The Mall Police
My mom was in a wheelchair when I was a kid. She’s all good now, but a few childhood things remain. One, having a mom in a wheelchair gets you to the front of every line at Disneyland. Two, wheelchair races are not for sissies; and three, the closer you get to the holidays, the harder it is to navigate stores. As you know, wheelchair-bound or not, shopping displays. life-size Santas and hoards of merchandise racks are a bitch to work around.
My Mall Police badge of honor started in 2003 when my twins were born. I’d gone to the mall and realized in horror that I couldn’t get through aisles in stores I normally could navigate with my double-wide Twin Savvy Stroller (or any of the other six strollers I had at the time). I walked into a store in San Jose and literally could not get to the items I wanted to see. As I pulled my stroller backwards to wiggle my way in, I noticed a wheelchair-bound woman trying to shop in the aisle. Eventually she gave up and left the store. In a rage, so did I.
That night I looked up the size of double-wide strollers online. It just happens to be the same width size as the American with Disabilities Act standards. So, in essence, my stroller was exactly the same size as a wheelchair. The wheels were turning. In theory, I thought, I could stalk every store in the mall and report the ones that were not compliant with wheelchair regulations. The more I thought about it, the more ticked-off I got: if it were my mother in a wheelchair and she couldn’t go Christmas shopping because she literally could not get down the aisle… the image outraged me. I decided that I would become the self-proclaimed Mall Police.
The next morning I headed out to Wesfield’s Valley Fair Mall in San Jose. I was armed with a notepad, a digital camera and my stroller (yes, the kids were in the stroller). I went up and down, traipsing myself through the mall, only stopping at Nordstrom (mild violations only) to breastfeed the kidlets. At every store where I could not get my stroller down the aisle, I would ask for a manager. I would tell them that my stroller was the exact width of a wheelchair and that they were in violation of the law (and of potentially buyers). Then I marched myself down to customer service where I reported each store. To Westfield’s credit, the mall management called me the following day. He had spoken to each store and warned them he’d call the County if they did not comply immediately. Got to give the guy credit for listening to a mom-on-the-warpath.
The following year, I noticed the same thing. And again, the Mall Police put on her badge and hit the mall with an agenda. This time I noticed retailers were more sensitive to the problem and more engaged in finding solutions. Leaving one store, I overheard the store manager tell a worker, “Move the rack, she’s right.” I smiled. Eat my stroller dust.
I am right. There are 2.1 million wheelchair users in the US and my mama was one of them. And every single one of them deserves 36 inches to get their chair around a store. In fact, there’s more. Many of our cute stores in San Jose are massive issues for people in a chair. Campbell, cute as can be, has multiple stores that are losing revenue every day from people who can’t get through the front door, muchless shop inside the stores.
Six years later, I’m still the Mall Police during the holidays. My children, long out of strollers, help me each year, pointing out the clearance violations. Indeed, it’s such a random, strange way to give to my community, but for me, it’s a passion. It’s a need. The holiday season is here and I plan to hit the stores tomorrow. Look out.
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Revisiting the Agreements
I walked into the house of a neighbor and on her kitchen counter was a giant frame with The Four Agreements written in it. It wasn’t a Hallmark purchase, it was a printout, carefully placed in the frame and front and center in the middle of the house. It was a statement of the obvious: Self Work Done Here.
I read The Four Agreements years ago — twice in fact — and found it to be directly on-target with my beliefs. I gobbled up the follow-up book and the workbook but The Mastery of Love and the Toltec Teachings fell on deaf ears for me. They were abstract, hard to grasp. And anyway, by then, Oprah and half the free self-help world were touting the writing of Don Miguel Ruiz. It turned me off. In fact, I thought that by definition, it was counter-intuitive to the Four Agreements.
The neighbor’s kitchen, though. That got me. These folks are cool, wealthy, beautiful. They’re IN. In fact, I’d bet my shirt they were never anything short of SuperCool. To see the Agreements written in their kitchen brought me a new perspective on them: depth.
I’ve gained a re-interest in The Four Agreements. Reading it over again (in a short afternoon), I remembered that not only did I believe in the Agreements, but that they were entire avenues of myself that I have neglected for a long, long time. There is work to be done in the realm of being true to my word, be the person that I know I am. And so here I revisit my Agreements. Maybe I’ll print them out and put them in my kitchen. I could use the reminder.
The Four Agreements
- Be Impeccable With Your Word.
- Don’t Take Anything Personally.
- Don’t Make Assumptions.
- Always Do Your Best.
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Pinching Pennies? Time to Give
Somehow I’ve always believed that the more you give, the more you get. Of course, it’s not true, but I like the idea of it being true. It’s sort of like karma and justice mixed together — give and you’ll receive. Maybe I give so I can receive? I know that when I receive I think it must be in response to something I must have given and if I can’t think of how I’ve given, I try to make it up and give right away to make sure the scales are balanced. When we’re waiting for payday, I try to take leftover food with me in the car and find a homeless woman to give it to. Somtimes that backfires (one woman screamed at me that she didn’t want my sloppy seconds). Sometimes when I feel particularly fortunate, I make sure I give, however small, as a bargaining chip for my own desire to stay in the good graces of karma.
It seems that no matter where I turn, I hear of charities in desperate need since in economic times like we’re in now, people give less. Actually, correction, well-off people give less percentage to charity. Believe it or not, poorer people give more of their income during hard economic times.
Today is a good day to take a moment to give. No matter how small. Tip the karma scale today.
Some of my favorites:
The George Mark Children’s House — Hospice for Young, Dying Children here in the Bay Area is in deep jeopardy.
Sacred Heart Community Center - Offering clothes, food and shelter to families in need in Silicon Valley
and my personal, most dear charity: Pro Mujer — Microloans (as low as $5) to women in Latin American countries to benefit their health and families
What’s charity is close to your heart? How about giving just a few bucks today?
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My Name is Lexi
I’ve got a Starbucks name: Lexi. A lot of folks in my family have a Starbucks name (formerly known in my single days as my bar name), Spike, Fanny, Phyllis. I’m Lexi.
Lexi stands for Lexapro, the antidepressant I’ve been taking for two years. Better known at the happy pills, the meds, the livesaver, the be-more-of-me drug. I take such a low dosage of Lexapro that Scientologists probably get happier from smelling glue.
I know a frigging truckload of Stay-at-Home-Moms (SAHMS) that take some sort of anti-depressants. I’ve been thinking a lot about the SAHM culture the past week after four friends all were complaining of the blues.
Now before you start rubbing you play your micro-violin for me or tell me how SAHMs have been around for centuries or how lucky I am, let me tell you one thing: shut up. :) I know how lucky I am, as do my friends who are going through similar struggles. Being fortunate and having the blues are not related. Lucky, wealthy, mentally healthy, HAPPY people get the blues.
I read an article years ago — some special edition of Newsweek or one of those — about the depression and the stay-at-home-mom. It described the upper-middle class SAHM as one of the most depressed in our society: Get up, get on eliptical, get kids up, throw on clothes passing over the nice ones you used to wear as an executive, go into enclosed garage, get in car, drop kids at school, run errands, pick up kids at school, go home into enclosed garage, make dinner, go to bed. The article described the solitary life that is lived by these women. Relatively no human interaction, no use of their natural senses (smell of a subway, taste of a street vendor’s pretzel, touch of a crowded elevator). I’ve been crawling the web for this study, but have yet to find it. I remember, although not a parent at the time, that story really moved me. If you find it, sent it to me.
Why do so many SAHMS have the blues this time of year? There are too many of us in my small community to warrant it a coincidence. When I looked up the subject on Google, I got a zillion born-again Christians who tell you how great it is to be a SAHM (and inevitably a handful of recipes from making playdough to Wal-Mart dinners). On the other end are the SAHMs that are not in a happy, supportive environment like I am with blog headlines like “Fucked in Brooklyn” Those are the ones that kill me. Oh for god sake. And, if one more blog tells me that laughter is the best medicine…
Upper Middle Class SAHMS like me, are happy, smart, well-adjusted women. We’re brainy enough to have playground banter that goes beyond PB&J; we rally our local communities (just ask a certain County Supervisor who met me an a brigade of 100 at the local park when we demanded it fixed); we raise our children with conviction and humility and passion. We’re educated and we know how to take care of ourselves, even if it is a $10 copay on a good SSRI.
So what’s the deal this time of year? Here’s what I think:
* We put it all together for the holidays, we make everything warm and exciting and enticing. Then, come the first week of January, it’s all gone.* We get to have almost a full month of family time — Thanksgiving through New Year’s we get our children, our spouses, our extended families. We get physically hugged more, spoken to, engaged with. Then, come the first week of January, everyone goes back to their lives, school, homes and the touching and warmth is gone.
* We get to have expanded or contracted budgets to accommodate the holidays — buy different foods at the grocery store, go shopping for gifts and special occasion clothes for our families. Then, come the first week of January, all of us are broke and the fun is gone.
* We get to engage with food that isn’t mac & cheese. We make family dishes during the holiday season, splurges, cookies, candies, tamales and cioppino. We get to drink more too (what a holiday without some Cheer?) — Then, come the first week of January, it’s gone and we’re left with five extra pounds and a worn-out liver.
* We get to spoil our children with toys and activities and make-your-own gingerbread houses to celebrate the season. We get to give them special treats and stay out late and go on tours of the lights and displays all around town. Then, come the first week of January, the lights are down, it’s cold and dark and the fun is gone.
What’s the solution? I’m guessing, there isn’t one. We, my dear friends, are doing a great job. And as my mom says, most things in life need a 1% course correction, not a sweeping 180-degree turn. I think, for me, knowing that the SAHM blues are valid this time of year is, for the most part, enough for me. And, knowing you’re having it too.
Chin up, friends. We’ve got ninjas to raise.
Love,
Lexi
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Next Door Solutions
I had a terrible experience years ago that reminds me of how vulnerable and precious the lives of mothers and their children are, and, every day reminded even more of how strong mothers and their children are.
The Next Door Solutions to Domestic Violence is having a holiday boutique where children and mothers pick from donated gifts to give to each other for Christmas. You can get the full list of items on their wishlist is here:
Thanks.
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Side Gigs
