Sakura Matsuri or Shhh, Don't Wake the Ducks

This is not a cherry blossom- I think its apple...

Sakura Matsuri... Celebrating the Cherry Blossoms at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens is one of my favorite things to do in Spring. But, as with most New Yorkers of the single variety- I like to start early on a Sunday.. say 2 pm. We tell folks that we like to relax with a cup of coffee and the Sunday NY Times in some quaint Village bistro and then head out midday- furthering the "city that never sleeps" image. Truth be told I personally like to spend the earlier part of Sunday in flannel polar bear pjs with my face smushed in a pillow. Hey- I make this look cool. (OK, I tell myself that as I examine the drool patterns on the pillow for signs of a Jackson Pollack influence. So far, no dice.)

HOWEVER, if you invite people from outside NYC who maybe don't have such a big paper to get through on Sunday- or polar bear pajamas- or delusions of abstract expressionism, You may find yourself on the 2 train headed to Eastern Parkway with two post adolescent kids in full anime costume at 9 blankety-blank a.m. trying to figure out why ANYONE wants to see this much Sunday so early in the day.

(look closely in this photo and you will see Chris, Rich and Fred- looking like he wished HE'D brought a costume- in the background)

I met Fred and Chris and Rich just inside the gates of the garden. They were busy being frightfully cheery about being in line. Yep- being in line. I have found that people from Connecticut seem to like lines in NYC... I guess they enjoy having the line experience without the burden of 8 items or less. I ran (read here: limped fast) to greet them. As I approached them I realized they had never seen me in my home town, on my turf- I was owning it- I was strutting- I tripped on my shoelace. Like I said- it was kind of early.



We took a guided tour around the Japanese Hill Garden. Gorgeous and built in 1915- I should look that great at 92. As I listened to the tour guide, a Brooklyn native- NO doubt here. I wondered- do I sound like this? Can it be fixed? Answer- yup I do sound like that. Can it be fixed? I would need a Brooklyn-ectomy and I think in the process I might lose some stuff I NEED- like my sweet disposition which is especially evident early in the morning.



No joke about the early thing. Even the ducks were asleep!



And even though the sun was not quite shining- Fred and Chris were. And I noticed that like pets, plants can resemble people too. Wherever I saw Chris and Fred I saw other pretty pairs as well.





And Rich seemed as tall as the trees. and seemed to be growing new green leaves in his new city-tude.





And I thought of other friends I had viewed the blossoms with each year- and the ones who could not come this day...
needing to tend to the gardens of their lives. (Look, My Dove... these are for you)







We ate- we laughed- we got lost and found, we got in trouble (ok, *I* got in trouble... I did not know leaning JUST a TEENSY bit to get a photo was sooooooo upsetting to the local plant police- I stepped on the ornamental pebble border- they nearly shot me).

Someone told me when I mentioned my weekend plans that the weather had basically guaranteed there would be no cherry blossoms. It was cold-ish but we hugged the trees (see Fred below hugging one)



And they hugged us right back. Happy Spring.




:) X

Project Linus and the Schmusedecke

Portrait of Linus by the brilliant Charles M. Schultz from www.peanuts.com

The term "security blanket" originated from the Peanuts strip, which insurance companies - including MetLife, whom Peanuts became the spokescartoon for - use to describe complete coverage.

About 2 years ago my friend Gaby and her two and a half year old son Skye came to live with me as she worked through the apocalypse ending of her marriage. Three people, two rooms, one bed, and one of us was in diapers. It was, to say the least.. jolly. Patience was tested, as well as gravity, the boundaries of friendship were fully explored, revised, and eventually cemented in place with whopping doses of love and understanding. And occasionally a hard-boiled egg. Friendships are complicated stuff, no doubt.

They did not have much in the way of baggage but Skye brought along his Schmusedecke- a faded pale blue-white acrylic blanket decorated with a lamb having a friendly chat with a ladybug at the bottom. Schmusedecke means cuddle blanket- but I bet you guessed that. Skye had pretty much outgrown carrying the Schmusedecke every where, but he would not enter his stroller without it and there was no sleeping at nap time or night time without it. The crying was heart wrenching- it never felt like he was petulant or angry- just scared and wept as if his best friend had been lost. I was always ready to seek the Schmusedecke- no one should go anywhere without their best friend close by.

Last night Gaby brought Skye's overnight bag back from his father's house. Some how in the exchange of weekend clothes and child the Schmusedecke wound up in the bag and Skye would spend the weekend without it. Gab explained that now, he had gotten used to being- sans decke... and sometimes would substitute Mommy's or Daddy's blanket for his own beloved blanket. She sat with the blanket over her lap and showed me the edges where they were unravelling- and the bleach marks where blue went to white- the hole in the lamb- Skye says the blanket is "growing" there as his mother does when his toes poke through his socks. She pointed out the corner- or where the corner once was- it was just two raw ends and the bit that stuck off the end that Skye would rub between his fingers as he drifted to sleep. I cannot imagine what Gaby feels- the combination of joy at his growth and the saying goodbye to that phase of babyhood and his dear friend.

While I was away in Vermont I noticed a patch sewn on the World Wildlife Fund tote bag of Carol Driscoll, and I asked her about it. (It was so nice to have time to notice things- here at home everything goes by at warp speed and I don't see so well at a distance to begin with...) It was a picture of Linus from the Peanuts cartoon strip and the patch read "Project Linus Blanketeer". Carol told me about Project Linus. Project Linus is a non-profit organization that provides children living in hospitals, cancer treatment facilities, clinics, homeless shelters, hospices, and behavioral clinics with homemade blankets and afghans made by volunteers. It turns out that Project Linus has been around since 1998 and has chapters in all 50 states. They have created and donated over a million blankets to help children who feel not so safe sleep a bit better. You can check out their website and find a chapter near you at www.projectlinus.org. You do not have to sew- I use staplers and duct tape more than thread and needle to hold stuff together. (I do not recommend this for assembling a blanket!) Remember the things that comfort you- and do what you can. No one should have to go to the scary places without a good friend- or a Schmusedecke.

Love, Loss and What I Cooked

Campbell's Soup Cans by Andy Warhol, 1962. Displayed in Museum of Modern Art in New York.

I love to cook. I do it well. Tonight I had tuna fish on matzo for supper but I could easily go chicken scallopine if the energy and the pantry permit- even if it's just me. It's not about hunger- though usually that is a component. Cooking for me is a meditation- with three dimensional "here and now" results. If I am angry the smell of cinnamon baking on apples in the oven calms me, if I am tired or weary in my soul, the steam wafting from a pot of homemade chicken soup heals- and not just me. When I roomed with my best friend Miriam in the 80's- though we loved each other we were not ideally suited to live together- I was very- twenty-something and too wrapped up in my own stuff to live that close to anyone who wasn't related to me and was required to live with me. But when we couldn't talk out what bothered either of us- dill, carrots, onion and chicken simmering on the stove said things I was too proud to say- like " I'm sorry"- like "I love you".

When I bring a date home for the first time, or even after the first time, I lose my voice for speaking- if the feelings are strong I will either babble meaningless things- or spend a lot of time fidgeting and looking at my feet. It's partly shyness, part fear I will slip up and say something I mean and scare both of us. So I cook. And the person I want to be- secure, graceful and skilled appears- and to more than one of my gentleman callers- a woman who knows her way around the kitchen is sexy as all get out- or so they seem to think. Of ME. Holy Cow. A man who will hug me when my hands are covered in garlic and hoisin marinade and not be concerned for the well being of his clothes- or whether dinner burns while he smooches me is smitten indeed.

After love ends- I still remember the things I made. And the appreciation I saw- the rave reviews- and more than compliments about my appearance, or my skill at any one of the things I might do well. I remember the raves over simple eggs, or kasha varnishkas experienced for the first time ever from my hands, or the board of cheeses and fruit thrown together for a simple get to know you praised as part sustenance and part still life art. I remember these things, I think because I can more readily accept that I am a good cook- the rest may all be true but of this one thing I have a blessed certainty. The ability to cook and the joy that comes from it are soul-deep. I own them. And the compliments given remind me in their way that I, myself, was appreciated, and in that moment in time, loved. Maybe even after.

I cook to make the world around me more pleasant too. Lately I have walked around my office, in the midst of some tumult and hugged people- trying to shift the energy a little. A selfish thing as mostly I do it so a.) I can be soothed and b.) If the folks around me are happier I just find it easier to focus and be productive. Not everyone is open for hugs and in the modern workplace the political ramifications are to say the least, dicey. I do not wish to be the woman known to have hugged her way to the top- here I will rely on more conventionally appreciated charms. But I can give someone a scone (which I did today) and call it- an anti-depressant, reminding people that it is to be taken with coffee- or tea and repeated as necessary until shoulders ease and twisty stomach abates. The way I touch people is not important, but doing so, for me- connecting daily with people- is critical. It is the connecting- not the food- which feeds me.

There are people who should not cook. If you do not enjoy it, there are plenty of ways to hold meat to skin and bone- take-out, cans, great restaurants- peanut butter and jelly, exist to support and sustain you in your nutritional needs. But it is a major MAJOR kick to bring something somewhere and say "Here, I made this for you" It should taste good and if it includes a talking point to allow you to draw people's attention to it (Something other than I made this- it's good- eat it, which reeks of insecurity and scares people.) so much the better. A weird ingredient helps. Not TOO weird- making frog's legs or escargot will not endear you to the American eating public and you may wind up the pariah dish on the buffet languishing untouched and unloved at the fallen flan and limp salad end of the table. The following cake is the perfect rookie bring-a-dish. It is easy to make. It doesn't have anything hard to find at the supermarket (or emergency midnight bodega). It tastes delicious. It smells great while baking AND it has a weird ingredient. Campbell's tomato soup. Tastes like carrot cake without the loss of blood that comes from grating carrots by hand.


TOMATO SOUP CAKE

Ingredients needed:
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1 teaspoon grated nutmeg
One-half teaspoon ground cloves
2 eggs
Three-fourths cup sugar
1 (10 3/4-ounce) can tomato soup
One-half cup chopped walnuts

Confectioner's sugar to dust over


Preheat the oven to 350°F. Sift the flour, baking powder, cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves together and set aside. In a large bowl, combine the eggs, sugar, and tomato soup. Gradually stir in the flour mixture. Stir in the walnuts. Pour into a Bundt pan that has been sprayed with nonstick spray. Bake for 25 to 30 minutes. When cooled, and just before serving, sprinkle with powdered sugar.

I read that Sylvia Plath loved cooking this cake using the recipe from The Joy of Cooking. That recipe calls for organic tomato soup, demerara sugar and sultanas- which are yellow raisins or maybe in England just raisins- I'm not sure which. I wonder if making simple things more complicated was part of Ms. Plath's sadness. In the end- the kitchen, for me, is a place to create, to connect and to give and receive love. That seems a very simple recipe for being happy. Demerara sugar be damned.


:) X

If a tree falls in Rutland VT... will the lights ever go on at CCI?

So, Vermont. I went. I attended a conference sponsored by CCI-USA. Co-counseling is something new to me. After doing a lot of work on my...stuff in therapy- on the yoga mat- in silence and in screaming- I was ready for a new way to look at myself- and the way I do things. And I met my teacher, Fred. To give you an idea of how radically different Fred's approach to working on yourself is to what I'd experienced with my therapist: Fred was as much like my therapist as Sigmund Freud was like Yoda. And in his way, as brilliant a teacher by his openness and his belief in letting everyone be exactly as they are and revelling in their themness. And by being absolutely, gloriously, Fred.

After two intensive weekends of training (the course to co-counsel can take as long as 16 weeks- I fast-tracked- no one who knows me will even be a little surprised.) I was "ready to co-counsel". That was what Fred told me. But Fred also takes a lot of pictures of his feet (so do I- I have no idea what this means except maybe we share a common...let's call it an eccentricity- lovable, but just a bubble off plumb). I took it with an open heart and....well, a New Yorker's cynicism.

A bit about co-counseling from the CCI-USA website (http://www.cci-usa.org/index_2.htm) : CCI Co-Counseling is a distinct process which provides tools and techniques for healing and transformation. It is a simple, effective peer process for personal growth and on-going wellness. CCI co-counseling skills offer a structure to establish a safe environment for this exploration within a culture of validation, support and encouragement.

What this means is you say nice things about other people. If you have been reading this blog- you may imagine this was challenging for me. For years I have taken Alice Roosevelt's quote as my personal by-words "If you can't say something nice, sit next to me." My wit was honed at the feet of Dorothy Parker and Oscar Wilde. My edge makes the Ginsu knife look like a safety scissor. But the worst part, and one of the most basic and important parts- you have to say nice things about yourself. And believe them. Think it's easy? Try this. Say something good about yourself, out loud. Like "I'm Phil and I'm a people person" Now try something harder "I'm Phil and I'm good at my job" Now go way inside- find the thing you always always wanted to be and never believed you could be- "I'm Phil and I'm...." When you say this one- when you can finally say this out loud- you will tremble inside- and likely tremble outside as well- your voice will crack, or drop as you say it. If it doesn't- you aren't quite there yet. If your world's not rocking- it will be. And that's just the teaser.

So. The beginning of this process made little fissures and cracks in my psyche- and true to form if the psychic map says "beyond this place there be dragons"- I am the first one on the boat, my tin-can armor clanking and rattling my saber shouting "Let 'er rip! You can't scare ME- you are just a PROCESS! I can do this!!"

And I found myself on Amtrak headed to the woods. As there was only 1 train to VT from NY daily I chose to arrive the day before. A nor'easter had hit New England the night before I left NY, dumping 18 inches of snow on Rutland accompanied by 75 mph winds. My train was fully two and a half hours late arriving and there were 3 functioning lights in all of Rutland as we pulled in (at 5 mph- manually throwing switches from Fairhaven to Rutland- a 20 minute leg of the trip that took an hour and a half). Sadly none of the working lights were TRAFFIC lights. The rest of the town was blacked out. But there, beaming on the platform, happy as an ant at a Baptist picnic, was Fred.

The inn we were to be staying at also had no power- and no water (read here: no toilets no showers...) so we spent the night before the conference at a Comfort Inn. You can get an OK breakfast and a bed at a Comfort Inn- and they had lights and water... but they were a bit short on serenity and well- it was about as enlightened as a biker bar. Still Fred and his convention co-planners Peter and Marc handled it AMAZINGLY well for three people who spent a year meticulously planning an event at a country inn- the only way I can describe how I would feel in this situation is to say that it would be like getting proposed to by your long-time love- at the Wal-Mart.

Tuesday morning Fred and I drove up to the inn- phones there were still not working- and as we drove up- as we moved along the road- the lights came on as we drove by. We laughed about being powerful enough to change a dire situation by our mere presence but inside I was more than a little wowed. Often I see the glass as half full- with something unidentifiable floating in it- and here- well it was just short of amazing. Still I wrapped my NYC 'tude tightly around me and ignored the slight tinkling of wind chimes whispering inside my head.

And the lights stayed on- and the games began. For me it was the 7th grade all over again. Of the 85 people attending the conference, I knew five, kind of. And it seemed to me everyone knew everyone else- for a really, really long time- there was an unimaginable amount of kissing and hugging and... everyone was incredibly joyful- and comfortable and - I so wasn't. I curled into myself and tried very hard to relax into the dozens of hellos and warm hugs as people greeted me-"the newbie".

I didn't know how to fit in. I didn't know how to just be there- yet there I was. Lots of folks welcomed me at meals and invited me to eat, swim or walk with them. The rituals - candles and gatherings reminded me of camp- and how I felt as an outsider watching it, wanting to make fun of it, and at the same time wanting very much to feel some part of it...

I am sitting here trying to remember the moment I was, part of it- and I really can't. But when people take you in, and truly welcome you, sit in front of you and show you all of themselves- the deep hidden hurt places and the elated joyful places- when they look at you with openness, and trust relentlessly- even the shell on this tough city cookie starts to soften... and
when I came up against someone who really pushed every button I ever had- and several I never knew I had- and I told them so (this is called an ID check) and then realized I faced my fear of confrontation and triumphed over that fear- and became elated that this woman was as flawed as I am- and got even MORE elated and then realized with a gasp- she IS me- and my heart melted when I recognized her pain, fear and that all her "stuff" is pretty darned close to my own- and
I started to learn a little about compassion. There is no room for anger there- and no desire for it- I couldn't hate her and still love myself. And I can't love myself and not love her as well.

Simple right? Yep... (nope).

And yet it was. I talked to so many people. Hugged them. Questioned and affirmed life with them. And hung out in the hot tub. And traded recipes. I led a workshop and got to talk with women about their feelings around the stages of our lives and how we each pass through time and femininity. I learned I do not walk that path alone- not hardly. And twirling and dancing in the middle of a line dance and falling on my ass-in a skirt no less- and learning that embarrassment does not always maim- that people can love you for your human-ness. In the midst of all this support did my first-ever (and second-ever) cannonball into the pool. It only took fourty-some years. I learned to be glad I had done it so soon instead of lamenting my years of fear that water would go up my nose and I would drown. If you have ever wanted to do something-really wanted to- and been afraid and beat yourself up for it- stand in front of a bunch of people who do nothing but tell you how terrific you are- and get brave enough to whisper "I'm me and I'm terrific". It's kind of like flying. Maybe better.

And the end is in the beginning. As we packed to go home I stood with Fred, and the most lovely and temperate wild woman Chris, and Nieck and Joke from the Netherlands as luggage and pillows were jammed into Fred's station wagon- and sending extra luggage ahead with friends who would drop things at Fred's house. And discovering that we had sent Fred's wallet, cel phone, and the keys to his car- ahead as well. If you want to test an entire "culture of validation" try getting a locksmith at 3 pm on a Sunday in Rutland, VT. We stood in the parking lot of the inn talking- drinking bottles of cold water, and I for one was grateful to get to spend some time with Joke and Nieck, both of whom are deeply involved with CCI in the Netherlands and throughout Europe- check out their newspaper- CCI World News Service (www.cciwns.com) and the Netherlands CCI site (www.cocounselen.nl) I never would have met them- never. Fred's keys allowed me that. As we stood by the car Fred looked up at me- who knows what was on his face- I know I would have been really pissed at myself. He lifted those big eyes to me and said "I'm Fred and I'm SO Fred." I love him so for that.

And thank you Mitch- for hours and hours of laughter and effortless synchronicity. Thank you David for the dance. And Susan for the crown. Dinah for the moon. Rich for the hand holding. Peter for teaching me Soduko on the hood of your car- honoring your promise to me- it meant more than I can say. And Louise for calling me quiet. And every person I came into contact with- you all touched me- and people who have known me all my life will tell you- that's not an easy task.

Because I still have an edge, you know- it's just a wee bit softer.


:) X

BOB in the woods

Bob takes time for a bit of quiet contemplation by a stream


BOB recognizes the folly of going to Vermont in April sans snow gear...


BOB enjoys his "moment in the sun"

Trekking North...

I am off for a week for a little vacation in Vermont. By the by if this note attracts any burglar type readers, please pet the cat while you are here- her name is Minnie and she will treat you just as she does me- she will bite you.

I have never been to Vermont- I hear they have syrup. I do not like syrup,,,They also, as of last, night have 18" of snow. So I dug through the shoe archives for something appropriate. In NYC snow boots have 4" heels- we do not so much slog through the slush here in the city as glide above it. Unless we slip, in which case a fall takes on the magnitude of an avalanche scrambling for grasp on lightpole, bypasser or newspaper box to avoid falling on the truly slushy awful sidewalk... Doesn't always work- this is why we wear black. Now you know, tell your friends. The shoe archives have yielded up (from drawer 328) a black pair of Timberlands of the bad-ass period of my wardrobe. I think I wore them once. A man I dated once said- you don't have SIXTY pairs of shoes do you (as if this were a top number). No... I replied. Unless you go by season. He started calling me Imelda Melanie. He no longer calls me anything- so difficult to speak in his new shoes- cement- and the acoustics at the bottom of the East River suck. It wasn't the nickname so much- then he said high heels were stupid. It begs the question "What would ...Tony Soprano do?"

But snow- Vermont. I am going for a yoga retreat seminar introspection thingy. Some folks think I need to relax. I had a week booked at a spa in Dallas in February. It burned down... no joke. I took it as a sign that if the lord above wanted me to be relaxed he would not have invented triple espressos. So this is the replacement trip. The last time I went on a spa trip it was to Arizona- I hated it. Wind chimes, cactus blossoms and burbling fountains- after 3 days I was kicking a cactus and telling anyone who told me to "have a nice day" to bite me.

I called the Inn and asked if they had irons and blowdryers in the rooms. She said yes- but that they were very low-key about dress there. I explained to her that you may be able to take the girl out of NY- but without an iron you cannot take the wrinkles out of the girl from NY. She told me to have a nice day.

You would have been proud of me. I just said "thanks". See you soon, Cheryl. I wonder if they have cement in Rutland, VT.

:) X

Raymond Chandler, Ian Fleming and Don Imus

"She's dark and lovely and passionate. And very, very kind."
"And exclusive as a mailbox," I said." Raymond Chandler

"killing a nigger is just a misdemeanor" Raymond Chandler




"Men want a woman whom they can turn on and off like a light switch.” Ian Fleming



"That's some nappy-headed hos there. I'm gonna tell you that..." Don Imus


I was really busy this week. Periferally I'd heard that DJ Don Imus had said something racist and offensive- I wondered why anyone was suprised- it was like saying Howard Stern had made an "off-color remark". They both sprang from the same fertile fields (like the back of the elephant tent at Ringling brothers...) at WNBC. I never found them funny, but they each had a following and my little transistor radio had an "off" switch. No sense wasting a good 9 volt battery.

In later years Imus diligently worked to divorce himself from the shock jock image portrayed by Howard Stern, currying favor with the Washington power elite and being a socially incorrect, crude, rude political commentator. An intellectual with a 'tude.

Then he said what he said, and 2 days later I read it... I also saw that Jessie Jackson was protesting- which I was happy about, since without a protest march he is sort of a rootless politician without a post- a reverend without a church. He needs a platform- even if it is a sidewalk on 47th street, with a nice proximity to a TV station....

And Al Sharpton. Screaming "Racial Injustice!". It has been 20 years but every time I see Al Sharpton I think of Tawana Brawley and his shameless perpetuation of her teenage prank, for lack of better words, into a federal case. From that day to this he is like a civil rights pyromaniac, fanning the flames of the tiniest incident so that he can launch himself into the public eye. He does not exists without racial unrest, so he works assiduously to keep it in the media spotlight and himself along with it.

Both of them seem to be much more interested in promoting their own political aspirations over racial harmony and equality.

I miss the determined, focussed agendas of people like Martin Luther King, or the grace of Rosa Parks. I do not think either of these men come anywhere close.

As you read above, we all know that at one time Racism and Sexism had a place in popular culture- an accepted norm. Both Ian Fleming and Raymond Chandler wrote books for an audience that consisted mostly of men, and their language, attitude and subject matter reflected the personas they glorified- Phillip Marlowe, James Bond. I love to read these books, for me they are as much a period piece as Shakespeare or Bronte, but I do not wish to wear an Elizabethan corset on a daily basis or wander the moors looking for Heathcliff.

When a modern day white man elevated to a public media with sponsors like General Motors paying the ticket believes he can refer to any race in a denigrating manner or to any woman as a "ho"- the reaction should have been, and was- swift. And for this I am glad. As an aside- no man that far distanced from ever using conditioner should cast aspersions on any other hair texture and furthermore- he is paid to do what he does on air and when he was no longer attractive- he was kicked to the curb like trash by his sponsors... not so comfy realizing that he cannot distance himself from the "ho" identity himself.

I read an interesting quote by civil rights lawyer Constance Rice ( a cousin to Condoleeza) she said:

"More to the point, Imus should only be fired when the black artists who make millions of dollars rapping about black bitches and hos lose their recording contracts. Black leaders should denounce Imus and boycott him and call for his head only after they do the same for the misogynist artists with whom they have shared stages, magazine covers and awards shows.

The truth is, Imus' remarks mimic those of the original gurus of black female denigration: black men with no class. He is only repeating what he's heard and being honest about the way many men — of all races — judge women."

She also referred to Don Imus as a "good-natured racist". Yikes.

I know Don Imus has done good works and yes- there are lots of minority comics and rappers using all sorts of ignorant terminology. But it does not make things better and should also not be tolerated. We don't need to laugh at or sing along with words of hatred and stupidity.


"A nation or civilization that continues to produce soft-minded men purchases its own spiritual death on the installment plan. Martin Luther King

:) X

Success does not change BOB...

Even with all the commentary from loyal ephemerist readers, and the fan mail (BOB needs to quit using my aol account)
BOB did not realize the extent of his popularity..

He is the ONLY resource online for information (and precious LITTLE information) on BOB the 5-in-1 Wobble Clock. Ephemerist's Notebook comes up as the # 5 search on Google for instructions on how BOB works.

He is now on Google's radar... Silicon Valley (oop) I mean Hollywood-look out- here comes BOB!

Everything I know About Love I learned from Pepe Le Pew

I have been threatening for years to write this. The time has come.

It's true. Everything I know about love I learned from Le Polecat Pew- aka Pepe LePew. This entire entry must be read in a really BAD French accent

He is romantic. He is attractive- and will tell you so himself. And he knows what the petit femme pussycats like
whether they are aware of it at the time or not. Eventually- through the threat of imminent death or clogged nasal passages, Pepe always gets the girl. I have dissected his techiques

Item one: Appearance



No matter how attractive one is- personal toilette must never be neglected. The little ones will appreciate the attention you lavish on yourself- no?

Item Two: Be Fit



Time at the gym is critical. The pursuit of l' amour can be at times strenuous, yes? And you never know what pretty little things may be "hanging around". Mrrrow, rowwwww.

Item Three: Never Admit Defeat!



An amour's behavior is not always a clear indication of their true feelings- do not be discouraged! After the first ten or twelve times they run away, they may not be in love, but they will be very, very tired! Eh Voila!

Item Four: Keep Love Alive



Once you have captured (or cornered- it is merely semantics...) your heart's desire- keep things fresh with little games like the Postman and the frightened little belle femme pussycat. At the least it will prevent the object of your desire from running because they did not recognize you dressed as William (kiss and) Tell shooting the arrow of love. Remember - the look in her eyes is not dismay at seeing you- she is just very happy you have returned and is too shy to show it!

Five: The Happy Ending



If you have followed this advice, no self respecting pussycat can resist one so smitten. In the falling in love one hits oneself in the head often enough- dizziness or love- who can say?

Six: The Ultimate Philosophy

Should the object of your love not succumb to your charms- C'est la Guerre- there is always another pussycat!

Abientot!

:) X

Discovered at the Metropolitan Museum of Art

The "street" greeting of punching fists actually originated in Venice in 15th Century... at the time dismissed as "kid stuff".

:) X

BOB has Easter Brunch with the Twins and doubles his fun.

The OTHER PDA

Photo: Gerald Förster

NY Magazine ran an article this week about PDA's. Nope not the ubiquitous Blackberry that seems to make it's way onto the table on my dates that absolutely are doomed to fail (If we need electronic devices this early on- the text message is on the device... "T_H_I_S_ I_S_N_T Q_U_I_T_E W_H_A_T I_D H_O_P_E_D F_O_R")

PDA's are public displays of affection. The article went on about one fellow who wanted to have sex in front of the entire UN Assembly; as if our own goverment's behavior is not obscene enough in the view of the rest of the world.

I like being affectionate in public- I am, by nature an affectionate person. I like to hug, hold hands and kiss loudly in public- and that's just with my female friends. I have dated in NYC through a fair bit of my 30's and 40's and am, in theory, old enough to have developed a sense of decorum in public. It hasn't actually happened, at least not in Manhattan. I am certainly not of a similar mindset to the pornographic wanna-be delegate referenced above but I do really like a kiss that goes on a little too long in public. On the other hand I am also not an exhibitionist nor a particularly un-shy kind of person. I don't think it is me- it's NYC.

I have had the opportunity to date in other cities- San Francisco, Detroit, bits of Connecticut- it's different. Perhaps there is just less to SEE- I would think that being among strangers I would feel more free. After all, when am I going to run into that lady in the big hat in Detroit that saw me swipe a kiss behind the romantic movie section at the Blockbuster- chances are slim.. But outside of NYC I am pretty much a girl scout. Maybe it's like the rules my mom set for visiting other people's houses- elbows off the table, don't set fire to the drapes and if you love me, please don't stick your chewed gum under Grandma's Chesterfield chair.

I live in NY and I tried to think why it is different for me here. After all here, having worked in retail for more than half my life in Manhattan- I have met a lot of folks just casually and frequently will pass a person and think.. do I KNOW you? In these cases I picture myself saying "can I help you?" If that doesnt bring up a memory I try picturing them reading me a menu- waiter- customer- you meet a lot of people in NYC that way.

In order to survive in NYC you have to be incredibly alert and sort of filter at the same time. For example, sit on a subway car 3 am reading a book, listening to the iPod and still be aware of anyone that moves within 2 feet of your personal space. Easy. I have a friend who says that NY exhausts her- that you always have to be alert- you do- just not ALL of you. Part of you could be writing the next great American Novel on the N train while your hand is on the pepper spray- it's just a matter of multi-tasking.

As far as public semi-licentiousness is concerned, I think a lot of New Yorkers are like me, we block out things to survive. It is absolutely essential to choose how much you process. The noise- lights, traffic, and I have already covered the smells. You see what you need to, to get through it, from point A to Avenue B. There are hard things to see- people impoverished or ill- you help where you can . I know for me, seeing a couple kissing, holding hands, or somehow draped over each other in an absolutely irresistable orgy of affection is actually a good thing. Lots of times they are very young, but sometimes, they are very old, and seeing them makes me happy, seeing that love lasts that long. Sometimes they are in their fourties and among the street people, and the haste, and the steam from the sidewalk vents they found each other- by some miracle. And I do not imagine this is a hook-up continued from some bar, or as the article in NY magazine postulated- one of the 85% of relationships that end once the thrill of discovery in public is removed. I believe, from the soles of my feet to the top of my head this couple beat the statistics and all the distractions and can't wait to be together.

I read a quote once attributed to Mrs. Patrick Campbell " I don't mind where people make love, so long as they don't do it in the street and frighten the horses." The next time you see someone kissing in public- sneak a peek if you like- but give them the room to do so- love grows like flowers in NYC, occasionally in an inconvenient place and against all odds.

:) X

An Afternoon's Lessons at the Arboretum

"Earth teach me to forget myself as melted snow forgets its life. Earth teach me resignation as the leaves which die in the fall. Earth teach me courage as the tree which stands all alone. Earth teach me regeneration as the seed which rises in the spring." William Alexander


“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you dies each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.” Ernest Hemingway


“Spring is nature's way of saying, "Let's party!" Robin Williams



“The splendor of the rose and the whitness of the lily do not rob the little violet of it’s scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. If every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its lovliness.” Therese of Lisieux



“Every year, back comes Spring, with nasty little birds yapping their fool heads off and the ground all mucked up with plants.” Dorothy Parker



“Spring being a tough act to follow, God created June.” Al Bernstein

A Tale of Two Seders

"A Portrait of Brooklyn" by Bob Cherofsky


I thought about doing a Dickensian thing- you know, it was the best of briskets, it was the worst of kugels… but that would not be true or fair. It’s more about the fact that this year, for the first time in just about 15 years, I did not spend the two seders with my regular family- the Hertzsons. I was invited by Charlotte to spend the 1st seder with her family at her niece’s house in Monsey, NY. I like an adventure, so I went, promising the Hertzson/Woytoviches my presence at the second night. I felt Like Holly Go-Lightlywitz. Such a social whirl!

Dress Code- Charlotte said dress Yom Tov- not fancy, but Yom-Tov. Interestingly enough this made sense to me. Charlotte and I occasionally share a common language- her heart definitely speaks to mine when words are less than clear. I wore a skirt and 4” heels. Had I known Bob would give me the walking tour of his beautiful collection of Japanese maples I might have re-thought that particular choice. I viewed the botanical splendor up to my ankles in the garden's soft spring dirt. Charlotte’s sister Pearl, who had only met me once before seemed to have a very clear recollection of me- “Were you this tall the last time I met you?” Caught. I’m not quite 5’4” but I can fake it to most folks as long as they do not look at my feet (I think of myself as “should have been 5’7””- it works, kind of) I claimed I’d been stretching ( and internally vowed to start stretching… Spring, renewal, and all that jazz..)


At the Hertzson’s the dress code is- it shouldn’t have food on it- or if it does have food on it- it should be kosher for Passover. Usually when I visit the Hertzson’s they hand me an apron at the train station and I take it off as I board the train to return home. This eliminates the food issue. Though sometimes I forget and someone at Penn Station asks me if I lost my hot dog cart as I disembark from the train.

Pets- the Hertzson’s have none- the four children, their cousins and children of friends make for a state fair -like atmosphere on even the most solemn occasions. They did at one time have a guinea Pig named Tiger Moo (I loved that name, the result of hyphenating two of the children’s suggestions for naming the new pet) I am not certain what happened to Tiger Moo, but as I know Guinea Pig is probably not kosher for Passover (or any other time… being piggy and all) I figure he went on to greener…aquariums.

Charlotte’s niece Debbie and her husband Bob seemed to have no end of compassion for foundling cats and one stray dog. I only saw two cats, Jack, a young mackerel tabby and a pretty gray cat of almost 14 years of age who spent the seder sitting on Bob’s lap- presumably because having him on the table would have made several of the older attendees of the seder less than comfortable. Me- I’m a cat person- But it was the dog who provided me with an interesting combination of comfort and discomfort. I love dogs (I am also a dog person- sue me) I sat petting the lovely brindled stray as he slid closer and closer to me on the couch- and I asked. “What’s the dog’s name?” the answer “Brooklyn”. It seems he was found in Brooklyn, a much abused stray. The thing is and was…"Brooklyn" is also my nickname in certain quarters. Throughout the evening someone would yell “Brooklyn, no!” and I would jump. And when Brooklyn made off with Tess’s plate of chopped liver, frankly after 2 repetitions of “BAD Brooklyn!” I have to say I was a bit more than mildly unsettled. In truth, the family’s attitude was one of true empathy and understanding. As Debbie removed the chopped liver plate that had been “Brooklyned” she spoke to him sotto voce “Look, I know it’s liver…and you’re a dog…” Brooklyn hung on every word, and surrepticiously eyed the hand with the chopped liver plate. As Debbie’s hand was poised over the trash can, she looked into Brooklyn’s eyes and said “I know this is rewarding bad behavior …” and sighed, as did Brooklyn as Debbie handed him the remaining liver. Passover is for everyone after all.

The Children. The Hertzson’s children start at 13 and descend in age. At Debbie and Bob’s the children start at 10 and go up- as long as you are under 21 you count as a kid. The age difference really showed during the hunt for the hidden matzoh- the afikomen. In Debbie’s household the “kids” teamed up Survivor style and found it as a group ransoming the afikomen for a set amount per child to be donated to the charity of the young people’s choice. At the Hertzson’s the eldest son hid the afikomen and 4 cleverly disguised fakes so well the littlest child dissolved into tears before all the fakes had been found. At five years old the supply of patience for waiting for dessert is quite short.

I think the best part of both seders centered around the youngest ones. At the Hertzson’s five year old Rosaline gave a stunning virtuoso performance. When we came to the portion of the seder where the 4 questions are read she lifted a brightly colored tempera painted box and brought it to her mother, plopped in her lap and opened the box with the same reverence a concert pianist opens a Steinway. She handed her mother 4 lollypop shaped signs to hold up while she proceeded to sing all four questions flawlessly, from memory, in Hebrew (remember here, she’s FIVE- I can’t remember 4 things on a grocery list unless I write it on the inside of my wrist). She also sang the questions in English- the timing was tricky but Streisand could not have accomplished it with more grace. I felt her tiny piping voice carving the memory of that moment into my heart. It was the clearest illustration, for me, that the true mission of the seder had been accomplished – this child knew she was Jewish, why she was there, and the meaning of being free, and she held it up (in crayon and manila paper and popsicle sticks, and occasional two-part harmony) for everyone to see.

At Debbie and Bob’s it was not the youngest child at the seder, but their youngest who made an impression. Emily was not able to be at the seder, Debbie announced, as she was away for her 1st year of college and had classes both that day and the following day. You could hear the heaviness in Debbie’s heart as she spoke, putting a face on that said she was glad for everyone else’s presence there, as glad as she could be without her littlest one.

About a half an hour into the seder the door opened and Bob gasped as Emily walked into the room. Tears sprang from her mother’s, aunts’ and grandmother’s eyes (mine too, I love a happy ending). Pearl asked “How did you get here?” as she kissed her on the cheek making her rounds to hug each family member in turn. “I stole a car” Emily said. “Good”. Said Pearl, more than a little satisfied that in this case the ends justified any and all means.

I did not have these traditions or big dinners at Passover growing up. My family was not that big and for a variety of reasons non-observant. But each year I see these ceremonies and rituals and children growing up in them. I see families flung by the way we live our lives to all corners of the world, busy with work- with living, and dying and being born. I attend gatherings like these two very special moments in time and I see the wisdom in them. A reminder of what is important. Passover celebrates freedom, and certainly in these days there are many choices we are completely free to make. But the gathering, the ritual- the semi-solid gravy and forgetting at least one dish in the oven, the bad jokes and tender familial eccentricities- the rituals remind us we are Jewish, but all of the rest, make it family, make it home, and in the end, make coming home the only choice and the best one.

Azizum Pesach. Hag Sameach.

:) X

BOB finds his place at the Seder table