CuppaGemma

Be curious. Be kind. Learn and build on.

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Do you remember me, or the frock?

June 25th, 2008 · Older Essays

Dresses have caused  a sensation for years.

This is evidenced not only by the popularity of retrospectives, such as the Costume Institute at the Met’s wildly popular, “Jacqueline Kennedy: The White House years” which, as this several time attendee can attest, had a slowly snaking and patient long line of onlookers no matter the day or the hour. We didn’t wear gloves. Good taste never goes out of style.

And the recent  “Golden Age of Couture” show in  London  seems to speak to our interest in what makes for an enduring classic. I haven’t even mentioned Grace Kelly’s wedding dress, which has been stated as the most copied of all styles.  But I don’t think that any of this is what Michelle Obama had in mind, when she went on The View.

She wore a dress. We all know, off the rack $148. Why is this front page news? That you can be stylish and not spend a lot? That this speaks to issues of race and class? That it was well made an simple? That we are tired of hearing about the gumball sized pearls and have moved on? But stories continue to crop up, just Google Michelle Obama dress and see how many news stories you find.

The BBC reported that she thought politics was “a mean business”.  No mention of the dress though. Perhaps what is important is wholly a matter of who is paying attention. For me this begs another question entirely, will Hillary Clinton be remembered more in our minds for the ceiling she attempted to shatter, or that she did her best in a pantsuit  (also with gobstopper pearls)?

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You can have 7.4 percent of my attention

June 25th, 2008 · Older Essays

We are becoming accustomed working with interruptions as part and parcel of our schedules.

Have you ever been on the phone with one person, only to quietly be checking email while they speak? Or worse yet that clacketa clacketa sound of the keyboard like background music, except neither of you are taking Word steno on the conversation? And, “Could you just get to this, I know you are in the middle of that but these four things here kind of need your attention before ten.”  Then we pride ourselves on our ability to do the equivalent of drive stick, apply makeup, change music stations  and answer a phone call all at the same time.

The New York Times posted Fighting a War Against Distraction on Sunday. The piece notes “the average knowledge worker switches tasks every three minutes.”   It further notes that interruptions and requisite recovery time consume 28 percent of the day.

These interruptions have become so pervasive that some companies are taking action against it all. Email black out dates/times at set intervals, un-wired rooms and the like.  Because it appears as though we realize when you want to do something well, you need to give it your undivided attention.

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The usual, the usual

June 19th, 2008 · He said, She said

And he rather liked that
she was always there
five or ten minutes before
to hold the table and not
yet decide what to order

And she rather liked that
he walked in with a wide smile,
had to take in her face and
always found some lash
to wipe away, then fix her cheek

And they rather liked that
this hour tumbled along happily
like fall leaves playing the wind

Spilling their conversations
like the Sunday paper
spread and shared

With different cups of tea
they sipped one another
again, every afternoon

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86 street with Gram

June 19th, 2008 · Sidewalk Stories

Nectarines always seemed in season
tickling in you intensely, c’mon c’mon
little fruit shop made you want everything
escarole, tomatoes, soft plums, zucchini to fry
eggplants saying, “Me too”, and sweet peppers

The family pushed your bundle
across the gray brown counter
worn from wooden slat pullers-
C shaped things like skee ball markers
which the girls used to avoid reaching all day

Ringing you up on the register
with little round numbers balanced
on metal keys sticking up like
the old man’s grin as he tap typed
spinning white on black numbers

Then dash quick from the smell
of ice with fish, “Scallops?”
“Filet. Pound and a half today.”
heavy wax paper, cold parcels
black crayon, white tile everywhere wet

Next the butcher, proud owner
of a waist like a Buick but
hidden behind his hanging cheeses,
pushing their scent against
careless mounds of fresh sawdust

Bakery last, cheese cake, maybe
butter cookies, sometimes. But
always timed the walk to meet
the line for fresh braided semolina
or 3 plain long loaves for $1

‘Cept now the pizza’s just out
so stop for a slice, say hello,
get some zeppole intended for later
dipping fingers in powdered sugar,
olive oil before we ripped into the dough

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