoring the film.

And for the first time, I did not swoon over the charming, boyishly handsome voice of reason, pre-A-Team George Peppard (who I attest looks like my husband) because I was haunted by Wasson’s description of him as a surly, humorless whiner, who director Blake Edwards—on bended knee—begged the studio to replace.

Oh yes, and I really didn’t need to know that this quintessential New York film was shot in California, with only a week’s production here for exteriors.

When all was said and done, though, and Holly and Paul kiss in the rain with Cat safely between them, my movie, about a New York woman who finally chooses a man based on love and not finances, comes shining through.

Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M. showed me that a project’s end result can still satisfy even though the process is disorganized, fraught with bad judgments and is just plain maddening—similar to some of our city’s current undertakings.

I’ve decided to transfer my new knowledge regarding the mess-to-masterpiece to such ideas as the Second Avenue Subway and have started believing that in 2018, Second Avenue, which currently looks as though the Upper East Side has been bombed, will reap a worth-the-wait subway. Also, that one day an admirable tribute will rise at Ground Zero. Last, I’ve begun to think about our local elected officials. I’ve decided not to see them as “quel superrats” but to instead have faith that they can turn our city around.

In the meantime, we need to remember that we New Yorkers still have a lot of good going here. As Holly Golightly would say, “I’m just crazy about Tiffany’s.”
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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“Is this the one with Al Pacino?”

That was the question du jour directed to those of us waiting on line to see Merchant of Venice at Shakespeare in the Park. Confirmation was needed because the play alternates nights with the Pacino-free A Winter’s Tale.

The snake of free-theater lovers stretched way past the commonly referenced “big rock.” For those of you new to NYC, that means the line was really, really long.

A yearly ritual for my husband and myself for the past 25 years, Operation Delacorte was usually something I did alone—procuring only two tickets for our date night. Last year though, I brought my teenage son (who swore he’d never again participate) so that the whole family could attend. This year, my 12-year-old daughter, Meg, joined me, enthusiastically I might add—waiting six hours to get four tickets.

I must admit, I really didn’t think Meg knew what she was getting herself into when she proclaimed, “I want to sit for Shakespeare,” and feared that after an hour we’d be packing up the towel, sand chair and oversized bag full of books, writing assignments, a PSP as well as DS and newspapers to trek home across The Great Lawn.

But no, the girl who has ants in her pants stuck it out. Since she wants to be an actress, I suspect she felt it was all part of the dues-paying process.

Right now, thespian is one of those “when I grow up…” pipe dreams, like being a princess, cowboy or astronaut. But if she keeps taking her drama classes after school, and attending theatre camp, it may turn into a serious career goal, and I don’t know how I feel about that.

The life of an actor is hard; a New York actor even harder, since so much production is done in Los Angeles. And with the demise of Law & Order—the show that kept many New York actors working—there will be even fewer opportunities.

She has had school teachers, gymnastic coaches, camp counselors and even acting teachers who are still anxiously awaiting their big break. I’ve also met many mothers through my children’s schools and sports teams who moved here long ago from various parts of the country “to be an actress.” Even though they have found success at their Plan B jobs, and speak of the unfulfilled dream with acceptance, their voices reveal a twinge of lingering disappointment. (Like actors, writers live with rejection as part of the game. I, too, can speak with pain about many an editor’s “I’ll pass.”)

I, like any mother, don’t want to hear that dejection in my child’s voice.

Until, if and when Meg changes her mind and chooses a new career path, I’m trying to find a way to think positively about a business where I have no connections in which to help her.

Watching Pacino as Shylock gave me some hope. Like me, he grew up in the Bronx. I once heard him speak about how his neighborhood, as well as his lack of interest in schoolwork, was the steppingstone to joining a gang.

A teacher suggested he try acting, and the student listened. Despite his humble beginnings, Pacino’s determination, hard work and talent have made him a star.

With someone like that as inspiration, maybe someday all of New York will be out en masse—way past the big rock—to see Meg star in Shakespeare in the Park. I just hope she doesn’t make me wait on line. n

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

One of the two elevators in my building is out of commission and it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.

The lifts are getting a lift, if you will. I’m glad our board approved the improvement, but the working elevator has been programmed to start at the bottom (a.k.a. basement) and go all the way up to the top (21 stories) floor by floor, and then make its way back down again in the same fashion.

Since my motto is: Immediate gratification takes too long, it’s understandable why I’ve started taking the stairs. True it’s only four flights, and even then I’m still a little huffy and puffy when I reach my apartment, but I’m lovin’ it.

To think, free exercise has been literally right outside my front door, yet I ignored it to pay for formal workout equipment, which has included weights, kettlebells and elastic bands. Truth be told, no matter how gung-ho I was at first, in no time at all, boredom with the gadgets set in.

Until I “discovered” the stairs, my only saving grace has been that I love to walk and, luckily, our city streets, like Nancy Sinatra’s boots, are made for walkin’. It’s also apparently being recreated for climbing, riding and giving us some much-needed calisthenics, according to the book Active Design Guidelines Promoting Physical Activity and Health in Design, which was created by the collaborative efforts of New York’s health, planning, design and architecture agencies, as well as academic institutions from across the country. It’s available at www.nyc.gov/adg.

“The guidelines are a set of diverse best practices, both large and small, to enhance the health and quality of life for people in New York and elsewhere. They encourage professionals such as architects, urban planners, landscape architects and others to incorporate physical activity options into their designs,” said Department of Design and Construction Commissioner David J. Burney, FAIA.

A lay person can benefit from reading the guide as well. I was fascinated by how environmental design has always played a crucial role in improving public health. In 1857, the construction of Central Park provided open space and fresh air for a densely populated, urban landscape of dirty streets and disease-breeding tenements. In 1904, the subway helped disperse the population from overcrowded lower Manhattan.

Today, we’re hoping for a similar effect when the Second Avenue subway finally sees completion. The book also highlights already designed sites—such as The High Line Park—and programs like Summer Streets, where Park Avenue is closed off for biking, both of which promote keeping fit.

The main goal, of course, is to help fight obesity, especially for our city’s children, who need to learn that running after the Mr. Softee truck does not constitute exercise.

I also picked up a few design tricks from the book: prominent placement, natural light and artwork increase the appeal of a staircase; providing a secure bicycle storage room encourages daily ridership; and a brightly lit gym signals the importance of physical activity.

So now, if you meet someone who doesn’t think New York is a place where you can stay fit unless you pay thousands for a health club membership, just tell ’em to take a walk… or at least the stairs.

–
Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

What if you threw a payback party and nobody came?

Recently, much mention has been made of Lady Gaga’s return to her alma mater, Convent of the Sacred Heart, where she apparently felt dissed when she was enrolled. To settle the score, she made a spectacle of herself by upstaging her sister’s graduation.

Sacred Heart is probably wishing Stefani Gabriella Germanotta had gone to Spence.

This scenario brought to mind the story of when Janis Joplin, as Rolling Stone cover girl and rock diva, returned to her Texas hometown for her 10-year high school reunion. According to the article “Janis’ Texas Hurt” on pophistorydig.com, she was also going back, in part, to make a statement about her success and specifically to flaunt it before those who had treated her badly as a teenager.

“Dressed in the popular San Francisco hippie fashion of the day with feathers and beads and her trademark purple-tinted glasses, Joplin answered questions at a press conference, during which some of her more painful high school days came up again. All in all, it wasn’t a pleasant visit for Joplin. Generally, this visit home to Port Arthur for the reunion did not achieve what she had hoped, and once again she left town feeling rejected and unloved.”

This event was duplicated in the movie The Rose, in which Bette Midler plays a Joplin-esque character. She takes the stage at a local bar triumphantly, only to be brought down by hecklers who hurl the same insults from back in the day. It’s heart wrenching to watch her shake her head and mouth, “No,” as her reprisal fantasy, where they beg forgiveness and say they wish they’d been nicer to her, shatters.

In the case of Lady Gaga, my guess is that the only thing anyone associated with the school wishes is that their alum, formerly known as Stefani Gabriella Germanotta, had gone to Spence.

The retribution vibe also comes off New York’s Real Housewives. It’s like they’re hoping their questionable notoriety will get back at parents, ex-husbands, former employers, colleagues or friends. “Look, I’m on TV with a book, record, jewelry line. Love me now? Bet you wish you’d kept me around.” I bet no, basing this on personal experiences.

One in particular took place in the late ’80s. I ran into a former classmate who told me that a girl we knew growing up had become a hotshot music industry PR exec. It had been a decade since I’d heard the name of this person, who I remembered as being rather silly and immature, but my reaction was Good for her. She had clearly gotten her act together, risen above her Bronx roots and carved out a nice career for herself. And then, well, that’s about it.

Never once did it cross my mind that, “If only I had not let her off-the-wall behavior get on my nerves and drive me as far from her as possible, today I, as her guest, could be dancing on tables in nightclubs with sinewy lead singers.” Quite frankly, no hot spot or Grammy-winner access would be worth the draining experience I would have had to endure being her friend throughout high school.

Instead of finding peace in success and pride in the fact that the non-supporters did not keep them from their dreams—the best revenge being simply living well —some people need to rub it in the faces of those who didn’t care back then, and probably don’t care now. What a waste of time and it just shows how much you—Gaga & Co.—still care about them. 

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Success is getting what you want; happiness is wanting what you get.

If this Dale Carnegie adage is true, then the women of Sex And The City 2 certainly are successful, but they sure ain’t happy. If, like Carrie & Co., your attitude of late has been lacking gratitude, you must take in this movie. Seeing what ungrateful looks like 30 feet high and 70 feet wide is enough to scare anyone straight.

Dissatisfaction really lies in the storylines of Carrie and Charlotte, who had me wanting to throw my popcorn-filled hands in the air. (Samantha’s story is about menopause and Miranda’s is about having a new boss who doesn’t like her; both characters deal with their issues in a positive way.)

Carrie (a.k.a. Mrs. Big) is bored with her exquisitely decorated pad/millionaire husband/Manolos-are-no-object life. Straight out of the grass-is-greener playbook, she indulges a flirtation with her one-time fiancé, Aidan. Carrie a cheater? I’ll never tell. But just the mere idea is evident from the trailer. That she might even entertain the thought of stepping out on the man for whom, over the course of six years, she pined, saw off to Paris, waited out his marriage, cheated with and forgave after he left her at the altar, made this once “every woman” appear every inch the spoiled brat.

Charlotte “I want a husband! I want a baby! A baby! A baby!” York achieved her dream life, yet, “They’re driving me crazy.” This coming from a woman who does not work, yet has a full-time nanny. Her baby “cries all the time” (does she not have a pediatrician who can advise her?) and her daughter ruins her outfit while making cupcakes. Perhaps if she weren’t wearing vintage designer duds while baking, it really wouldn’t have been an issue.

Both Carrie and Charlotte are guilty of what my grandmother used to call “complaining with two loaves of bread under each arm.” They are living the lives people come here in hopes to attain, but most never do.

So why is it that when some people reach their goals, they can still feel let down?

According to www.slowdownfast.com, problems arise because we often don’t know what we really want. Do you really want to get married or have a baby or be a lawyer, or are those other people’s expectations you’re trying to satisfy? If so, when you finally get “what you thought you desired, it isn’t really what we wanted after all.”

In relation to the movie, discontentment can also occur when your life changes but you don’t—as in, when a married woman still wants to run around like a single gal. Also, when you go into a situation with unrealistic expectations: for example, thinking yours will be the children who’ll never have tantrums or get dirty.

“Being grateful for what one does have can promote a sense of well-being and diminish dissatisfaction,” advises www.slowdownfast.com.

Will Carrie and Charlotte see the errors of their ways? You’ll have to find out for yourself. Despite the snarky reviews, the movie is dazzling: the clothes, the shoes, the opulent locations alone are worth the price of admission. I could have done without the road trip. Part of the allure of SATC has always been that NYC was the fifth friend, if you will. New York beats the new Middle East and anywhere else any day.

Just as with the first film, whose bigger message was forgiveness, SATC2 could possibly have you ready to utter something New Yorkers aren’t always given credit for: saying “thank you.” 

—
Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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“I have a leisurologist,” said the young woman into her cell, while breezing by me on Madison and 60th Street at lunch hour.

She was in her late twenties, with bouncy brown hair and simple, yet trendy, clothes. Her demeanor was so upbeat, all I could think was Whatever a leisurologist is, hers must be doing a great job.

I began immediately to question myself. Is this some new, cool thing that everyone has or knows about but me? Then I decided Ms. Leisure must be from somewhere else; her discipline sounded a little too La-La Land for NYC. Or maybe in our competitive, stressful city, it’s just what’s needed.

Usually, the Internet—specifically Google—is a wealth of information. Not so, this time. Perhaps “leisurology” is still one of those burgeoning tends.

From what little I could gather, it appears that “leisurologist” is a title bestowed on someone who has more than a passing fancy with (as my son calls it) chillaxin’.

On www.leisurevolution.org, I found “The 9 Tenets of Leisurology”:

9) Making a life is more important than making a living. If your landlord doesn’t charge rent.

Work is not a four-letter word, but rut might be. Right now, a job rut is better than no job at all.

7) Refreshing cold drinks are not optional. OK, they’ve got me.

6) Wear comfortable shoes. Ditto.

5) Howl at the moon from time to time. We’re getting a little silly now.

4) Balance the doing with the un-doing. I’m at a loss. What?

3) Path and goal are equals. Again, huh? Perhaps they mean, “Enjoy the journey.”

2) Never rush. Yes, let’s all try this one in Midtown at rush hour.

1) Relax. Isn’t that what we’re all already doing on the Great Lawn?

I was still unclear as to whether the leisurologist is one who uses free time better than the rest of us, or if the designation is meant to describe one who counsels others.

Then I found a blog (there’s always one of those, isn’t there?). The author of www.theleisurologist.blogspot.com characterizes himself as teacher, student and lover of leisure, who stands in awe and absolute amazement at its power.

Well, OK. I could try to decipher his thinking, but don’t know if I could do it justice, so here, direct from the supporter of spare time: “When we do take time out for leisure, there are often ulterior motives. We play tennis in order to stay fit/lose weight; go dancing so that we can meet other single people; do crossword puzzles to keep our minds sharp.”

This is bad, why? For me, New Yorker equals multitasker. The idea that something I do for pleasure, such as walking to get the air, has added health benefits is a plus.

The Leisurologist’s answer: “It’s possible to enjoy ourselves immensely at the same time as reaping the other benefits; and yet it’s also possible to neglect the enjoyment factor in pursuit of the other pay-offs. And when that happens, even our free time activities can begin to feel like work.”

Fair enough. Sometimes in Manhattan we get so busy that we even have to schedule fun, and anything on a to-do list does have a chore-quality.

I, however, still hold that leisurology is not destined to become a New York phenomenon. Isn’t the whole reason to live here because of the notorious hustle and bustle, as well as the work hard/play hard mentality? We’re the go, go, go city that never sleeps, remember? We don’t do leisure. That’s what the Hamptons are for. 

Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Unlike me, my daughter, Meghan, can work a room like a politician, remembering everyone’s name and how she first made their acquaintance. She is 12 years old.
At any pageant in the world, my girl would win—by a landslide—the title of Miss Congeniality. All the mothers, dating back to pre-K (some I didn’t even know), go out of their way to say hello to her. When we walk though our Upper East Side neighborhood, shopkeepers stop sweeping to greet her, some rap on their store windows to get her attention so they can wave. Meg not only waves back, but flashes her hey-glad-to-see-you-too grin that is negotiating currency.
The former assistant director at her elementary school once dubbed her “the mayor” because, since her bus arrived first in the morning, she would wait before going to her classroom so she could stand by the entrance and welcome the rest of the students.
Meg’s way with people is not in that cheap salesman tell-’em-what-they-want-to-hear way, but comes from a genuine concern for others. At a picnic hosted by her sports class, I watched her ask younger children what they wanted to eat and helped them get it. She also made some proactive gestures to get drinks: “Here I got Jason his soda—caffeine free.” Jason’s mom praised her for taking such good care of her young son.
At this same party, I sat on the grass with my sandwich as she flitted from group to group like the social butterfly she is. A while later, she came over and asked how come I wasn’t talking to the other moms. “I don’t know them,” I told her. She knitted her brow and said, “Why don’t you go over and introduce yourself?”
And suddenly there I was, transported back 35 years to my aunt’s Jersey Shore beach club, where my mother once suggested the same thing when she saw a bunch of teens my age and thought it would be nice if I went over and made some friends. At least when Meg recommended it, I didn’t cringe, roll my eyes or tear up as I did back then.
Not on my best day have I ever been able to just walk up to a group of strangers and say hello, let alone make conversation. Primarily because I hate small talk. The mere thought of, “How’s the family? Great weather we’re having, huh? How ’bout them Mets?” causes me physical pain.
Every time I see or hear of Meg’s outgoingness, I realize that, until my girl came along, I had not seen anyone give so much of herself since, as a child, I began watching my mother in action.
Not only has she always had many friends, but the relationships have lasted decades. People refuse to let her go. My mother still gets Christmas cards from a girl, now woman, who babysat me back in the 1960s and another who used to take ballet lessons with me. These were people in my life, who, given the choice, chose to stay connected with her.
My mother has been retired now around 25 years, but former colleagues still keep in touch. She moved to Manhattan from the Bronx 10 years ago to help me raise my children, yet continues to get holiday flowers from her one-time outer-borough neighbors.
There is that moment when a daughter supposedly becomes her mother. I never became mine. And I’m glad my daughter is not becoming hers. Meg will come to know more peace, acceptance and admiration as her grandmother.
Happy Mother’s Day. 

Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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And now, Ugly Betty is no more. For four seasons, we’ve gotten to watch America Ferrera’s character transform from a poncho wearing, outer borough brace face into an urbane and stylish Manhattan magazine editor.

I remember long ago and far away, getting off the 6 train from the Bronx with a lack of sophistication and dreams of being a writer, just like my Queens counterpart. (My version of the poncho was dressing in color, while everyone else donned head-to-toe black. Yes, I did stick out like a sore thumb, thank you.)

After a few years at my first job, like Betty, I was presented with a bigger position elsewhere. As she did in the final episode, I doubted whether I should make the career move. Now I think back and can’t believe I hesitated; hence, my yelling at the TV, “Betty, take the job!”

Even though I never regretted moving on—and apparently neither did Betty, since the show’s finale has her living and editing happily in London—I thought I’d consult New York-based executive career coach Christine Wilson to see, especially in these economic times, if moving on is still a good idea.

“I encourage people to think very carefully before uprooting themselves,” Wilson said. Research the new company, and make sure the opportunity is better, not just different than what you’ve got.

I recall being conflicted (as well as feeling disloyal) about leaving my employer. In fact, I recited Betty’s very words about her boss, Daniel: “He gave me my start. I owe him everything.” The question still lingers for me about whether you really owe your employer anything.

“No,” Wilson replied. “While you are working there you should be loyal and do your best; be worth what they’re paying you. Companies don’t feel they owe you. They will always do what’s best for them, so do what works best for you.” She then added, “There’s a lot of evidence that says staying in the same place is not necessarily the best for your personal or financial advancement.”

I then described a scene where editor-in-grief, Wilhelmina, asks Betty why she bothered working her way up the ladder at Mode only to “throw it all away.” Wilson objected to that assessment, sizing up the situation as natural progression. “Betty had put in four good years with the company, moved up, wrote a blog in addition to doing her work for the magazine, which all led to her next opportunity.”

There’s also the matter of Daniel’s counter offer, something I found off-
putting when it happened to me. Rather than being flattered by it, I remember thinking, If I merit the promotion and raise, why didn’t you give it me before I went to the trouble of finding a new job?

“I’m always concerned about an employer who doesn’t give you what you deserve until you threaten to quit,” said Wilson, who warns, “You must be extremely careful about using the opportunity to leave as leverage.” People do it and it works; however, if it doesn’t, you have to take the new position whether you really want it or not.

Finally, Wilson counsels, “You have to take what you’ve accomplished and use it to manage your own career with what suits you.”

So if a professional opening has come along, and you’ve done your due diligence on the new opportunity—then found it’s the right one for you—take the risk and bid your current job farewell. Or as Betty would now say, “Cheerio.”
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

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