Joel Schwartzberg2013-05-18T12:39:22-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=joel-schwartzbergCopyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc.HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Joel SchwartzbergGood old fashioned elbow grease.Who Knew Guns Had Their Own Pro-life Movement?tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.31940832013-05-02T10:01:30-04:002013-05-02T15:31:14-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/reinforcing existing laws prohibiting local governments from destroying weapons they collect from the community. This is the third law protecting the life of guns Brewer has signed since becoming governor.
Previous laws required municipalities to sell guns found or seized, but the new law makes it clear this prohibition also applies to guns which are voluntarily surrendered -- often through police buyback programs.
Instead of being melted down, these guns must be used or sold to the general public -- in other words, put back into the very circulation from which violence easily erupts. To be even clearer, guns that leave the hands of people who would just as well do without them, will now be placed into the hands of many who relish the thought of pulling the trigger.
Writing in The Arizona Sun, Howard Fischer reports that many of the 1,900 emails, letters and calls urging Brewer to sign the bill were encouraged by a single group, the Arizona Citizens Defense League, which, according to Fischer, "sent out notices to those on its mailing list urging them to click on a link to send a letter to Brewer."
The Associated Press reports that one of those letters came from the NRA, "which argued that selling seized or forfeited guns 'would maintain their value, and their sale to the public would help recover public funds.' The NRA letter said the bill doesn't prevent a private group from holding an event and destroying the weapons."
So, basically, the pro-gun-life argument is that since everyone else is making money off guns, why shouldn't local governments get a piece of that action? (consequences notwithstanding), and that the destruction of a firearm is a private matter between a gun owner and his firearm. So if you really want to destroy a gun, says the new law, no problem -- do it yourself. After all, can destroying a weapon of destruction be that much harder or more dangerous than setting your DVR?
Fisher writes that the law will have a chilling effect on programs audaciously designed to get guns off the street... by getting guns off the street. "Any chance of cities or counties conducting future gun-buyback programs is about to evaporate," he writes.
Not since the Supreme Court gave corporations First Amendment privileges has so much life been bestowed on non-living objects -- especially ironic, given the purpose of these particular objects is to end life in its tracks. Who knew that guns had their own pro-life movement?
Originally posted at BillMoyers.com]]>A Divorced Dad's Girl Scout Kookinesstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.25911112013-02-05T10:24:41-05:002013-04-07T05:12:01-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/This email message may contain work product, non-work product, meat by-product or other information which is confidential, privileged, entitled, prissy, or simply dumb. This information is intended only for sole use of the sender, as well as anyone he accidentally copied, or anyone who happened to be in his office when he left the computer on and his email open. Any dissemination or distribution is prohibited, except as Tweeted, posted on Facebook, or mentioned in passing.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Monday, February 4, 11:17 AM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Cookies!
Dear Colleagues,
My daughter Cindy recently joined the Girl Scouts, so we're selling cookies. Yum! I hung the order form in the kitchen.
Boxes are $4 each, and there's no need to pay until I bring in the cookies. It's considered cheating if parents buy their own kids' cookies, so thanks for your support!
Joel
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Wednesday, February 6, 9:29 AM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Cookies!
Maybe you missed my last email -- we've gotta move some Girl Scout cookies! Feel free to email me if you can't write against a wall or don't have a pen (of which there are plenty in the drawer next to the coffeemaker).
And remember, it's all for a good cause: If Cindy sells enough boxes, she wins an iPod case.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Monday, February 11, 4:31 PM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Cookies!
I understand they're not the healthiest cookies in the world, nor the most delicious, or even particularly attractive. But if they tasted like Mallomars, they wouldn't need Girl Scouts to sell them, now would they?
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Thursday, February 14, 2:00 PM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Cookies!
Happy Valentine's Day!
As many of you know, Cindy is from my first marriage. Her stepfather, Steve, is selling cookies in his office, which I hear has its own chapter of Overeaters Anonymous. Just saying.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Friday, February 15, 3:22 PM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Cookies!
Yes, I saw those Girl Scouts hawking cookies in the lobby downstairs. It's fantastic one plays the mandolin and the other can scat, but don't they seem a little old to you? I swear one had tattoos. And I'm pretty sure they're selling last year's Savannah Smiles. Again, just saying.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Tuesday, February 19, 6:04 PM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Cookies!
Did you know Girl Scouts keep kids off the streets? Above the order form, I've attached a photo of Cindy in her uniform, next to a photo of a teenager from Intervention.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Thursday, February 21, 3:12 PM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Cookies!
Steve's office just bought an entire case of Samoas. Of course this isn't a competition, but know every box you buy from me is a vote for real dads.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Sunday, February 24, 2:34 AM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Cookies!
i hate you all.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Sunday, February 24, 2:36 AM
TO: All
SUBJECT: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Cookies!
Please disregard an email you may have received two minutes ago from me. I hit SEND by accident, and it wasn't meant for you anyway. It was for my parents.
FROM: Schwartzberg, Joel
SENT: Friday, March 1, 10:01 AM
TO: All
SUBJECT: End of Cookie Sale
The cookie sale is over. Final tally: Cindy sold 9 boxes of Do-Si-Dos and a single case of Samoas. Not enough for an iPod case. Not even enough for a temporary tattoo. This week, Cindy quit Girl Scouts and joined a Carly Rae Jepsen tribute band.
But don't feel guilty -- I realize it's hard to afford a four-dollar box of cookies when you're spending six dollars on coffee every day.
And, by the way, I know which of you bought from those tramps in the lobby because I stole their order form. So when I bring in my nine boxes of Do-Si-Dos - which were bought and then donated to me by a very close family friend -- don't even think about asking for one.
Though a failure in the cookie trade and a lapsed Webelo, Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally published personal essayist and author of the collection The 40-Year-Old Version.]]>A Parental Perspective on Super Bowl Lingotag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.26005942013-02-01T15:50:27-05:002013-04-03T05:12:01-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/ First Down!
A parent's exclamation after the younger of two siblings goes to sleep.
Running Back
What you do five minutes after you've left the house without ample pacifiers.
Half-time
How to settle the issue of two kids on fighting over one cookie.
Good Field Position
A shady picnic spot in the park far from dog poop.
Red Zone
What keeps the makers of Vaseline in business.
Offensive Line
"Shut up!"
Defensive Line
"But she hit me first!"
30-Second Time-Out
When you're just too busy to give a full one.
Instant Replay
What happens when the first restaurant-menu tic-tac-toe game ends in a tie.
Extra Point
The benefit of mechanical pencils over typical #2s.
Tight End
The part of a child's sock hardest to put on.
One-Hand Reception
When you hold a kid with one hand and take a phone call with the other.
Flea-Flicker
The family dog, especially when lounging on your child's bed.
Turnover
The point at which one child's allotted water-fountain period ends and another's begins.
Strong Safety
"Hold my hand! We're in a parking lot!"
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally published personal essayist and author of the collection The 40-Year-Old Version.]]>It's Still Man-ly to Like Manilow, Especially on Barry's Birthdaytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.16030712012-06-17T15:56:01-04:002012-08-17T05:12:10-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/
My name is Joel Schwartzberg. I'm 43, a husband, a dad, and a Barry Manilow fan.
In 1977, when I was 9, Barry Manilow -- born Barry Alan Pincus 34 years prior -- released Barry Manilow Live to the world, my mother included. She played that record and others so often I consider them the soundtrack to my childhood.
"Looks Like We Made It"
"Weekend in New England"
"Could It Be Magic"
"This One's For You"
"Even Now"
"All the Time"
When things get beaten into your head like that, you're going to either obsessively love them or obsessively want to kill them. But unlike those who consider Barry an easy pop culture punching bag, I have no malice. As I write this on a New Jersey commuter train home, the lush compositions complement the fall scenery whizzing by on the other side of the window. The music hits me softly, like my own memories.
Being so overexposed to Barry Manilow music means you'll pick up certain patterns. Like the unusual frequency with which Barry finds himself with one romantic partner, but pining for another. (Listen to "Looks Like We Made It" and "Even Now" again), and his disdain for fading out -- Barry Manilow songs almost always end on a single glory note.
In his stories, Barry's usually finding love, longing it, or losing it, and because they're not country songs, they sound authentic and humble. "I Write the Songs" may not fit that description, but Barry Manilow didn't write "I Write the Songs." Weird, I know.
Not everything from the guy my uncle referred to as Barry Cantaloupe is a gem. I'll always prefer obscure tracks like "A Linda Song," "Why Don't You See the Show Again," and "Ships" to ridiculous trifles like "Some Kind of Friend," "Jump Shout Boogie," and "Copacabana (At the Copa" -- the pop version of a Spanish soap opera.
And in case you presume I have a narrow musical appetite in the first place -- that my playlist is all Barry, Barbra, and Neil -- know, first, there's very little Neil. Know, second, that I also listen to Bjork, Kanye West, Mary J. Blige, Gotye, Elvis Costello, Aimee Mann, Adam Lambert, Bruce Springsteen, and for several weeks now, "Call Me Maybe." I may not always have taste, but I do have range.
With a memorable American Idol mentorship and a series of decade-themed pop covers, Barry saw resurgence in the early part of the 21st century. I'm not a big fan of '50s, '60s, or '80s music -- whether sung by Barry Manilow, Frank Sinatra, or Duran Duran -- but when Manilow connects with a classic '70s song, it's a spot-on marriage of singer and sentiment. Connoisseurs (namely, me) note that Barry's first anthology of '70s hits, 1996's Summer of '78 is a stronger set than 2007's The Greatest Hits of the 70's. Who doesn't want to hear Barry Manilow singing Bob Seger, Firefall, and Paul Davis?
Stop -- I'm asking rhetorically.
While Barry was as much a superstar as Beyoncé is now, there's something decidedly un-manly about being a modern male Manilow fan. Admitting it earns me a confused look and a giggle, as if Barry's name was Engelbert Humperdinck, or if I was talking about Clay Aiken. Yet there's no embarrassment endowing musical crowns on the marginally-talented likes of Landau Eugene Murphy, Jr. (2011 winner, America's Got Talent) Lee DeWyze (2010 winner, American Idol), Jennifer Lopez, Rihanna, and Ke$ha.
Would I go to a Barry Manilow concert, sit amidst gaggles of screaming moms and their own mothers, waiting in anticipation for the opening whistles of "Can't Smile Without You" or the Chopin-inspired starting notes of "Could it Be Magic"?
Of course.
Really?
Of course not.
Even now, I'm hiding my laptop screen from the passenger on my left.
But no matter how many times he attempts reinvention -- musically, sartorially, or surgically -- Barry Manilow will always be, for me, the guy in the sequined blue jumpsuit with outstretched arms on the LP cover of Barry Manilow Live. He's like a family member who went out, did good, and now only comes home in my iPod.
Yes, friends, I'm a Barry Manilow fan; I listen with pride, with pleasure... and with headphones.
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally-published personal essayist and author of the award-winning collection The 40-Year-Old Version.]]>The Case Against "Stepmother"tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9863312011-09-29T10:23:23-04:002011-11-29T05:12:01-05:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/demonization of stepmothers in movies and television.
Her question -- and mine: What message does the word "stepmother" convey more clearly than "You're NOT a mother"? And why does a father's new wife need to be contextualized in relation to the mother at all? It not only instantly sets up apples-to-oranges comparisons, but simultaneously declares a winner... as if society doesn't already halo moms over non-moms enough.
In our line of thinking, a "stepmother" is not "a step below" anything. She is a complete person. Annie -- as my children know her -- is a teacher, writer, painter, wife, daughter, and chef. She cares for my children no less than I do. Her status in their lives is self-evident, and requires no labels, especially ones thrust upon her by a society that still seems to think childless women are akin to men without libidos.
The truth is, you can be great to children whether they're your husband's kids, your neighbor's kids, the kids you nanny, or the kids you help cross the street safely. You can also abuse them, even if you're a blood mother or blood father. You can spend hardly any time with your kids and still be a parent; you can spend all of your time with your spouse's kids and still not be a dad or mom. Unfair? Only if you judge your role by its title.
I'm not saying stepparents don't deserve recognition; they do and I'm all for it. I'm saying "stepmother" and "stepfather" minimizes them as individuals. There's one "father" and one "mother," period. Then there are myriad people who admirably, generously, and selflessly love and spend time caring for those children.
These people deserve more than an asterisk, an "almost," and a "but for". They should be characterized by who they are -- not what they aren't.
This essay was originally published in StepMom Magazine.
Joel Schwartzberg, a nationally-published essayist, father, and lucky husband to a wonderful wife, is the author of the award-winning collection "The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad"]]>Girls and Jersey Shore: An Unparalleled Mismatchtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9316292011-08-22T17:43:45-04:002011-10-22T05:12:02-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/Jersey Shore was the #1 show for teens 12-17.
I don't watch Jersey Shore, but I certainly know Snooki, The Situation, Ronnie, JWoww, and Sammi better than I do characters on programs I DO watch. Today, a combination of curiosity, boredom, and SEO brought me to this Star Ledger review of Jersey's last episode. The review was titled "Grand Theft Bimbo," and ends with this:
At this point Brittany wanders out, and The Situation remembers he has a penis. They go off into the smush room. Snooki tells JWoww that she's not going to let The Situation ruin her relationship with Jionni. JWoww consoles her. There's a shot of Sad Snooki in bed, of Vinny and Erica snoozing, of Sammi crawling into bed with Ronnie, and of Brittany on top of The Situation, taking off her bra.
We talk often about the sexualization of girls in the media and elsewhere, but whereas television commercials, magazines, websites, fashion ads, and The Disney Channel are hitting them like sidestream smoke, Jersey Shore is a fire hose of destructive messaging.
Boiled down to the facts, the top TV show for young teen girls features "real" characters who spend their days being stupid, getting drunk, and having indiscriminate sex -- often at the same time, usually enjoyably, and always without lasting consequences.
To impressionable young minds, there's a message in all of that, and if it doesn't make you wince, you're not paying attention. One might make defensive comparisons to other popular steamy TV shows, but remember 1) Jersey is presented as "reality," not fiction and 2) Jersey is the #1 show for middle school and high school kids.
This week, my wife and I saw the excellent Gloria: In Her Own Words, a biography of Gloria Steinem and brief history of modern feminism. This documentary should be required viewing for tweens and teens because it encourages girls to find integrity and personal value from within, and not to let media or social norms dictate their roles.
The polar opposite of In Her Own Words, if not an outright counterpoint, is a steady diet of Jersey Shore -- again the most popular show in the country for girls to whom media messages have the greatest impact.
Cable networks have every right to appeal to and profit off the lowest common denominator in its audience. So responsibility falls once again to the parents of these kids who tune in every week for sex, sex, drinking, and more sex. Do they realize this is porn for children? With due respect to the oblivious Nicole Polizzi, has there ever been a more negative, yet simultaneously more popular icon for girls than Snooki?
I have twin girls, and our media habits are not exactly Amish. We watch PG-13 movies, listen to Justin, Selena, and the Black Eyed Peas, and shop at Justice. But there's no Jersey Shore in my house, because I don't want Jersey Shore in their heads.
There's been a lot of talk about the Jersey Shore's damage to the New Jersey's reputation, Italian-Americans' reputation, Snooki's reputation, and television's reputation -- but all of that is survivable. Telling girls that Jersey Shore is a model of fun, grown-up behavior... I'm not so sure. Are you?
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally-published personal essayist and author of the award-winning collection "The 40-Year-Old Version".
]]>Under My Skin: What Happens to Newly-Divorced Mentag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.9265132011-08-22T12:45:34-04:002011-10-22T05:12:02-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/
Dr. Skin is a middle-aged man with a full head of hair, a remarkably leathery and pocked face, and a striking lack of sideburns.
I'm sitting cross-legged on a paper-covered metal examination table. On the plaster walls, citations and diplomas share space with high-definition illustrations of angry red lesions. Looking at them, my morning hunger suddenly disappears... yet it's the missing sideburns that disturb me most. Without them, Skin's hair looks like a bicycle helmet.
I've been wearing nothing but a thin gown and my underwear for nearly ten minutes, but we haven't yet discussed the dry-as-desert rash on my leg. Skin's assistant, a young Hispanic woman named Marci, is typing on a laptop.
"I'm a writer."
"Oh yeah? What kind?" he asks
The itchy-leg kind.
"Essays," I say.
"My girlfriend's daughter - she's in high school. She wants to be a writer. Or a journalist. She hates me. But I'm looking to change that. Can you help her? Do you counsel young writers?"
"Sure."
"Hold on," Dr. Skin says, and pull out his cell phone. He thumbs a few numbers, then puts the phone to his ear.
"Honey, I'm talking to a writer who can help Donna. Hang on."
Skin hands me the phone. "It's my girlfriend, Lisa."
Behind him, Marci rolls her eyes.
After an awkward introduction, I give Lisa my email address, and hand the phone back to Dr. Skin.
He drops the phone in his lab coat pocket and bends down to look at my leg.
"You have kids?" he asks.
"Three - 12, 9, and 9."
"They go to school around here?"
"They live with their mother."
"Oh, you're divorced."
"Remarried."
"Oh..." Dr. Skin says, intrigued.
Overt the P.A. system, we hear Skin's name.
"I'll be right back," he says, and leaves.
I look at Marci. "Is he divorced?" I ask.
"Still separated," She says quietly, but quickly. "And he immediately finds this one. She's been divorced THREE TIMES herself. I told him--"
Dr. Skin comes back in the room. He tells me to get dressed and types something into the laptop.
"I met Lisa three months ago on Match.com," he says, grabbing his cell phone again. He pulls up a photo and points it at me like a flashlight.
"She's hot, right?"
Lisa is a raven-haired 40-ish woman in a tight dress standing next to a shimmering pool. She's posed unnaturally, as if the photographer said, "Look sexy!" She reminds me of those "Real Housewives" on TV.
"Nice," I say, in much the same way I'd compliment someone's lawn. "So, about this rash..."
"I'm writing up a cream for you. Twice a day."
"It's not a fungus or something like that?"
Skin looks at me like I'm an idiot.
"You're just dry and irritated." Correct on both counts.
As I pull on my jeans, Dr. Skin looks at me.
"I live just down the road from my kids. Maybe that's bad, I don't know. They like Lisa, but her kid just hates me. I need to show her I'm for real, that I'm all in."
"Her daughter probably doesn't hate you," I say helpfully, "she just hates what you represent."
She probably hates him as well; Mom's latest boyfriend is a dermatologist with bad skin? That's the stuff of great teen novels.
With a blue Sharpie, Dr. Skin draws a week-length timeline on the sanitary paper covering the exam table.
"These nights I'm with the kids," he says, pointing. "These nights are for my girlfriend. But this night here is... for the guys."
The schedule clearly consoles him -- it's a feeling I recognize and remember, even though I'm hardly a "guy's night" kind of guy. When men are set adrift, they look for anything to which they can anchor their lives again. Even a simple schedule. Especially a girlfriend.
For all his inappropriate, lust-struck clumsiness, I feel a kinship with my dermatologist. I know where he lives -- not the place down the road from his kids, but the messy flophouse in his own mind. A place for men to detox from the expectations that once surrounded and defined them. Some men pass through quickly; others never leave.
Finally dressed, I extend a hand to Dr. Skin. He takes it and looks at me expectantly.
"Take your time," I say impulsively. "Figure out who you are, what you want, and what kind of dad you are. That's all you're supposed to do right now."
Marci rips off the paper decorated with Dr. Skin's scribbles, tosses it in the garbage, and rolls out a new one. She then hands me a bag filled with tiny samples.
When I turn back, Skin is showing me the same digital photo of his girlfriend.
"She's really good-looking, right?"
I can't believe it... nor do people to whom I've told this story.
A few days later I get an email from Lisa, Skin's girlfriend, and instantly delete it. I sympathize with the good doctor, I really do. I just have no skin in that game.
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally-published personal essayist and author of the award-winning collection The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad]]>Six Ways Divorced Men Can Treat Themselves (and Their Kids) on Father's Daytag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8777622011-06-19T02:38:02-04:002011-08-18T05:12:01-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/
But for divorced and remarried dads in particular, Father's Day represents a unique and valuable opportunity to genuinely enjoy time with your kids... without martyring yourself and your own personal fulfillment in the process.
Below are inexpensive, but meaningful gift experiences Dad can give himself, with help from his favorite little accomplices.
Joel Schwartzberg is a dad of three, husband of one, a nationally-published personal essayist, and author of "The 40-Year-Old Version", an award-winning collection of essays.
]]>My Oscar Moment... With Kevin, Barbra, Nicole, and Momtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8280222011-02-25T12:25:00-05:002011-05-25T18:35:25-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/Dances with Wolves and The Silence of the Lambs took home top prizes, but it's more likely you don't remember them at all. I didn't go as a nominee -- that kind of honor is reserved for luminaries like Borat, Three 6 Mafia, and kids who cry on cue.
No, for two years I went to the Oscars as a full-time employee of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences. Whereas most L.A. office jobs offer a 401K plan and all the tiny cups of water you can drink, the academy offered each of its employees a unique perk: two tickets to the biggest, most exclusive, most star-studded awards show on the planet.
I remember only a few moments from the shows themselves. In one of those super-ceremonies, Madonna arrived with none other than Michael Jackson on her arm. That counted as scandalous 18 years ago.
In Kevin Costner's acceptance speech for Dances, he told the crowd that although everyone forgets the Oscar-winning films year after year, he swore he wouldn't. Well, that's easy for you to say, Kevin -- you've got an eight-pound personalized gold-plated naked man-shaped paperweight to remind you.
What I remember most is not actually who I saw at the Oscars, but who I brought. Consider: An unemployed, unattached 22 year-old man has the chance to pick any beautiful stranger in L.A. to accompany him to the most celebrated affair of the year... and he invites his own mother. Twice.
But I couldn't resist seeing my mom's star-struck face after possibly shaking hands with Bette Midler, Harrison Ford or -- as it eventually turned out -- Alan Dershowitz! (there in 1991 for Reversal of Fortune.)
I remember how we crammed ourselves into my cherry red Mazda hatchback, then sat in line between stretch limousines like the dot in a division symbol. I was wearing an ill-fitting rented tuxedo. My mom wore borrowed earrings and a blue sequined dress she got from a shop in Boca Raton.
"It's for the Academy Awards," she mentioned to the salesperson. And the manager. And the security guard.
The first time around at the Oscars, we hustled down the red carpet as if catching a flight. Feeling like impostors, we passed on an invitation to share an elevator with Richard Gere and Cindy Crawford, who are even more mismatched in height than you've been led to believe.
In a story I can't possibly validate, my mother swears Joe Pesci hit on her outside the ladies' room, his recently-acquired Goodfellas statuette in hand. (I've since encouraged her to recast the memory with Al Pacino in the lead.)
At the next Oscar go-round, we planted our feet on the carpet and stood our ground. Everyone who was anyone in Hollywood maneuvered around mom and me that night: Tim and Susan, Tom and Nicole, even Barbra. BARBRA.
"Don't point -- it's conspicuous," I told my mom as I retied the imaginary laces of my shiny slip-ons.
As star-studded as it was, the red carpet moment also had a strong and indulgent Sodom and Gomorrah-like vibe. I told my mom not to look back for fear she would turn instantly to salt.
When the show finally ended, we were famished. But there were no Governor's Ball tickets for us. No Wolfgang Puck appetizers. No sitting in the back corner of a tent sucking down Cristal with mid-level studio execs, B-list movie stars, and Hollywood wannabes.
Instead, we ultimately found ourselves the best-dressed patrons of the Rodeo Drive Cheesecake Factory. Onlookers may have thought we were some obscure documentary or sound-editing team, dreams dashed, taking out our frustration out on a strawberry-drizzled calorie bomb. Indeed it was the most delicious moment of the night.
In the years that followed, I saw fewer and fewer movies, had no Oscar favorites and little at stake. I stopped calling my Mom on Oscar's Eve and even swore off Oscar office pools. "You should try the Oscar pool at the Academy," I'd scoff. "Slip up on 'Best Animated Documentary Sound Mixing' and you're toast."
But now, with the whole experience so far behind me, I've begun to see the Academy Awards anew, and have reinvented my traditions. Forget the limos, the red carpet, the deep cleavage dresses, and the amorous wiseguys. This Sunday, I'm happy enough to plop in front of the TV with my wife, sip Pinot Grigio from plastic tumblers, talk about enjoying Let Me In so much more than The Social Network, and enjoy Oscar Night on my own terms... or at least in my underwear.
Joel Schwartzberg is an award-winning essayist and author of the humor collection "The 40-Year-Old Version"
]]>Making #2 Feel Like #1: Creating a New Valentine's Day Playbooktag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8217412011-02-12T13:34:41-05:002011-05-25T18:30:24-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/Valentine's Day traditions you had with a former spouse, die they must.
When you're in a subsequent marriage or relationship, it's imperative to burn the old playbook and write a new one -- especially one customized to your new partner's joys, loves, and unique tickles. On Valentine's Day, your partner needs to know she's the one, not the "second one." Here are five no-nonsense, no-expense ways to make that loud and clear.
Joel Schwartzberg is the author of "The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad" -- an award-winning collection of personal essays -- and is a very happily-remarried man. ]]>I'm With Cupid: Valentine's Day Truthstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.8207322011-02-09T12:44:22-05:002011-05-25T18:30:24-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/
But where is St. Valentine? Weeks before February 14, local stores celebrate enthusiastically with cheap jewelry, heart-shaped placemats, heart-themed pajamas, and enough chocolate to keep dentists busy through 2020 -- yet Valentine himself is treated more like Voldemort.
The poor guy can't even catch any controversy. Nobody appears on Bill O'Reilly's show decrying the "War on St. Valentine." While public schools wring their hands about Halloween and Christmas, cutting symmetrical hearts from folded red construction paper is as much an American classroom tradition as doodling on your notebook and picking your nose.
It's even a-ok to decorate the walls with underage, semi-naked predators, armed to the gums with bows and sharp projectiles. (And you thought Miley Cyrus sent a bad message).
The wide-ranging themes of school punch-out valentine cards best illustrates the modern disconnect between Valentine's Day and anything even remotely romantic. At one Target store, I saw Spiderman valentines, Darth Vader-themed valentine chocolates, and military camouflage tattoo valentines. Apparently, nothing says "I love you" more than tattooing your sweetie's hand with a green army bazooka.
Some people even think Valentine's Day was manufactured by greedy card companies, much like "Buy a Card From a Greedy Card Company Day," which never really took off.
Many women see no coincidence in the fact that Valentine's Day occurs only weeks after Super Bowl Sunday. Their explanation: Payback. Most men know this as well, so the card industry supplies them with myriad variations on the theme:
"Dear, I've been a pretty mediocre mate for many months now and ignored you completely while watching men tackle each other between beer commercials, so here's a pop-up card with two chimpanzees making out and my name scribbled underneath. Umm, can we have a 'date night' now?"
The needlessly-kept secret is that actual Valentine's Day lore is rich with sacrifice, generosity, and blind love. Think Braveheart meets When Harry Met Sally, minus fake accents and orgasms. The story goes something like this:
Around the year 270, Emperor Claudius II banned marriages because he decided single men made better soldiers than married men. (It's understandable because single men can use both their hands for fighting, whereas married men always need one hand free to hold the remote.)
Well, a third-century priest named Valentine thought that was pretty bogus, and started performing illegal marriages waaaaaaay before performing illegal marriages became all the rage. (Take that, San Francisco!)
Valentine, "friend of lovers," got tossed in the slammer for his trouble, but met a charming young blind woman (as is often the case with the newly-incarcerated). He miraculously healed her blindness, after which the girl immediately exclaimed, "Hey, I thought you said you looked like George Clooney!"
Unfazed, he wrote her a farewell message, signed: "from your Valentine". The phrase stuck with us forever. Not so everlasting was Val, who was executed on February 24, 270.
This paved the way to Patron Sainthood, and "Saint Valentine" became the inspiration for a February 14 Roman festival during which young Romans wrote affectionate greetings to girls they liked or simply wished to enslave. This went on for hundreds of years until "St. Hallmark of the Mall" appeared on the scene, charged a couple of bucks for foldable cardboard, and reduced every tender thought between romantic couples into trite rhyming couplets. The rest is history. For more details, check out VH-1's I Love the 270's!
In a typical parental mission to replace ignorance with embellished truth, I shared the story with my kids, making St. Valentine a Jedi Knight and the blind girl a beautiful princess. The loving couple didn't die, but retired to Florida where they spent their final days playing shuffleboard and testing Whitman's Samplers.
As for me, I'm inspired to spend V-Day doing what Val would have done: Simply spending quality, TV-free time with the one I love... and buying her some shiny things. Hey, I may be romantic, but I'm no idiot.
If all goes well, I may also bring sight to a couple of blind people just for the heck of it.
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally-published essayist and author of the award-winning humor collection "The 40-Year-Old Version", from which this essay is excerpted.
]]>The Festival of Rights: How Divorce Helps Me "Own" Hanukkahtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.7892722010-12-02T09:28:34-05:002011-05-25T18:15:22-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/Excerpted and revised from "The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad"
Somewhere in Africa, there's a goat with an unsuspecting Kenyan family's name on it. I adopted the animal for the family after coming across the idea in a holiday catalog from the non-profit group Heifer International. But the gift wasn't only for the Kenyan family; it was also for my own.
When I told my kids that one of their coveted Hanukkah presents would be rerouted to a needier family, they were confused at first, then entranced. My son was eager to plot Kenya on a globe, while my girls schemed ways of sending comfy goat beds overseas. It inspired more discussion than a typical holiday gift, even one that doubles as a pillow, giggles when shook, and can safely bake small cakes. I just hope Heifer tapes a gift receipt to the goat's belly in case the family wants to trade up for a llama.
My children's mother is technically Jewish -- her own mother is Jewish -- but both have shrugged off the identity like a heavy blanket on a warm night. In their mother's house, the kids get a Christmas tree every year -- one of the few issues about which I put my foot down when I lived there. But now whatever they do for Christmas is fine by me, because it means Hanukkah is exclusively mine. No trading off days, no competing gift moments -- Dad does Hanukkah, period.
As Jews are apt to do, I customize our Hanukkah observance. For starters, I stir in a little non-denominational holiday compassion. In addition to donating through Heifer, we like dropping off toys and clothes at our local Goodwill center. The U.S. Marines' "Toys for Tots" also redistributes toys, even Jesus Christ dolls, which I expect many kids might excitedly mistake for Obi-Wan Kenobi.
Connecting holiday compassion to Hanukkah was not a tradition in my own childhood. Hanukkah is, after all, more about spirituality than selflessness. The festival of lights focuses on the story of Jews who, for lack of an all-night convenience store, ran perilously low on olive oil, but managed to make it last eight nights. I have the same miraculous experience with my toothpaste every six months or so, but I keep that to myself.
I didn't really begin to consider religion seriously until late in life, despite some formal religious training in my youth. When I was 13, I had my Bar Mitzvah in Alief, Texas, a tiny suburb outside Houston. Our congregation's temple was so miniscule that we'd rent out the local church for big events. We'd just hide the crosses and New Testaments and Oy Voila: a perfect Bar Mitzvah venue. The only problem were the invitations:
"Come celebrate Joel Schwartzberg's Bar Mitzvah and his transition to Jewish manhood... at the First Church of Jesus Christ Our Lord and Savior."
When I left home for NYU, it wasn't long before I began rationalizing forbidden practices like eating on Yom Kippur, making sandwiches on Passover, and ordering shrimp cocktails. I joined a large Jewish student organization, but like so many others in the group, I was more focused on dating than deities. In fact, I think it was those guys who introduced me to shrimp.
In my first family life, I passed my lazy reverence onto my kids, whose exposure to their own religion had been limited to annual Hanukkah Brachos and one overtly Jewish Power Ranger. (Season 13's Bridge Carson, if you must know. He couldn't have been Bridge Goldstein?)
But now, with my wife's help (I got remarried in 2008), I take great pleasure in connecting my kids with their spiritual DNA. We spin dreidels, wear my remarriage yarmulkes, take turns lighting the colorful candles, and now I always translate the brachos as we say them -- "lehadlik" (to light) "nair" (candles) "shell Chanukah" (of Hanukkah).
And then comes the compassion thing. Connecting the holiday to acts of selfless generosity, like gifting a goat, is a mitzvah that creates no messy religious inconsistencies (unless said goat is also a Scientologist.)
While I hope my children feel further bonded with their dad through this singularly-shared heritage, I have hopes for the Kenyan family as well. My biggest hope is that, through our generosity, the Kenyan family realizes there are parts of the better-developed world where, come holiday time, caring families of all faiths practice compassion alongside religion and frenzied holiday shopping. The great thing about this kind of program is that recipients traditionally "pass on" their animals' offspring to others in their community. Not only can't you do that with a Nintendo DS, but it isn't even considered re-gifting.
This year, in an unusual scheduling arrangement, I'll be spending Christmas Eve with my kids in addition to a few Hanukkah nights. That means exposure to yet another holiday tradition: Chinese food.
And as long as we're out, we'll pick up some extra olive oil just in case.
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally-published essayist and author of "The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad" ]]>Thanks and Misgivings: First Turkey Day as a Divorced Dadtag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.7870292010-11-22T15:20:12-05:002011-05-25T18:15:22-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/(Excerpted from my book The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad)
I'm looking at a photo of myself topless.
I'm five years old, playing the role of an Indian in my kindergarten Thanksgiving Day play, red war paint on my chest and cheeks, and a paper feather painfully stuck in my head. I remember being much more concerned about exposing my naked chest than about some historical sit-down between Pilgrims and Indians.
Thirty-seven years, one divorce, and many thousands of tuition dollars later, I still don't like being shirtless in public, and also don't know much more about Thanksgiving's true origins than I did then. So I did something I never would have dreamed of back in elementary school. I Googled Thanksgiving.
This is what we know: A long time ago, some 130 restless Europeans cashed in their frequent sailor miles for adventurous times -- and a helping of religious freedom -- in the New World. They brought their families, rats, and funky buckle hats. The Wampanoag Indians, happy to see the Pilgrims in the way deer are happy to see an oncoming tractor trailer, gave them corn and helped them survive the harsh winter. In return, the Pilgrims gave them small pox.
The relationship was probably doomed from the start. For one thing, the natives were probably still peeved at being called Indians, based on Christopher Columbus' misidentifying his destination as the West Indies. (That ship was mostly populated by men, so you can be sure no one stopped to ask for directions). In fact, ancient Algonquian writings were recently translated to say: "That Columbus idiot couldn't navigate his way out of a corn husk."
Fast forward half a millennium or so, and we're still replaying some of those early customs. We still carve turkeys, set our tables for guests, and stereotype Native Americans. Some of us watch the Patriots and the Redskins knock each other around over a pigskin. And our relations with guests go from cordial to confrontational by the third bottle of gift wine. There were no Thanksgiving Day parades during Pilgrim times, of course, but it's quite possible Willard Scott was there.
We like to think we're more civilized than our Mayflower forefathers, but not everything about today's Thanksgiving is an improvement. For one thing, I don't think the Pilgrims would tolerate hours of standstill holiday traffic the way we do today. Especially with the little Pilgrimettes whining in the back:
"Father, hath we arrived yet? And willest thou change the radio station?"
In my first life as a father, Thanksgiving started with everyone getting up early and watching the Thanksgiving Day Parade on television. We yawned through the marching bands, delighted at the majestic floats, and gawked at B-level music stars moving their freezing lips to songs they'd come to hate. By the early afternoon, the kitchen would be abuzz with rolling, chopping, basting, sweating, and swearing.
Inevitably, someone would become inordinately worried about the turkey. Was it taking too long to cook? Was it too pink? Too dry? Was it organic, or did it have track marks on its leg? Was it really a chicken?
We complimented everything on the table for fear of insulting a contributing guest: "This salt is so good and salty! Who here made this salt? And this water is to die for!" Meanwhile, my Dad looked longingly at the mute television as if it were calling out to him.
My ex and I plan to switch Turkey Day custody every year, so last year I spent my first Thanksgiving in nearly a decade without my kids. I yakked on about the weather, car troubles, and work as I usually do, but it still felt somewhat wrong, as if someone forgot to invite the turkey.
The day after Thanksgiving, my new wife Anne and I took the kids to Disney's High School Musical on Ice. What could be more patriotic than ice dancers simulating basketball to a syrupy Disney soundtrack? The kids were mesmerized, and I dropped cash at the souvenir stand as if I was competing for their attention with Thanksgiving itself.
When we got home, we immediately dropped our Disney gear, kicked off our shoes, and flopped on the couch to watch the previous day's parade on the DVR. In the kitchen, Anne was making chicken and French fries. Lazy cats were warming the furniture all around us.
With the familiar smell of comfort food in the air, I realized that all traditions -- even late-coming ones -- have a starting point. This was ours.
And these days, I get to keep my shirt on. If that's not something to be thankful for, I don't know what is.
Joel Schwartzberg is a father of three, an award-winning essayist, and author of the first-of-its kind collection of personal essays from the perspective of a divorced father, The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad
]]>Six Things Remarried Dads Owe Their Stepmom Wivestag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.7866562010-11-22T01:13:25-05:002011-05-25T18:15:22-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/the parent. A caregiver but not always a care-getter. She donates considerable time, space, attention, resources, and family income to people from another life. She has not only willingly opened her private life to the one she loves, but allowed it to be invaded by needy, willful, attachments with whom she has no biological, legal, or dependent connection.
And what does the stepmom get for her trouble (while the woman from another life gets a regular alimony check)? Probably not as much as she deserves -- certainly less than she imagined when she first considered her romantic future. This is not to say that stepmoms are miserable and masochistic. Often they dearly love the children brought into their lives. But her needs are frequently overshadowed by those of her husband. She is there for him. She is there for the kids. But who's there for her, and is it enough?
In my experiences as a remarried father and author of essays on divorced dadhood, I've identified six things remarried dads need to realize they owe the new loves in their lives.
Joel Schwartzberg is a nationally-published essayist and author of the award-winning collection, "The 40-Year-Old Verison: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad"]]>Top Ten "Must Knows" for Divorced Dadstag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2010:/theblog//3.7812002010-11-16T16:35:18-05:002011-05-25T18:10:25-04:00Joel Schwartzberghttp://www.huffingtonpost.com/joel-schwartzberg/Google. What I found was a chorus of certain doom: I'd go bankrupt, my kids would see shrinks forever, I'd never find the "woman of my dreams," and I'd spend my days mostly exploring new ways of being pathetic.
With due respect to Google: Wrong, wrong, wrong, and mostly wrong (I'm still a Dad, after all).
Sharing my experiences in my book, "The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad", and talking with other dads, I eventually saw my divorce as an opportunity to reconnect more authentically with my kids. I boiled down this and other inspiring realizations into the following ten "must knows".
Joel Schwartzberg is a father of three, an award-winning essayist, and author of the first-of-its kind collection of personal essays from the perspective of a divorced father, "The 40-Year-Old Version: Humoirs of a Divorced Dad"]]>
