Certainly, there is no more base human emotion, this one intrinsically linked to wishing ill to those who do well. IN this Thanksgiving Day weekend, I’ve had multiple occasions to witness envy first-hand. I see it in withering glances, hear it in passing, nasty comments, in statements and declarations made by complete strangers in all sorts of settings and stages, big and small. What is it that brings out this very worse of traits in us, that transforms normally nice, decent people into harbingers of poison?

Envy is defined by Webster’s New World Dictionary (the last word in vocabulary, as far as I’m concerned) as “a feeling of  discontent and ill will because of another’s advantages, possessions, etc.. resentful dislike of another who has something that one desires.”

It is not to be confused with the milder Jealousy, whose first definition refers to being “very watchful or careful in guarding or keeping of one’s rights” or resentfully suspicious of a rival.”

We’ve all felt jealous at one point or another. But envy escalates into the arena of wishing ill on another. And why? Ambition makes us better. Drive and hard work makes us better. Envy does not make us better and it certainly won’t make the other person worse. But it does make us unhappy and bitter, and those feelings do mushroom like clouds, extending onto others and contaminating even the most innocuous of moments.

So, next time you feel compelled to lambast that “successful” person you barely know (yes, I am talking to that envious co-worker, to the envious parent whose child lost the tournament, to the envious woman whose “best friend” got engaged, even to the envious passenger who didn’t get the seat he wanted on the plane), hold your tongue and rather, think for a minute: Is this the person you want to be and the person you want others to see? Wouldn’t you rather leave a trail of hope–rather than disparagement–in your wake?

Mom and dad complained bitterly in the article. But, really, are they right?

As a mom who has flown many, many times with my children–beginning with Allegra when she was just 1 month old—i have to say, in this case, the parents are wrong. Yes, it’d be nice if there were some courtesy left on an airplane. But the fact is, there isn’t. And in its absence, it’s the parents’ responsibility to bring everything possibly needed for their kids. To expect the airline to coo-coo your baby in this day and age is not only urnealistic; it’s a tad irresponsible.

I know. I’m being harsh. But, am i? First of all, why in the world would you subject your 18-month-old to a TWELVE HOUR flight? Why? Why? Why???? Unless, of course, you need to visit your ailing grandma or somesuch. Otherwise, do you really think your 18-month-old will remember that trip to Hawaii–ever? No, they won’t. But you will have succeeded in aggravating the kids and every other passenger on board.

I’ve traveled with my kids many places. Most of the time they’ve been good. Some of the time they’ve been terrible. Sometimes, they’ve cried nonstop for three hours straight, much to the dismay of everyone around me. I sympathize with my fellow passengers in these cases, because no matter what I do, it doesn’t work. But believe me, I do what I can, and I come prepared for any eventuality. That includes the most basic of needs: Enough milk for the trip.

When it comes to kids and travel, there will always be emergencies, and unexpected situations, and situations that even the best intentioned of parents cannot handle. But at the very least, come prepared. That alone will generate tons of goodwill. And who knows:  if a stewardess sees you’re really trying, she might even find you some milk.

And then, you get to security and—you’re sent through a priority line!! Not the regular priority line, another one! Turns out, you’ve become one of those pre-screened passengers. You’re blessed. Didn’t even have to take off my shoes! (although I did have to dump the water). Nice, nice, nice! I go to the plan, board, and–I have a lovely window exit seat! Yeah again! Everyone boards, and the seat beside you remains empty!!! Double yeah!!

Then off to the car rental, where they give you this super cute little jeep–triple yeah!–and then, the cherry: The hotel you’re staying at, the hotel your company actually approved, is the very lovely Casa del Mar right on the beach in Santa Monica. You have a nice glass of wine and listen to live music.

Life is good.

“You’re short, you’re fat and you have curly hair!”

Ouch!

The insult was hurled at me by a blond Beverly Hills matron at the tennis courts in Roxbury Park.

Short? Well, at 5.3 I’m certainly not tall.

Fat? I want to loose five pounds, but no, I plead no fat.

But curly? Hell, yes! Curly and proud!

So why was a woman well over 50 hurling such insults at short, curly me?

Well, I confess I provoked her.

“Tomorrow, you’re not going to get any better, younger or prettier!” I screamed at her earlier.

But wait! This came after SHE called my daughter a brat, and, as everyone knows, the minute someone insults your kid, it’s war.

So, this is what happened. We’re in the middle of vacation, but my 15-year-old tennis-player daughter has an ITF tennis tournament in two weeks and needs to hit at least for an hour a day. So, we go to Roxbury Park to practice serves, and when she serves, she grunts. Not a HUGE grunt, but a grunt, nevertheless.

The quartet of Beverley Hill matrons in the court next door are bothered (as we would soon find out). But, instead of asking her to pipe down, they start imitating her.

My daughter continues to serve, impassive.

And then, it begins:

“Can someone tell Maria Sharapova to stop grunting?” a shrill, obnoxious voice shouts. “It’s pretentious!”

Pretentious??

I promise that was the sequence of events. There was no, “hey guys, can you keep it down over there?” No “please,” no “would you mind?” No coming up to the fence and politely asking. Nah. Courtesy is too much to ask of spoilt , entitled, over the hill mean women who think they can steamroll over kids.

We ignored the comments, which got increasingly hostile, and kept practicing, until we got ready to leave.

“Next time, have the decency to say things to my face,” my daughter said as she walked out of the court.

“You’re a brat!” shouted one of the women. “I hope you lose all your matches!”

I mean, seriously, can you believe this???

I lost it.

“Well, tomorrow you won’t be any better, any younger or any prettier,” I snarled, marching up to the fence. “There’s nothing your plastic surgeon can do for you.”

That’s when she screamed: “You’re short, fat and have curly hair!”

“You’re fatter!” I screamed back.

Yes, I know, how lame is that?

We laughed all the way home.

And, you know what? I had the last laugh. Because it’s true. The big, old blondie on that court is NOT getting better (they were all horrible players), she’s not getting younger (memo to Beverly Hills mean women: excessive sunning ruins your skin), and there is no way in the world she can get prettier.

I, on the other hand, went to the hairdresser to cut my hair and by that afternoon, my curls had been blown out.

“Don’t you want a keratin treatment?” my hairdresser asked me. “That way it can always look like this.”

It looked good, I admit, but then I’d NEVER have curls. It felt disloyal.

“Nah,” I said. “I like my curls.”

The next day, we played tennis early in the morning at Rancho Park, where the courts were full of loud men who cursed constantly.

As we packed up to leave one of them shouted out at our daughter:

“Hey, you’re really good !”

We smiled.

Bruno Mars Concert Review

I confess I was a little stumped, as many journalists are when they’re on the other side of the table. I never thought of myself as “Latina” until I came to live to the United States and articulating what the word means eluded me, and still does a week later!

But this morning, I went to my favorite Key Biscayne “restaurant,” the fabled Oasis. It’s  improbably propped next to the discount gas station on the corner of Harbor and Crandon. You’ll know it because there are always bicyclists hanging out after their morning workouts.  It’s a tiny, noisy space–standing room online–with the kitchen clearly visible behind the counters, laden on one side with luscious, greasy, irresistible dishes like paella,  lechon and tostones, and on the other with decadent desserts like cheesecake and arroz con leche. Some days, they’ll get shipments of fresh coconuts. You take your pick and they drill a hole into them, right there, and serve you the fresh water over a glass of crushed ice.

Oasis serves the best Cuban coffee in Miami, but that’s not why I love to go there. You walk in, and even on your worse days–and their craziest, hectic days–they make you feel like a million bucks.

“Hello beautiful girl,” the white-haired guy behind the counter always  says with a smile (and no, I’m most certainly NOT offended at being called a girl!). Or, “Coffee, extra shot, light on suger?” asks the other one, always remembering what I take, even though they don’t know my name.  But they remember my face, and for the past year, the know me as “La del programa de musica;” the one with the music show on TV.  Today, I waited for my coffee with Benjamin, the Colombian man who I buy homemade empanadas from, and who was there on his morning break.

I left with his new phone number recorded on my blackberry (I need a new supply of empanadas) and my fresh coffee, extra dark, light on suger, just the way I like it. Then I went to work, feeling quite happy, and quite Latina.

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