I had a most unusual experience this week. Yet, a few decades ago, it would not been unusual at all.

I was calling roofing companies to arrange for estimates to replace the wood trim under our roof. (In doing so, I learned a new word: soffit. Who says old dogs can’t learn new tricks. Woof!)

After making an appointment with Company #1, I called the next business on the list. I knew the drill and was ready to answer the universal questions. Name. Address. Type of house. Year house was built. Yadayadayada.

Then the woman on the other end threw me a curveball with her well-rehearsed line about it was Company #2’s policy to schedule visits when all the “decision-makers” in the household could be available to consult about color, style, blah, blah and was I the only decision-maker? Taken aback, yet confident that no one else in my household gives a flying fig about replacing the soffit, I replied yes. Here’s what followed:

“Are you the sole home owner?”

“No, I co-own the house with my husband.”

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Mike.”

“When would Mike be available to join you for the appointment?”

Woah, stop everything! Is she saying what I think she’s saying? That Company #2 will only do business with me if MY HUSBAND is involved? Are you freaking kidding me?!?!?

I ended the phone call quickly after objecting (albeit politely - it wasn’t this poor woman’s fault) to Company #2’s “approach” to business. To top it off, the next day Company #2’s manager contacted me at work to innocently “inquire about my unfinished file.” After I briefly recapped the reason, he attempted to explain the rationale behind the practice of having all decision-makers present. Again, I quickly ended the call. (OK, this time a little less politely.)

Do you really think that, if my husband called for an appointment, they would have insisted that I, his wife, be there to help with “decision-making.” Uh, I don’t think so.

This was my first experience with such blatant sexism. I experienced a real sense of powerlessness and anger, even with this low-stakes scenario of stumbling in my efforts to replace the soffit. Imagine if I was thwarted or denied when trying to secure credit, rent or buy my own home, or land a new job. I immediately thought of and had empathy for the Wise Women who routinely faced this dehumanizing attitude not so long ago.

Anyone else run up against something like this?

While I’m not that frequent a flyer, I am guilty of ignoring the flight attendants as they explain the safety info at the start of each flight. Dumb, I know. My only defense is that I fall asleep within minutes of settling into my window seat. I’ve found that sleeping through take-off is the one, sure-fire way to quell my anxiety during flying.

However, I may have to find a new strategy when/if I fly Air New Zealand. This week’s video is the airline’s in-flight safety video - with crew members dressed only in body paint.

An added bonus: You’ll love their Kiwi accents! Enjoy the “Nothing to Hide” campaign!

The ritual of scanning the newspaper one last time is really my thinly disguised attempt to delay my departure for work. So, I felt sheepish when I read the headline: Va. Man, 107, Finds Blessings and Burdens in Longevity; somehow, the “burden” of going to work didn’t seem as onerous.

It turns out that Larry Haubner, age 107, is in the news because he’s outliving his money, and friends are raising funds so he can remain at his assisted living facility. Mind you, it’s not like Larry neglected to plan for his future. He lived in his own apartment until 102, before moving into the facility. Then, he was able to pay the $3,500 monthly tab from his savings through age 105, the point at which his money first ran out. At that time, his friends held a similar campaign and thought they raised a sufficient amount once they could cover two more years of living expenses. But, Larry’s years of healthy eating and exercising (he rode his bike into his 100’s) make him the Energizer Bunny of Seniors. I just checked the donation site, savelarry.org, and with the recent publicity, Larry is now set for another 18 months and counting.

After sharing Larry’s amazing life journey with my friend Gail, she told me about an interactive site where you can calculate your Real Age (versus your chronological age according to the calendar). I find this calculation infinitely more appealing than figuring out when I’ll die, like I can at The Death Clock.

After punching in intimate details about myself (cholesterol level, blood pressure and weight were just the beginning), I discovered that my “real age” is … (drum roll, please) … 44.4! That’s a full year less than my chronological age. Woohoo! (I was SO worried that the number would be higher.)

The following quote puts Larry’s story and my angsting about age into perspective:

Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul. ~ Samuel Ullman

As I was looking at the latest round of pictures I took of the chicks, I realized that this is the first time, in all the times I’ve used chicken wire for projects, that I’ve used it for what it is purported to do - contain chickens.  I realize that there is maybe 2% of you that are actually interested in our new lives as chicken farmers, so for those 2% - I’ll keep reporting, occasionally, to fill you in on the sordid details.  For the rest of you, please bare with me.  

So far, so good.  (I think this primarily has to do with the fact that young animals make little poops). These 10 chicks are still relatively cute - although I know their days of cutedom are numbered.  Given that they are now four weeks old (which means 5 months ’til eggs), this was the first weekend that we could let them venture outside.  Of course, they were relatively forced out their door - as two pairs of young hands grabbed, lifted and pushed them outside and down the ramp into their new outdoor pen.  Once there, I think they rather liked it.  

I’m rather amused by how my husband has taken to his new role as well.  He likes to check on the chicks just as much as the young boys, and has busily been building indoor perches, outdoor perches, nesting boxes, climbing stumps and a ramp with steps.  

Pictured above is the chick named Tom.  He (well she really) was the one we were most worried about when they arrived in their little box - flown in from Ohio.  She was definitely the smallest, but has become rather assertive, and is mostly seen hopping right into the middle of the feeding dish.  Her feathers and markings are quite beautiful, and she stands up a bit straighter than the rest of the chicks.  Ironically we also have a chick named Michael Jackson (MJ) - who was named so before the superstar died… I guess our own special family tribute(!)  While I’m a bit embarrassed to report on how he was named - he was named so by my teenagers because of his black and white feathers.

So now we need to start researching how to make these chickens super healthy egg producers - free range, grass fed, eggs with high omega 3s (I think they primarily get this by eating flax seed).  While I must say I’m still eating chicken, and I don’t think twice about doing so, it does make you think about the food chain - and what the animals eat, you ultimately eat.    Ahhh, a topic for another day (still want to see the new Food, Inc. documentary that is out).

I walked out of the Harrison, NY courthouse last week thinking if legal procedures are so convoluted at the base level, God only knows what’s the truth in these high profile cases.  

About two months ago, leaving work late, I picked up a bit of speed driving out of my corporate campus, making a right turn on yellow.  I turned the corner, and there was Mr. Copper facing my way, who quickly put on his lights, did a U, and pursued me.  He claimed that I went through a red light, and gave me a ticket.  By the time I got home and tried to read the ticket, it was illegible, and there was no stated fine - just the opportunity to plead guilty or not guilty and send into the Courthouse for a trial date.

So I pled “not guilty” - and was assigned a court date - June 25, 9AM.  As I had a terribly busy day scheduled at work, I went in extra early to the office, and then left at 8:30 to drive to court.  In my mind I was thinking there would be a handful of people - and I would be out by 10 at the latest.  As I drove up, I saw a mass of people standing outside the courthouse - reminiscent of the long lines that form in Times Square before Broadway Shows.  As I got in line, behind at least 100 or so people, I thought, “this is not going to be a good morning.”  As soon as I got in, I approached an officer to ask just how long this would take.  His response - “could go to early afternoon.”

Well, that’s it, I thought.  I walked over to the clerk to find out what my fine would be if I were to pay it.  She was obviously a surly, frustrated government worker - who refused to give me a simple straight answer.  ”Can you tell me what I owe if I pay this now?”  She refused - certain that I would use whatever info she gave me against her when I was before the judge.  ”Are you changing your plea to guilty?” she asked.  As we bantered back and forth, me in disbelief because she couldn’t answer my simple question, I turned my head smiling.  ”What, are you laughing at me” she said.  ”No, I just want to have a ballpark of what I owe if I were to settle this now.”  Finally she said “$225 and 3 points on your Driver’s License.”  OK, I thought.  I’m going into court.

By that time, the court room was overflowing into the outside hall, standing room only.  Finally, at 9:45, the judge walks in, and cases begin to be called - building permit violations, landlord disputes, etc.  Shortly thereafter, my name was called, and I was asked to go out into the hall.  JACKPOT, I thought.  (I was sure that since I was the hundredth and umpteenth person to check in - I was due a long wait).

In talking to a nice officer (first day on the job) in the hall, he informed me the officer who had ticketed me wasn’t in court, and that I could either plead guilty to a lesser charge, or come back for a new trial date. Now what happened to the premise that if your officer doesn’t show, charges are dismissed? Not in my case.  The thought of giving up another half day was not palatable.  The officer said that he could give me a cell phone usage while driving citation, or something along those lines.  That charge would eliminate the points on the driver’s license, and the fee would be a lot less.  Of course he could not tell me what the fee would be, but in my mind I was thinking maybe $40-$60.  In hindsight, I wish I had pushed for a seatbelt or parking violation.

So we settled.  I said, “Ok, I’ll take the cell phone charge.”  Thinking that I was done, the officer informed me that I needed to go back into the court, and my name would be called to settle up.  So back in I went, and I sat for another hour and 45 minutes until my name was called.

I was called out with a group of traffic violators who got in line to pay up.  My fee?  $180 big ones.  I was none too pleased, wishing that I had just signed up to face my captor eye to eye and argue my case before him, at his convenience of course.

But who has time?  The system got me.  I’m a victim of the legal system in a sleepy little hollow of a town in Westchester County.  I still maintain my innocence …

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, “Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?” Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We were born to manifest the glory that is within us. And as we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

The words of Marianne Williamson hang on the wall in my office. My eyes glance at the wise words every day, but rarely do I see them.

Today, I’m really seeing the quote. And letting the words sink in anew.

Williamson gives us a gentle, yet forceful reminder that we frequently settle for less — in our relationships, in our expectations for our lives, in ourselves — and end up playing small.

Clearly, this quote popped on to my conscious radar today for a reason. The universe is challenging me to notice the places in my life where fear is in the driver’s seat and nudging me to take corrective action.

Where are you playing small in your life? How can you let your light shine brighter?

My son Jackson picked up the book Eat This, Not That! by David Zinczenko and Matt Goulding. As I drive, he sits in the backseat recounting alarming nutritional information about the various food stuffs we consume.

“Did you know that P.F. Chang’s Pork Lo Mein is considered the worst Chinese entree? It has more than 1,800 calories and 127 grams of fat. Or, Chipotle’s chicken burrito? It has 1,107 calories, 113 carb grams and 2,656 milligrams of sodium,” says Jackson with a mixture of awe, disgust and worry in his voice.

“Hmmm,” I think. “Better come up with a different plan for dinner.” (Yes, we eat out WAY too much at our house.)

While I applaud Jackson’s burgeoning interest in healthy eating, tonight he crossed the line: He started to recite the nutritional facts about ice cream. At the next stop light, I turned around in the driver’s seat and glared.

“Jackson, there are certain things I DO NOT want to know. Like how bad ice cream is. Especially at the start of summer.”

Of course, my pronouncement was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. He immediately began to rattle off the depressing stats:

Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Money (in a waffle cone) has 659 calories and 24 grams of fat (19 grams saturated)

A strawberry shake at Baskin-Robbins weighs in at 650 calories and 98 grams of sugar

Dairy Queen’s chocolate chip cookie dough Blizzard (the SMALL size, for goodness sakes!) contains 720 calories and 28 grams of fat

Not surprisingly, sorbet and frozen yogurt generally got good marks from Zinczenko and Goulding. But, somehow, the cry of “I scream. You scream. We all scream for … sorbet!” doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.

My favorite indulgence is a Friendly’s black raspberry ice cream cone with chocolate jimmies (aka sprinkles, for those of you who grew up outside of New England). What kind of ice cream do you crave during the summer?

As we approach Independence Day this week, I had to share what has been weighing heavily on my mind this past week.  When President Barack Obama was elected last fall, my husband made a remark about the poignancy of a peaceful transition of power.  Leading up to an election we had two fiercely passionate sides vying for a candidate, and differing points of view leading to intense debates - yet when all is said and done, the election takes place, a candidate claims victory, the supporters rejoice, and everyone gets back to their daily business.  This doesn’t mean that opposing points of view are no longer heard, but it is peaceful. While this was such a true statement that my husband made, it is something that I take for granted. It really is not a reflection that would have crossed my mind - it is the way our country operates, the foundation from which the country was built. 

The current unrest in Iran following their election is an extreme juxtaposition of our own election a few short months ago.  It is heartening to see so many people in Iran voicing their opposition to the election and exercising freedom of speech.  Yet, that “freedom” of speech comes at a price.  International press has been barred from the scenes, and the reigning government is exercising brutal force against these protesters. Neda, a 26 year old woman, is one of the martyrs - a peaceful protester, standing up for what she believed in, shot dead by a government sniper.  Her death has touched millions, and rallied the world behind her mission.  As her boyfriend stated:  ”She didn’t believe that we always have to fight and quarrel and be violent and have death.  There’s only one thing Iranians must fight, and that’s ignorance.  And you don’t fight ignorance with a sword or a gun.  You turn on a light.”

With this struggle going on in Iran as a backdrop, I think more people this week will think beyond the fireworks and cook-outs to the true meaning of Independence Day - and be mindful of how truly lucky we all are.   

Unfortunately, this is no light Friday.  While I was prepared to post something different for today, it’s hard to ignore the loss of three rather large icons this week.  Ironically in both my office, as well as my husband’s yesterday, when news was heard of Farrah Fawcett’s passing, the question was immediately asked, “who will be the third?” (taking into account the first loss of Ed McMahon, of course).  That question was soon, and ironically answered, - Michael Jackson.  Jackson’s passing completely stunned me.

I must admit that these passings did not emotionally drain me like Tim Russert’s did, or even Natasha Richardson’s.  But it’s hard to ignore the enormous talent of Michael Jackson - from ABC and I’ll be There to Off the Wall - which lead him to break-through the color barrier into the mainstream music scene and really develop into a world wide phenomenon. 

As far as Farrah Fawcett goes, I knew little about her, other than the fact that she was the pin-up of all my guy friends in high school in her famous red bathing suit - and a rather mediocre actress in her early days on Charlie’s Angels.  However, with the mounting press coverage she has had, and learning more about her life story and her valiant fight against cancer, my perception of her has become rounded out.  She has made enormous contributions to so many who fight this dreaded disease in her ability to ground it and control it.  And witnessing her in interviews, she comes across as an intelligent, reflective and genuine woman - who obviously dealt with the turmoil a life in Hollywood can throw you into. Ironically, she seemed to gain the most control of her life when she was diagnosed with cancer.

As the airwaves last evening were dominated by coverage of the lives of these two icons, I couldn’t help to think of all the hundreds or thousands of others that lost their lives on this same day - who may have well made extraordinary contributions throughout their lives - but whose contributions will always be lost to the majority of the world.  

Another reminder to celebrate the large and the small, and capture memories anyway possible, as often as possible.

Last night I saw the Doobie Brothers in concert; the group has the distinction of being the only band I’ve seen twice in my lifetime. I was a teenager when I first rocked to “Listen to the Music” almost 30 years ago. This time, my own teens rocked right alongside me.

Reunion concerts are the rage, and aging baby boomers (myself included) are only too happy to plunk down $75 to recapture our inner wild child, if only for an evening. However, there are definite differences between attending a concert then and now.

Then: You wondered if that cute lead singer had a girlfriend. Now: You wonder if the lead singer has a grandchild.

Then: You barely scraped together the money to buy the ticket and chip in for gas; purchasing liquid refreshments was not an option. Now: You have the luxury of deciding between the $11 beer or $16 margarita.

Then: Halter tops and skimpy outfits helped keep you cool at a summer concert. Now: Anyone over age 35 in a halter top or skin-tight romper leaves everyone else cold. (Not to be catty, but, really? I got way too many views of “the Girls” of  the 40-something halter-clad woman in front of me who was pawing her 50-something boyfriend. Yuck!)

Then: With your nose bleed seats, you had to rely on the album covers to imagine what the band members looked like. Now: With video jumbotrons, you actually can see those little ants prancing around on stage. (See, there ARE plusses to seeing concerts now!)

Then: Your awareness of other concert-goers was limited to the friends you came with and those people whose feet you tripped over as you scooted out  the row to go to the bathroom. Now: You look forward to prime people-watching at the concert.

Have you been to any reunion concerts? Did you notice any Then and Now differences? And how did the group/artist sound 30 years later?

I’m happy to report that the Doobie Brothers sounded as good as ever– even without Michael McDonald!