The Ephemerist's Notebook

The Grandma

2011-11-23T06:48:00.005-05:00

Two and a half years ago I became a granddaughter. In life very often you will marry into a family and receive in-laws of all shapes and sizes- sister, mother, brother. This was not the case. The actual truth of the matter is- in the divorce-someone ELSE's divorce- while party A (my husband) and B (his ex-wife) split their marital assets amicably and divided custody of Elder and Little between them with grace, there was one asset that didn't quite fit into that careful, politically correct and oh-so-modern "happy divorce" settlement. That asset was Grandma Annie.

VLH and I were fortunate enough to find a house literally around the corner from where Elder and Little live with their Mom. This fell into the picture of the "perfect" divorce. I say these things in quotes because I know how much pain and even as time passes bouts of discomfort arise as fallout of something as emotionally devastating as the breaking up of a family. Finding a house so close to the boys felt just a little bit like even if they had two homes- at least they were close enough together that forgotten mittens or lost iPods or just a little unscheduled Dad or Mom time could be had with relative ease.

As the newcomer to this equation I understood all the benefits of moving into the neighborhood. But there was one benefit I hadn't anticipated. That benefit arrived on my doorstep the morning after we moved in. We spent the 1st night in outhouse with Elder and Little who were excited to "move in" but not so excited that they felt moved to unpack anything so day one dawned with me attempting to wade through boxes finding clothing and two shoes that matched for all parties. The bedrooms looked like a gypsy caravan had parked in them overnight with hastily thrown together beds, the living room was awash in wires and the only clear spot on the 1st floor was between the TV and the couch, because my husband and the boys had their priorities in order- we couldn't find a drinking glass but HBO and Showtime worked perfectly.

While I could find the TV I could NOT find VLH. I figured he was in another pile of boxes and I would find him eventually- like in the Spring when I went searching for the seder plate.

I was upstairs trying to decide between locating clothing from this decade and making the bed when I found my husband. I actually HEARD him- he was opening the entry door and I heard him speaking rather loudly- to someone and then I heard a stranger yell "YOOOO-HOOOOOO". "Come Down" VLH yelled up the stairs "I got someone you need to meet".

Standing at the bottom of the stairs beaming up at me was a - well- a little old lady. White haired, wrinkled comfy-shoed. I walked down the stairs smiling but unsure. "Hello,,," I said tentatively. "Melanie!" she yelled (I was standing in front of her) "I'm the Grandma!"

That was the beginning. Antoinette Dellaquilla roared into my life - 5'2" of solid enthusiasm. At first I was confused- shouldn't this elderly Italian lady be... well, MAD at me or something? Where was the spiky discomfort that came from the idea that somehow *I* had something to do with the divorce. All of that was definitely my issue, not hers.

At first I called her Annie- we would visit often as she lived literally around the corner in a house she had occupied since about 1960. VLH would cook things and send them over or we would stop by so a lightbulb could be changed or a smoke alarm battery replaced. Annie's front door is unusual- there is a traditional screened storm door in front of a wooden door with a 50's style cut-out of three circular windows that allow you to peek inside. The front of the house had all manner of small decoration- little American Flags, decals of flowers, 2 plastic chairs sit on the porch and through the little windows of the entry door you could see a little paper sign tacked up with a charicature of a man, grinning and the words, "Keep Smiling". A wooden sign to the right of the door reads Dellaquilla and there is a woodcut of a butcher carved into the face-Annie's husband John was a butcher. In the time I knew Annie I also got to know John- though he had been gone for almost 25 years he was alive in that house and in Annie.

Annie very quickly became a part of my everyday life. There was always a reason to stop by- a piece of cake or a bunch of flowers that caught my eye as I came home from work. I never really needed a reason- and she never asked why I came. She greeted me as if I were visiting royalty running to make coffee or tea, pulling cookies from a drawer or artichokes, beans or peppers from the freezer, each plastic container labelled with a yellow post-it note shakily inscribed in blue ballpoint script "Broccoli OK " or "Peppers OK ". We never understood why she labelled them that way but VLH would joke that he would not eat them if Grandma didn't label them "OK".

Yesterday morning Grandma passed away. It is an almost unbearable torture to sit here and write this. Remembering her and our time together when the loss is so fresh hurts more than I have words for. But the thought that today, and tomorrow and each day after that, that I would begin to forget all the special little things that made her so amazing- that tomorrow or some day soon after they will begin dismantling the house she spent fifty years putting together and the life and love she stored in those walls will be scattered among children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. There are things I don't want to forget

She loved vegetables. After being married to a butcher for 49 years Annie almost never cooked meat after John died. She lived on artichokes, broccoli, beans and escarole. Her grandchildren and great grandchildren among so many other things will miss grandma's broccoli as it was the first solid food most of them ate- tiny pieces fed lovingly by hand into their mouths. Last night as we missed her we wondered about the fate of the pot she cooked vegetables in- some women leave jewels- here the family will carefully decide the fate of the broccoli pot- so many memories of her invested in that small bit of cookware. Elder's new baby brother though fortunate enough to have been held by Annie will have to taste his first artichoke leaf from his brother's hand. A tradition, I am certain he will follow, scraping the tenderly cooked leaves on tiny lower baby teeth.

She did not like figs- there was a tree in her back yard that yielded a bumper crop of black mission figs each Fall. Annie tied everything including pouring bleach on the roots of the tree to kill it, to no avail. I think ultimately she respected the tree's ability to withstand adversity and with good humor distributed the figs among friends.

When worried she would pray to Saint Anthony- a statue on her bedroom dresser. She prayed for her health and for the hopes and prayers of those she loved. Though she spent a fair amount of time talking to Saint Anthony I am certain he knew who was boss because if Saint Anthony didn't answer her prayers she would turn him upside down- on his head- until he gave her what she wanted.

She loved to dance. I danced with her at her daughter's 50th wedding anniversary party- she outlasted me and three other partners before sitting down.

She wore hearing aids in the last year or so of her life- she did not want to miss any bit of a conversation. But she really didn't need them- I know only how she was with me but she always knew without being told how I was- if I felt a bit off- "You're Mushy!" she'd say- "What's wrong?". I arrived at her house one evening stressed after work and she began speaking of a man who had just died. Annie claimed he made himself sick from worrying- "We don't worry about little things do we Melanie?" And whatever small issue from work faded away. Life was too short to waste worry on little things.

She used to hit and occasionally she'd give you a bite, proud, I think that she still had her own teeth. I know that sounds strange but Grandma only greeted you politely if she didn't like you. Each time I visited Grandma would slap my chest or grab my shoulder or reach around my neck to pull me close and whisper to me how much she loved me. And remind me to love my husband when I got home. I watched her pull the hair and punch the shoulder's of VLH's friends- often endangering their lives as she would do so while they were driving!

And speaking of love-from the very first day Grandma was very clear with me about her views on love and marriage. Literally on day one she pulled me aside and told me You love him? she said- Of course you do. Love him up she said- Don't be stingy. Men don't like that. She often spoke about sex- not in a vulgar way- but she let you know that it was very much a part of her life with John- up to and including the day he died- and that you should love every day. It was even more than that-

Grandma would speak about Love as if it was all that mattered. She had no bad word for anyone she knew-" Love each other" she'd say. That was the thing I think she'd want me to remember, that and her neighbor's recipe for escarole, I promise to try. I will miss you so much- I am missing you now.

I'm not your Target Consumer, Pal

2010-02-18T12:36:00.008-05:00

The email subject line said "Sensible Shoes for Women and two-day free shipping".

Why am I getting this? Targeted marketing...

Recently I purchased Merrells for VLH and Elder Son on the internet. For the uninitiated A word about the Merrell company and their shoes from Wikipedia

"Merrell was founded by Clark Matis, Randy Merrell, and John Schweitzer in 1981. The company has designed and produced performance outdoor footwear throughout much of its history... The company started out by creating hiking boots that fit like cowboy boots with a wide toe box and narrow heel to accommodate the North American foot shape Also, almost all Merrells have Vibram and an unpopable air cushion in the heel."

Comfy yet stylish and a big hit with VLH. Elder son has a habit of unfailingly wearing "Chucks". For the uninformed these are Chuck Taylor All-Stars, or Converse All-Stars, also referred to as "Chucks" or Cons are canvas and rubber shoes produced by Converse. Elder son will don these regardless of weather or miles to go or how wet or stinky they might become. As he has inherited VLH's wide, flat, Flintstone feet- that's gotta hurt- so Elder son too received Merrells. Little Guy is just this side of too little for Merrells but as he too has flat little North American feet- we found Merrell-esque Sperrys for Little who rewarded us by running rather than walking in them. As Little is built for comfort, not speed this was most surprising in a good way.

But all these good deeds could no go unpunished. The other day I received three disturbing bits of flotsam from the universe- an email regarding a sale on "Sensible Shoes for Women" and a catalog of "Comfortable Walking Shoes" and a letter inviting me to join the AARP.

I could barely move- and it wasn't even my shoes'fault. Whether it was the walking shoe purchases or the fact that databases throughout the world have been alerted that in 90 days' time I will leave my fourth decade behind me- I had been profiled. Old and in need of shoes that close with velcro and a month's supply of catheters. Its a wonder they did not just send me a gun with a trigger labelled PULL HERE. I lingered for a moment in my chair- laptop with offending email open next to the pile of nefarious junk mail listening to myself breathe. Was that a wheeze? Arrhythmia?

Hold the phone. At that very moment I sat up straight, planted my feet and stood up. "Who the HELL are they TALKING TO?"

The fact is that I have heard "you are as old as you feel" and "Fifty is the new Twelve" or what have you- but in reality- when you tell someone you are fifty- or fourty nine- the inevitable response is- if you are lucky "I didn't think you were THAT Old." Which they mean as a compliment- which it is- when you are SAYING it instead of hearing it. The fact is I'm OK with being fifty- its the assumptions that accompany it that I take offense to.

Interestingly enough I absolutely understand where this comes from on a direct mail and internet basis- you see - I work in marketing. Unless you live "Off the grid" completely- sans birth certificate or phone- we know about you. LOTS. Age, ethnicity, address phone and email are all here for the plucking. Wedding Date-yup. Children- we know their ages. Even whether you have a dog or a cat- and if that beloved pet dies- don't be surprised if you get a sympathy card from Little Friskies backed up by an offer to adopt a stray from the North Shore Animal Shelter and an postcard advertising savings on carpet cleaning. The gentleman I work for says "life is all marketing" the truth is these days we market not to people but to lives.

OK so I'm in marketing and karma has just delivered a truckload of Depends- what to do? Same thing they did in the 60's man- fight the system. If I am to be analyzed by my purchases I'm buying dominatrix boots and coyote pheromone deer repellant. If I am asked on a website to give my year of birth I will say 1892 to one and 2002 to the other- let them figure out if I am senile or precocious. I'll buy birth control pills and register on fertility websites and volunteer to be an egg donor. In stores when asked for my zip code I will have memorized the postal codes for rain forests and frozen tundra. I'll have more personality changes than Madonna and more wardrobe choices than Lady Gaga.

But that will only make me giggle with glee- it won't fix the problem. Assumptions are made daily- by marketers who don't have any idea who I am or who I plan do be when and if I grow up. Perhaps its a bit optimistic for me to imagine that anything as broad and impersonal as the brush used by the world of marketing to paint a 50- something woman from Union City NJ would come up with something more like the portrait of Dorian Gray and less like Whistler's Mother. And I know its expensive to market, after all its my job but I think that marketing should take a slightly broader view. But that will probably not be the case for awhile. I have read and about algorithms that spit out 8000 personality points and create accurate portraits of who a target customer is. But- I am more than the sum of my points- and a warning to marketers- I fully intend to remain a moving target- catch me if you can.

A New Proposed Holiday: Everyone says "I Love You" Day

2010-02-10T07:37:00.006-05:00

Nenu ninnu premistunnanu means "I love you" in Telugu- a dialect spoken by the Andhra or Telugus in the North of India. It must sound lovely when spoken but in the reading all I can picture is thumbs stuck in ears, fingers waggling while these words are spoken. Certainly a genuine I love you, spoken for the first time carries with it the element of risk- so starting out looking foolish when uttering those words on their maiden voyage to the loved one's ears eliminates that oh-so perilous mid-point when the reception, and the hope of reciprocation are still in question. You start out looking so silly that every thing that occurs after that, if not the desired response, will at least be slightly more dignified.

In choosing to say I love you in another language you also eliminate the monotony of the "I love you/I love you, too" conversation. Imagine saying "I love you" to the slightly longer-standing object of affection when after a few weeks the novelty of the aforementioned exchange begins to lack that certain spontaneity- you have a full range of new and novel responses- you can reply T'estim molt and then expand the conversation to explain the origin of that phrase and if truly inspired, weave a tale of a sultry Catalonian romance long ago when you learned that phrase BUT never truly understood it until you met the current recipient of your affections - on second thought the idea of a midnight tryst on some Andorran mountainside with a guy named Bixintxo (which means "Conquerer" in Basque as everyone knows...) might NOT have the intended effect of generating a feeling of "my one and only". Maybe respond with I mog di narrisch gern as the thought of Bavarian nights may conjure thoughts of schnitzel, beer steins and Liederhosen but would result in more images of heartburn than hearts and flowers in the mind (and chest cavity)of the recipient.

As I researched this I thought about the idea that there are a million ways actually to express love- the fact that I was able to find so many ways to express a positive esteem- it would be harder to find this many translations for "How much is this?" or "Where is your restroom" or especially "I am going to go to war with your country because we don't agree with the way you run it" or " We are going to send troops into your poverty-stricken country because with all this unhappiness there must be a weapon of mass destruction in here somewhere" My guess is that would take a couple of hours of research at least- and I am doubtful there would be a direct translation in Tagalog or Urdu. Hopefully on some remote Fijian Island the concept of mass destruction on an imaginable scale would be a lack of coconuts in the market for the day- sad but there would be coconuts the next day- or two days hence. Bad but, they'd get through. Perhaps coping by sitting under one of those lazy unproductive coconut trees whispering Mahal kita to some special cutie in a sarong. If that's "sa-wrong" I don't wanna be right. (OK I will wait for the groaning to cease)

I was looking at events that occurred on Valentine's Day-

Penicillin, a popular treatment for venereal diseases such as syphilis, was introduced to the world on February 14, 1929. Let the love-fest begin.

The Computing Tabulating Recording Corporation (CTR) of Binghamton, New York, changed its name to International Business Machines (IBM)on February 14, 1924.

1924 was a busy Valentine's Day year, also in 1924, U.S. President Calvin Coolidge delivered the first presidential political speech over the radio prompting millions of kids to first utter the question "Isn't there anything ELSE on?"

And there was, 16 years later: in 1940, MBS, The Broadcasting System, presented the premiere broadcast of the radio play, "The Adventures of Superman."

I got the idea that there could be a new meaning to February 14- I know this is crazy as we cannot get the world to agree on a currency much less have one, international holiday but ...wouldn't it be cool if February 14th became Everyone says I Love You Day (ESILY). No exceptions- as a matter of fact- instead of handing out medals for valor and bravery in battle we gave medals to people who on ESILY found someone NO ONE would say I love you to and despite revulsion or public condemnation said I Love you to the school lunch lady- or Osama Bin Laden. Imagine that between 12:00 pm and 12:15 pm everyone said this to the person it would be most difficult for them to say it to- soldier to soldier, Huutu to Tutsi, estranged father to son. And imagine what would happen at 12:16 that same day. Just imagine. The moment after those words are spoken the space between those two individuals would change. You cannot help but see the person- the vulnerable precious living being that bravely uttered those words in your presence. Eyes would be opened- and hearts. When you see one person that way you too are changed and suddenly you see not one individual but two- the person to whom you spoke, and yourself, accepted as a perfect human for that moment in their eyes. And you'd want to keep that feeling- to try as best you could, to keep that feeling- to be that person. And it would not be possible at 12:16 that day to say something hurtful in anger, to raise a hand in violence, to close a heart in anger once it had been opened by love.

So here's a list- a lack of information shouldn't stop you and certainly not a lack of the appropriate phrase in Denmark or the Sioux Nation. Forget the chocolates and the overpriced long-stems- Let's just say "I love you" and see what happens.

Amharic: Afekrishalehou
Arabic : Ana Behibak (to a male) Ana Behibek (to a female)
Bavarian : I mog di narrisch gern
Bengali : Ami tomake bhalobashi
Cantonese : Ngo oi ney
Catalan : T'estim (mallorcan) or T'estime (valencian) or T'estimo (catalonian)
finally: T'estim molt (I love you a lot)
Chinese : Wo ie ni (Mandarin)
Croatian : Volim te (most common), or Ja te volim (less common)
Czech : miluji te
Danish : Jeg elsker dig
Dutch : Ik hou van jou
Persian(Farsi): Tora dust midaram
Flemish : Ik zie oe geerne
Finnish : Mina" rakastan sinua
French : Je t'aime
Gaelic : Ta gra agam ort
German : Ich liebe Dich
Greek : S' ayapo
Gujarati: Tane Prem Karoo Choo
Hebrew : aNEE oHEIVET oTKHA (female to male) aNEE oHEIV otAKH (male to female)
Ani ohev at (man to woman) Ani ohevet atah (woman to man)
Hindi: Mein Tumse Pyar Karta Hoon (man to woman)
Mein Tumse Pyar Karti Hoon (woman to man)
Hopi : Nu' umi unangwa'ta
Hungarian : Szeretlek te'ged
Icelandic : ?g elska ßig
Indonesian : Saya cinta padamu or Saya Cinta Kamu or Aku tjinta padamu
or Saja kasih saudari
Italian : Ti amo
Irish : taim i' ngra leat
Japanese : Kimi o ai shiteru Sukiyo
Kannada: Naanu ninnanu preethisuthene or Naanu ninnanu mohisuthene
Korean : Tangsinul sarang ha yo
Latin : Te amo or Vos amo
Mohawk : Konoronhkwa
Navajo : Ayor anosh'ni
Ndebele : Niyakutanda
Norwegian : Jeg elsker deg (Bokmaal)
Pakistani : Mujhe tumse muhabbat hai
Pilipino : Mahal Kita or Iniibig Kita
Polish : Ja Cie Kocham or Kocham Cie (Pronounced Yacha kocham)
Portuguese : Eu te amo
Punjabi : Main tainu pyar karna (male to female)
Mai taunu pyar kardi aan (female to male)
Russian : Ya lyublyu tebya or Ya vas lyublyu
Scot Gaelic : Tha gra\dh agam ort
Sioux : Techihhila
Spanish : Te amo
Swahili : Nakupenda
Swedish : Jag a"lskar dig
Tagalog : Mahal kita
Taiwanese : Gwa ai lee
Tamil: Naan Unnai Kadhalikiren
Telugu: Ninnu premistunnanu
Neenu ninnu pra'mistu'nnanu
Nenu ninnu premistunnanu
Thai : Phom Rak Khun or Ch'an Rak Khun
Turkish : Seni seviyorum!
Urdu : Mujhe tumse muhabbat hai
Vietnamese : Anh ye^u em (man to woman) or Em ye^u anh (woman to man)
Welsh : 'Rwy'n dy garu di. or Yr wyf i yn dy garu di (chwi)
Yiddish : Ikh hob dikh lib
Zuni : Tom ho' ichema

Hearing Voices or How we killed J.D. Salinger

2010-02-07T14:29:00.005-05:00

I love to read- as a child I devoured books well outside my age range defying cranky school librarians who would refuse me "The Secret Garden" at 7 years of age or "Gone with The Wind" in the third grade. I loved the different worlds books provided. I also read very quickly- for most light reading about 100 pages per hour- for the heavier classics- maybe 70 pages an hour and about 10 pages in 15 minutes for technical reading- I have very little patience for books that teach or rather instruct- I would much rather destroy a DVD player than read the manual and after destroying the DVD player would just sit down and read a book, feeling no lack. My lovely cardigan wearing sole-mate has photos of himself wearing glasses and a bathrobe staring intently into a novel at 14- "That was a Saturday night in my house back then" he says- having watched him tear through the John Carter of Mars series I bought him for his birthday I could see the child in the man- rapt and off fighting for the honor of the bright red princess of Mars.

The youngers are another story. VLH (he of the cardigan) has two sons who share time between us and their mom- who lives around the corner. Little Guy is 10 going on 11 and has an intellect that craves information the same way his entire being craves chocolate. The same way that a small Hershey's kiss can paint his face cheek to cheek as he consumes it, Little Guy devours books of facts with a similar soul smearing gusto- Mayans and Egyptians and Michael Jackson share space with every president, most presidential wives and a large number of presidential pets. Do you know which President kept a raccoon as a pet? I do. Little Guy is absolutely filled to the brim with information and it will spill out and land on anyone in close proximity- whether Little Guy and the party in question have been properly introduced or not. The only requirement for connection is whether Little Guy can reach up and grab their elbow and let the sharing begin - because in his voracious consumption he is a zealot- a convert to the church of information he proselytises at every opportunity and cannot comprehend that you are not as interested in the things that absolutely fascinate him. At 10 and a half he loves Gene Kelly and hates Richard Nixon ("Why?" you may ask him and he will reply "remember a little thing called Watergate?" of course this is the beginning of a conversation not the end.) He corrects tour guides at National Historical Sites. When travelling even a short distance he requires at least 3 books and until lately- a little orange bear named Rupert- though Rupert seems to prefer the couch at home more often these days and that makes me sad a little. So Little Guy also is a reader- but only of factual books- his father once offered to read "The Princess Bride" to him as a bedtime story- Little Guy looked at his dad and said "No offense Dad, what else ya got?" waving a hand in front of him to diminish the sting of his rejection of a book he knew his dad loves.

Then there is Elder Son. Elder is just a week or so shy of 16. Bright. Talented. And he makes a mean chocolate chip cookie. It seems very perilous to talk about Elder Guy here- at 15 I have had the pleasure of watching him start to carve his own path- choosing friends from those he grew up with and those he attends prep school with, railing against societal requirements and school uniforms and I watched, sitting in amazement as he pulled the school handbook from his enormous backpack to see whether green hair was in violation of the dress code. I explained that even though COLOR wasn't specifically mentioned that GREEN hair was actually the definition of "Extreme Hair Styles" prohibited in the handbook. I'd hate to embarrass him in any way- in adolescence mortification is a nearly fatal disease.

Elder and I have a standing Wednesday night rendezvous- he has a class in the city near my office and we head home together each Wednesday. I tell my office mates with not a little pride that this is our "date" and am inordinately pleased he chooses to spend this 90 minutes a week hanging with me. I also give him a snack when he shows up but I am pretty sure that's not why he comes.

A couple of weeks ago Elder and I were riding home on the bus and discussing his grades- while he had near perfect grades in Latin and Spanish, his English marks were only at about the 3/4 level. "Why?" The answer- the books were chosen for the entire class and reviewed in the same format over and over. Elder was bored. Trust a High School English class to suck the joy out of Mark Twain and Zora Neale Hurston (TY Mimi) and F. Scott Fitzgerald. Elder loves music and video, draws and writes, has access to video games and the internet- and unlike VLH, Little Guy and me, books don't naturally draw him- and there is so much else that does. But then there's that English grade.

I stood up on my soapbox right there on the #123 bus driving along the Marginal- "Books like that," I said- "have a voice- you can hear the characters in the books talking to you- can feel the location grow up around you- the smells and the sounds!" I was on a roll. I saw the light of attention fade-out in Elder's eyes- "Fahrenheit 451 was good" he said. I said "Well is there a literary voice you can remember hearing as you read the book?" "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." he said. "I gotta get it back from Dad and finish it". Part of me was proud that he had chosen such a unique literary voice. The other part worried about a Kerouakian need on his part at some point to try hitting the road to Vegas one day well stocked with a vial of the essence of the pineal gland of the iguana and a bottle of Patron. "We have to read "Catcher in the Rye" this Spring." he said interrupting my little revery of the thought of peeling Elder off a ballroom ceiling while he ranted about bats and reptile-headed political journalists. "Catcher in the Rye!" I gasped, more than a little relieved. "Fantastic book" Perfect timing for a man struggling to identify life's boundaries in order to vault over them sporting green hair.

I am a big Salinger fan. In the 8th grade someone compared an essay I had written to Salinger and I was complimented, if not completely unaware who this was. Within a couple of weeks I had read not only "Catcher in the Rye" but "Franny and Zooey", For a long time any of my friends understood my burning curiosity to know where the ducks from Central Park go in winter. Anyone who did not wasn't a friend for long. Not a personality conflict so much as a difference in nature. I prefer to spend my time with people who ask "Why?" and "Why not?"

We spoke until our stop on the bus- about Salinger, teen rebellion and why a writing talent hid after just a few books and never came out to play again.

The next day Salinger was dead at 91.

I texted Elder. "We killed JD Salinger" He texted back " He was old wasn't he". Old will get you every time.

I felt like the conversation we'd had- like many had with someone younger- maybe just didn't resonate. With so much information coming into his life- the daily life of a teenager- school, girls, guitar, license- one conversation just wasn't that important. I took no offense.

A week later we were sitting at the table- he getting ready to do homework and me tidying, which is an obsession with me these days- I make no excuses for it- or I make many excuses- but that's a topic for another essay. I saw a familiar bookcover peeking through his fingers. "Catcher in the Rye?" I asked. "Yeh"- he said, head down in the book. "I thought you didn't need it til Spring?" I said. You see, Elder is a notorious last-minute school supply guy who is well known for desperately needing a folder, notebook, report cover or clip the night before its school-mandated appearance. I do believe he eats 4x6 index cards in the school lunchroom on a daily basis as that would be the only explanation for the rate at which he consumes them. "I thought I'd get a head start" he said "Sounded like it might be ok"

Might be. (Yippee!)

It ain't over til the Yat Lady Sings

2010-02-06T11:52:00.001-05:00

http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid63683791001?bclid=63627618001&bctid=65118368001

Their Eyes on Punxsutawney

2010-02-01T18:38:00.007-05:00

UPDATE: On Gobbler's Knob February 2nd, 2010, Punxsutawney Phil, Seer of Seers, Prognosticator of all Prognosticators proclaimed, "If you want to know what's next, you must read my text. As the sky shines bright above me, my shadow I see beside me. So six more weeks of winter it will be."

"Groundhog Day is a lot like a rock concert but the people are better behaved and there's a groundhog involved," Tom Chapin, editor of the Punxsutawney Spirit newspaper.

I read that PETA- People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, have complained about the ritualized misuse of Phil- dragging him from his den every February 2nd to a mad media frenzy (bad enough to be woken months before his natural wake-up time-worse to have the paparazzi hanging around for a quick shot for the papers- maybe they'll protect Lindsay Lohan next) PETA's suggestion was that Phil be replaced with a robotic groundhog. I shudder to think. While I admit and am grateful that the vigilance of groups like PETA have made me aware that foie gras and veal are cruel- they sure can take all the fun out of a pair of new leather stilettos (OK most of the fun). The very idea of an electronic replacement for the Groundhog just leaves the door wide open for ruining so many other holidays- next thing you know they'll get their hands on Valentine's Day and heaven only knows what they'll substitute batteries for in the interest of protecting one species or another. (Oh c'mon, do the math...)

From a Wildlife damage control website:

"Groundhogs, also known as woodchucks, have a great reputation among gardeners. Even the hit movie "The Caddy Shack" illustrated their reputation as being impossible to control. Woodchucks can literally mow a garden." If they can also plant flowers and weed I'm getting one.

From a Groundhog control website:

"...your garden will have no future if you pay no heed to this garden pest's sign language. Your garden will be trapped in a perpetual Groundhog Day of destruction, raided at will by the marauding rodents. " Sign language? I smell a screenplay here, don't you?

PETA might consider that annoying ONE groundhog once a year may be the very BEST way to sell the public on leaving the rest of these destructive little guys alone based on the goodwill generated. I'm sure Phil would volunteer- if someone bothered to explain it to him in groundhogese- after they get him a cup of coffee.

Other Random ramblings on Marmota Monax

The groundhog (Marmota monax) is also known as a woodchuck or whistle-pig- a marketing opportunity missed there- the Gobblers Knobians could have gotten corporations to sponsor the festivities in exchange for Phil whistling their jingle during the event.

During Prohibition Phil threatened to impose 60 weeks of winter if he wasn’t permitted a drink. Way to negotiate rodent!

In 2009 Phil's appearance was shown live (at DAWN) on the Jumbotron in Times Square. Like one more giant rat on 42nd Street would cause a fuss.

You can get a text message about Phil's prediction by texting his forecast for the first time (to sign up, text "groundhog" to 247365) He also has a Facebook Fan page and an online Souvenir Shop...

Since Phil’s first trek to Gobbler’s Knob in 1887, he has seen his shadow 98 times, no shadow 15 times, and no record 10 times. He saw his shadow last year. This year marks Phil's 124th prediction.

There has only been one Punxsutawney Phil. Punxsutawney Phil gets his longevity from drinking “groundhog punch,” a secret recipe. Phil takes one sip every summer at the Groundhog Picnic and it magically gives him seven more years of life. My guess is that the "no record" days and the excessive consumption of "groundhog punch" are somehow connected.

To the Groundhog (from a California pre-school website)

Will you
Won't you
See your shadow?

Will it
Won't it
Really matter?

Do you
Don't you
Grin to see

People
Take you
Seriously?

Please don't take this seriously- just raise a glass of groundhog punch with me and toast to Spring- whenever it gets here.

A Certain Age

2010-01-31T14:47:00.006-05:00

I am approaching a portentous anniversary of my years on the planet. It has me inviting people to a party I have not yet planned- still months away- calling in all markers, the hand holdings, late night phone calls,and interruptions of holiday dinners for an emergency gravy consultation ("Yes you can freeze that"- "No you shouldn't forgive him just because HE thinks you should") . If I MUST turn 50- I need all the support can muster.

Lately the phrase "woman of a certain age" has been rattling around in my mind. As a voracious reader I have long been aware of the phrase and picture well-coiffed and marvelously groomed ladies having tea- or cocktails- and speaking wisely to each other about things I am not sure which things- perhaps the running of their families, or their lives, or the planet. Whatever the subject they have a look, to my mind, which says that they have it licked- nothing to see here, got it all under control. To me- the "certain" part of the phrase means- they were sure. At some pre-ordained moment they had been struck with a sense of "Aha!"and everything popped into focus.

I'm waiting. "Certain" hasn't quite reached me yet.

I did a bit of research and found that the French believe "une femme d'une certaine age" is a forty-ish woman who is able to initiate boys and young men into the beauties of sexual encounters. Those clever French can build sex into anything including potatoes- or aging women.

I have not been a fan of the younger man as a rule- for a very long time I eschewed the younger man, choosing male companions older than me. My first love had been younger and quite honestly- I no longer wanted the teacher role. Unfortunately in my younger days I learned the veracity of something a friend in college swore was true- she said "There are no men- just little boys in suits". For a long time, in relationships I steered when I wished nothing more than to let someone else do the driving. I also learned along the way that just because someone has a license doesn't mean they should drive. So I took life as it came along- and gathered information. I do not know if I taught anyone about the beauty of sex- I have learned that the man who can't kiss well won't be much in the romance department- and the fellow too good at romance will likely not last beyond the death of that first bunch of too-quickly proferred roses, and that the man who can make me laugh will also be pretty good at holding me when I cry. I've also learned that looks don't count for much but attraction counts for everything. If you want to love someone- liking who they are is a pretty essential place to start. Ignore the cardigan- concentrate on the laugh.

Like the man who is lost but making good time I spent a great deal of the last 20 ears muddling through if not embracing my uncertainty. The path took me to church and ashram, temple and wooded grove communing with all my questions. I remember once lying in a yoga class, lights dimmed and incense filling the air with its chalky serenity. I had my legs stretched over my head and my toes grazing the floor behind me and I was crying into my own lap. I had made a step back instead of forward in my emotional development and was filled with questions and remorse. The teacher quietly came beside me- he was a friend- a guy named Greg who outside the ashram installed air conditioners, knelt by my side, concerned. "I'm so confused" I whispered- instantly his face lit up- "That's WONDERFUL" he said breathily "you're learning".

I know now that these were wise words but in that quiet, dark, om-filled room the only truth I experienced at that moment was that my goal in life was to haul off and clock the sensei. Fortunately for him, in that position, feet touching the ground behind my head, it was challenging to simply breathe- moving an arm would certainly have cut off my airway. The conversation did lead me to some truths about myself. The first is that when enlightenment shows up I won't acknowledge it until I'm damned good and ready and second I HATE being told what to do.

I also learned that if I believe something is an absolute truth in my life the universe will sit up and say- "Ya think so girly?" and show me just how wrong I can be.

Couple of years ago I went on my last first date- I guess. I found someone I could live with- who could also live with me. This speaks to someone tolerant with a good sense of humor. Someone magnanimous enough to be ok with my displaying our lives on the internet in my exhibitionistic need to write publicly. I love to write but never seem to get around to it- its been almost a year since I wrote here. Anyway, that wonderful person just walked into the room as I write and said he was happy to see me writing- that it had been too long. My last first date is five years younger than me- and still has that cardigan and a laugh that I would pay money to hear if it didn't come so easily upon hearing even my dopiest joke. But even this tolerant soul cannot tell me what to do. He tried once, when I had a gall bladder attack and was writhing in pain, to tell me I should go home. I dug in and refused, then threw up on his shoes. He learned not to tell me what to do- and I did eventually tell him he was right- 18 months later. My teacher would be so proud- still learning- but the curve can be unusually long between information and spoken revelation.

In an article in the NY Times the wonderful William Safire spoke about the "middle- aged spread" of the "certain age"- that what once was 40 was 50, and then 80. I have met very "certain" people of three years of age and amazingly wonderful people in their 90's who look to me with questions- their wisdom being in the knowledge that certainty is a fool's game. The world is always changing and us with it- the moment a judgement is made or an opinion etched in stone with a harrumph and a stamping of the foot there is almost a guarantee that that very footfall will rock your world. You can refuse to change your stance- you can deny change in your mind but the way of the world is change and nothing is certain- except laughter and the occasional cardigan, and that certainty changes with time. Sometimes the best you can do is shrug give in- and let the world show you all that you don't know.

Found: A Simple soulution

2009-03-23T07:55:00.002-05:00

Yes I spelled that correctly.

I have read many cliches aboout happiness- about it being a destination. Or a choice. Or that you have to work at it. However. The tomato guy pictured above (though plastic) is happy whenever the lights are on or the sun shines (solar powered) and shows it not by jigging a dance or shouting but by swaying its little bobble head gently from side to side.

I saw it in toy store in Chinatown on the way to dinner with VLH and friends and picked it up- asked the price and thebn walked with it for a few minutes and set it back on the shelf. H picked it up and placed it on the checkout counter- maybe *I* can't buy happiness but when it is given to me, I can say "Thank you."

Found : 3/19/2009- 2nd Annual Peep-Shout-Out

2009-03-20T08:10:00.003-05:00

New....Chocolate Mousse flavored Peeps...

Read on for more PEEP info than you will ever need (from the Justborn website).

Just Born produces enough PEEPS in one year
to circle the Earth twice.

PEEPS has been the #1 non-chocolate Easter candy in the U.S. for more than
a decade.

Yellow is America’s best selling color of PEEPS chicks and bunnies. (Of course- that is their natural color...)

Everyone can now enjoy Sugar-Free PEEPS® that are sweetened with
“Splenda®”. (this is just wrong- do they coat it with splenda too? What makes it CRUNCH without sugar?)

Peeps have 0 fat grams, are 28 calories each and are gluten free, and
nut free. (for anyone who cares)

People like to do curious things with PEEPS ….eat them fresh or aged to
perfection, microwave them, freeze them, roast them, put them on pizza...
(picturing a white pizza here with melted yellow and laender peeps, their little brown eyes staring up from the oily surface).

But the BEST PEEP fact of all- Peeps are Kosher- BUT- not Kosher for Passover.
'case you were wondering. I know I was.

Found: 3/18/09

2009-03-19T12:43:00.002-05:00

This little glitter dragonfly sticker was caught in a dusty corner of the 53rd Street subway station. I had to admire its ability to attract my attention in such a dark and uncreative space.

Found: March 17, 2009

2009-03-17T19:23:00.003-05:00

St. Patrick's Day in New York- quite possibly the second worst-dressed holiday here in the "city at the center of the world". The green line stretches for miles along Fifth Avenue and I couldn't help but think about all the kilts the line looked up as it wound itself uptown.

Found: 3/16/09

2009-03-16T19:38:00.003-05:00

Thinking today about the psalm that tells you to "number your days". When I look at this the whole day rushes back to me- at least for now. And I wonder if somewhere a little braid slowly comes undone.

Found: 3/14/09

2009-03-16T19:37:00.003-05:00

Little sneakers in the photo- you can't tell now but they are shorter than my hand, and have quite a bit of ketchup on them. Makes me think somewhere french fries got a serious soaking too.

The Stairs

2009-03-15T19:59:00.007-05:00

Spring isn't exactly here, but it's close. You catch a glimpse of it on an almost-bud on a tree, a few struggling snowdrops beginning to bloom under the tree in the front yard, in the scarf you lost (or I did) because it wasn't tied tightly to your bag...

I was walking down Astor Place, here in Jersey City - the major difference between NYC's Astor place and this starts with the fact that if your pants were ripped it wasn't because you bought them that way.

So I was walking and I was noticing (because my eyes weren't squinched tight against the cold- another glimpse of spring) ...stairs. The shapes. The character each had- the subtle color and strong shape, basically unnoticed, even when the escalator isn't working.

Strangely enough and totally unconnected I had just read something about stairs. Written by a middle-aged man.

"The stairs were all worn so that you had to put your feet where everybody else put theirs when they went up. Every step had two spots, both along the side, where the wood was about an inch lower than it was in the middle and at the end of the steps. Sometimes to be different I'd walk right up the center of the steps where nobody ever did."

John Kennedy Toole wrote that when he was 15. At 30 he killed himself after writing "A Confederacy of Dunces" and left Ignatius Reilly as his legacy.

Maybe reading that made me look at the character of steps. Think about where others had walked and the path they wore there. That there is the world of the past written in footsteps, cracks, watermarks and ivy on the stairs.

v

The language or the kiss?

2009-03-05T21:39:00.000-05:00

"The first kiss is magic. The second is intimate. The third is routine," Raymond Chandler

If you are lucky enough to know someone deeply, necessitating that they are no longer new, then how do you remember the romance again?....Not the pursuit of something new, but simply properly labelling the sweetness that is already there. Romance breathes life into the small spaces between the big things. It's more about the way you look at things than the way someone looks at you. If you have a well-worn lover, hold them close and breathe them in. Wink at them over the din of daily chaos. Compliment them in front of other people. Call them first when you have news. Twist your fingers in the back of their hair at stoplights.

Do it, I tell you, because some people would lay it all down for the very thing you sometimes take for granted. Like shivering, sliding into a cold bed and finding some warm purchase for cold toes, love meets us where we are.

Craft it Forward

2009-02-11T13:28:00.002-05:00

I picked this up on my friend Goat's Blog http://www.panthea-watchoutforpotholes.blogspot.com/ I am a crazy crafter (when inspired) and a pretty good baker so here goes...

{The Rules}
1. Be one of the first THREE bloggers to leave a comment on this post, which then entitles you to a handmade item from me - something crafty or yummy, who knows?!

2. Winners must post this challenge on your blog, meaning that you will Pay It Forward, creating a handmade gift -anything!- for the first THREE bloggers who leave a comment on YOUR post about this giveaway!

3.The gift that you send to your 3 Friends can be from any price range and you have 365 days to make/ship your item. This means you should be willing to maintain your blog at least until you receive your gift and have shipped your gifts. And, remember: It’s the Spirit and the Thought That Count!

4. When you receive your gift, please feel free to blog about it, sharing appropriate Linky Love! If you are not one of the Top Three Commenters on this post, you can still play along. Go ahead and start your own Pay It Forward chain, and encourage your blogging friends to do the same!SO, REMEMBER...Pay it forward!

The Trouble with Chocolate

2009-02-08T18:07:00.005-05:00

I have a bone to pick with M&M/Mars. Two weeks ago I was seeking something...nice for VLH for Valentine's Day. I have a tendency to get crazy in the gift department and with the economy going the way it is I thought to stay..reasonable, for me.
Surely I could have baked something- a cake or pie- and I will make a card, as I love homemade Valentines and making them is actually more fun than shopping for them. But aside from the card- what? I saw the answer in of all places- Facebook. I clicked through a banner ad for M&M's.

M&M's will personalize a gift from you with photos. Smiling babes and smooching couples graced the front of the little candies. As I found out recently, H keeps a jar of these candies on his desk at work- I am certain for emergencies only- like Tuesdays. What a great, little, personal gift. The Mars company states on their site "tips" for personalizing your M&M's

MY M&M'S® Chocolate Candies deliver fun and a smile! So when designing your personalized MY M&M'S® experience, it is important to have fun. However, it must be tasteful and fun. And yes, we do have some rules that will help us deliver a product that we can all be proud of.

Do
Personalize
Use nice words
Be cheerful Have FUN
Be CREATIVE
Be romantic Use your own words
Share your beliefs
Be EXPRESSIVE

Don't
Please don't use objectionable words and phrases. No obscenities or inappropriate images. We don't want to leave a bad taste in anyone's mouth.

I had a nice picture. An ARTSY, romantic picture (seen above) and along with several ...words for the other 3 kinds of M&M's like...YOV, I made my choices and sent my order off to be processed. Friday night I got a call from the Mars Corporation.

"Miss Nerenberg? This is the M&M corporation. We are calling about your order. Let me tell you first that this call may be monitored for quality in service"

I knew something was up... no one ever records simple things like- "Did you mean "You" Instead of "YOV"?" (No, but this has been a problem before, thanks for asking...understandable..."

The modulated voice continued " We are not going to be able to print your order" she said pleasantly.

""Why?" I asked "Is there a production problem?"

"A-Hem" said the voice " Miss Nerenberg...the Mars Corporation is a FAMILY company."

It took me a minute.

"Ohhh. Is it because of the photo?" "Yes...she said...you know..." I was stunned "Lady" I sputtered" ...how do you think families get started in the first place?"

"Well," she replied huffily "- I'm not sure what you mean but...it's not something we can.." "HANG on a sec" I interrupted- "Would it help if I told you I swam in that outfit?" (I certainly had seen skimpier attire at the beach.) "Well...I don't know...she said.. I..um..." then she caught her breath "Well..It's not something you'd serve to children." She breathed a sigh of relief triumphantly feeling she had just protected American youth. "OK-I said, let's assume I am dating someone over 21 and ALSO assume that I am am also over that age myself as my credit card would surely indicate.."

"Miss Nerenberg"- she said rather coldly. "We can't print these for you- I'm sorry." "Well What am I supposed to DO?" I asked more to myself than to her. "Well do you have any photos with clothes on?" she asked cheerily. "Sure" I said- "but where's the fun in that?" I thanked her and got off the line.

I was crestfallen. I thought, as the instructions stated, that I was being creative and romantic. I certainly believe in beauty..and nice underwear. And, I believe DEEPLY that the only way to improve breasts in the eyes and hearts of males is to make them candy coated and cover them in chocolate. That and the "melts in your mouth" idea is a real winner...

Oh well. As Shakespeare said, probably having had similar problems getting theater owners to accept the steamy dialog in Romeo and Juliet (For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss. ), to quote a Midsummer Night's Dream "The course of true love never did run smooth." I guess I'll just have to get some chocolate syrup and improvise-

Nothing says romance like Fox's U-Bet.

:P X

Six Little Words

2009-02-01T10:38:00.006-05:00

Two people I love celebrated 49 years of marriage last weekend. For the people who love the celebrants, this is a bitch, specifically in the gift department. I like going by the anniversary chart which tells you what gift for which year- year one is paper, two cotton or wood, etc. By 49 even the list makers were at a loss- the gift suggestion- "something luxurious". Thanks (posi-frickin-tively USELESS).

We found a gift - a really lovely bottle of champagne which, in the manner of all Jewish parents was deemed "too nice to drink". Eventually I imagine it will be "too dusty to open" or "too sour for salad dressing". But smiles wreathed the celebratory dinner table and the gift performed its duty as a three-dimensional benchmark on the dining room credenza as a tribute to the miraculous triumph of love, and patience in living 49 years with the same person and the same foibles for ALMOST half a century.

It's almost Valentine's Day- one of my favorite holidays, along with Halloween. I am not sure why I latched onto these two. It's not the candy- I like candy alright but (and I almost lost a friend to this admission) I'm not much for chocolate- an occasional piece of dark does me fine. You see, most of my best memories of each holiday are pre- 20 years of age- though there have definitely been some winners post-20. I like black and orange but I LOVE the color red. Lots of people do- F.W. Woolworth based his whole retail decor on the observation that when he began his retail career as a humble street peddler, folks bought more when he displayed his wares on a red cloth. And even though I went to art school and have studied fashion and various aesthetic movements and pride myself on my relatively great sense of style- I must admit- and it pains me to do so- my heart beats just a teensy bit faster at the thought of receiving one of those HUGE heart-shaped boxes of chocolates with layer upon layer of satin ruffles and red velvet flocking with the words "I Love You" in gold letters on the front. I cannot explain this- I just told you- I probably wouldn't eat more than 1 or 2 chocolates (I only like the nuts covered in dark- this probably says reams about my inner mental workings but we will leave that for another day) and I have a teensy apartment and abhor clutter so I wouldn't keep the box- so ...why?

I don't know about anyone else but I think I personally formulated a large number of my most deeply held beliefs before I was 6. That getting dirty is much more fun than preserving your outfit every time. That saying I love you is worth 100 rejections the first time (and every time) someone says- "I love you back". That insults are the purest form of affection. And so on. So- somewhere in the nether reaches of my six year old brain it is written Chocolates on Valentine's Day mean I Love You and the gaudier and more calorie-laden the box- the deeper the love and esteem. At six that might have come out as "You REALLY LIKE me a lot... you must be a total dork" probably followed by a shoulder punch and a hail of thrown chocolate pieces (I will NOT eat the creams, caramels or cherries but aerodynamically speaking they fly like rocks with the distinctly un-rock-like advantage of smooshing when connecting with the target)

Obviously I have mixed feelings about Valentine's Day in particular and love in general. Let me say here categorically that I will choose love over chocolate covered cherries every time. The nuts- in love and chocolate I pretty much have to ask myself- "Why Choose?" and in most cases, in love and chocolate- I choose nuts. Let me also note that my life has been sweeter, and more fun, for having done so.

K sent me a note the other day. He reads USA Today on a daily basis. It's a flaw that always leaves me shaking my head in wonder as it truly is the Fisher-Price brand of newspapers. My guess is- he gets it for free, it's a quick read with coffee in the morning AND is only improved by spilling coffee on it as that rag has to be at least twice as absorbent as the NY Times. Be that as it may- he sent me excerpts from an article on a book called "Six Word Memoirs on Love and Heartbreak" by Smith Magazine. Here are some of the quotes are:

• I think it was the cassoulet. —Amy Ephron

• My life's accomplishments? Sanity, and you. —Elizabeth Gilbert

• They never seemed crazy at first. —Eric Heiman

• Wonder-filled, and never a dull torment. —Diane Ackerman

• He still needs me at sixty-four. —Armistead Maupin

It got me to thinking and I came up with a couple of my own.

• Creates a heart or breaks it.

• Is an afternoon or a lifetime.

• Takes everything, gives back more.

• Never happens the same way twice.

• Not illegal or immoral but fattening

And finally- the answers 49 years in the making, from Addie and Marcel- when I asked them what the secret was to living together for 49 years

She said: "One day at a time."

He said: "Ignore her"

OK it's seven words- but these guys have earned it.

Happy Valentine's Day.

In Stitches

2009-01-23T19:51:00.004-05:00

I had an operation. Strange to write that but then, the entire process has a sense of other-person-ness. Nothing major, exactly. A friend explained that MINOR surgery is what happens to other people- MAJOR surgery is when it happens to you. Frankly I think major should have left a more impressive dent.

I had my gall bladder removed. It seems somewhere along the line I collected 4 stones in it (had I a choice I might've opted to carry them in a change purse but no one asked), they had lodged themselves in a bile duct and caused more than a few minor discomforts. It took some time to diagnose and for awhile it was thought I had an ulcer, acid-reflux- the darling of the over-the counter set (five year olds learn to spell Prilosec and Nexium right after McDonald's which is good because my feeling is that one eventually leads you to require the other- you do the math) and I had myself convinced, as I have before, that I was swallowing some pressing emotional issue, I have spent the past 9 months or so poking my veins for blood tests and my psyche- for tears. I ate well and I talked- to my therapist, to VLH-poor thing I told him everything I could think of that might be bothering me- as it didn't amount to a hill of beans all it did was exacerbate an overwhelming sense of foolishness and then, the day after I spilled my emotionally puny guts of every dopey thing that I thought I might be holding back a sonogram revealed the four stones. Confession may be good for the soul but it's crap when trying to gather the tattered shreds of your feminine mystique- I was about as fatale as a bowl of rice krispies and considerably soggier.

I wasn't in the mood to "wait and see" when the next attack happened. Work demands that I travel and the idea of a gall bladder attack in mid flight was too awful to contemplate. My doctor (imagine Boris Badinov with an irrepressible need to flirt- that's my doc) said that the pain from one of these attacks was comparable to childbirth. I had to agree, but only if the kid was wearing a suit of ground glass. So on Wednesday, I called the surgeon and made an appointment to meet him on Friday and an appointment on the following Monday to have the gall bladder out. Gallstones may grow IN this girl but no moss- I was a rolling gallstone.

I know I should have done research on the surgeon but- in my head there were only 2 things I wanted- he couldn't smell funny and he needed to resemble Marcus Welby. (Google it- if you are too young to know who Marcus Welby was then- you may indeed be too young to be reading this- Nic, ask your mom. ) I am certain there is some set of criteria I should have followed but- it was my gall bladder and my rules. He had no smell whatsoever and had the requisite pink cheeks, glasses and white hair so- so I took the plunge.

Aside from an eyelid surgery I have never had anything removed or altered internally without a couple of glasses of wine and candlelight so I approached the event with little or no preconceived notions or expectations. I had viewed a couple of websites about the surgery but as the description of the procedure turns into a B horror film when it's YOUR belly button being entered I closed the window so fast the pop-ups didn't even have time to come up and cookies could find no purchase on my browser. I kept busy all weekend spending time with the visiting Maryland cousins and distracted myself with a wild weekend of shoe shopping- shoe BROWSING actually as I didn't buy anything for myself- obviously though I was in denial I must have been more than a bit preoccupied to leave Nordstrom's without one single cute pair of something in a shoe box.

Denial served me all the way through the see-you later kiss I gave VLH when I left the hospital waiting room (I gave this my full attention- some kisses are more important than others) and went into an altered state. The only way I was getting into the hospital gown and robe and sickly flesh colored socks was to pretend I was dressing someone else. Here is a note for hospitals- sick people do not need to feel worse by being dressed in a burkah. I looked at the clothing they handed me and thought- this could make a laundry basket look dowdy. Drab would have been a step-up fashion statement and the poofy hat... yeesh. How about something a bit more like- well how about an adult version of the knit caps they put on newborns? It could be a sort of Seattle surgery look- grunge meets O.R. . Sadly no one asked me and Mr. Blackwell was nowhere in sight. As the nurses and doctors were similarly dressed-(at least scrubs have a waist tie and a back!) I was ok to an extent, when in Rome, you know. A word to the nurses wearing the flowered scrubs- it's not a fashion statement when you wear them- instead of looking like a medical professional you look like a Laura Ashley living room suite.

The surgeon stopped by and asked me how I was - I'm a little scared I said- "Don't be" he said and tapped me twice in the way I tap a chicken breast to test for doneness- Oh, well, that was solved (sheesh). The anesthesiologist stopped by- his name was Dr. Wu. I flashed on my friend Sharon telling me about the culture of drugs immortalized in the lyrics of Fagin and Becker (Steely Dan) and smiled. He surely would not leave me conscious for the proceedings- I would worry about waking up when it became necessary- and not one moment sooner.

I remember the operating room was cold. And much more room-like...where was the gallery (too many medical shows...)? I remember a heated blanket on my legs and missing my red wool socks. I remember the anesthesiologist peeling one arm off my chest and laying it to one side and the needle prick. I remember the nurse peeling back the second arm from my body for a blood pressure cuff and then the table fell away...

"This is the hard part" she said moving me from the operating table to the gurney- a table designed to make you feel like meat on a slab. And then helping me to a lazy-boy recliner chair in a room with curtained partitions. Pain radiated from my center- it felt like kittens trying to claw their way out of my mid-section but thanks to the pain meds while I did have pain I was zonked-out enough to believe it was happening to someone else. And then they brought VLH in. I think I may have worn the face he had on in the presence of a sick loved one but I had never seen a face like that aimed at me. It was a combination of relief, love and fear. Happy I was alive, and myself, and scared that there wasn't anything he could do for me. Had I the words (or a tongue) at that moment I would have told him he did everything I needed just by walking into the room.

And then I was home. The floaty sensation of the after-effects of anesthesia and the addition of Vicodin made the next 12 hours a blur. There were two things that stuck out- I was NOT prepared to be unable to sit up by myself. No one told me. I felt like something out of Kafka lying on my back limbs flailing unable to rise and not being a good sport about it either. The second thing was ... a bit about this particular laparoscopic surgery- the upside is- teeny little cuts. Old school gall bladder surgery left you with a scar 12-14" long. Laparascopy leaves a little scratch about 6" above your navel and two holes to the right of the belly button that look like you were poked with knitting needles. There is also a cut inside the belly button- I haven't looked- have you ever TRIED looking in your belly button? Not possible. Well- when they make the small incisions they go in with a camera and light to find your gallbladder- I imagine it is like human spelunking. In order to get some space to work they puff your belly up with air, to get a better look. I guess they get as much air as they can out before they close you up (imagine the belly button as the opening in a balloon making that pttttttttttttttthhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhppppppppp noise as air escapes- I did and found out laughing hurt too). Late at night when I woke that first night I could hear myself ...fizzing. In addition to the pain of things being cut and resewn internally you get little pains- bubbly pains. While the surgery pains seemed bearable the pricking pains were...disturbing. Not really pain just- uncomfortable. Somewhere that first night as I drifted in and out a thought came to me, an image really of dozens of tiny little old ladies sitting inside my belly putting me back together. It's funny how clearly I could see them- hairnets, large lensed glasses magnifying watery blue or brown eyes and flowered house dresses, droopy support hose and carpet slippers sitting in chairs with skeins of pink yarn in baskets by their sides determinedly knitting my insides back together. I would feel the tiny bubbly pains and pictured one of the ladies dropping a stitch or having a slip of the needles- perhaps knitting when she should have purled.

I spent about 2 days in bed- I didn't realize I could do that but it was actually pretty easy. I had lots of help, J and Z babysat and though VLH had to carry on with the business of belt vending he checked in frequently, more often than not finding me half asleep. Day and night sort of blurred and sometimes in waiting for the right time to take my meds I would lie in bed feeling my pain and the little ping and poke and it helped through the discomfort to think of the ladies pulling me back together one stitch at a time.

Each day I felt a bit better, by day three I was out of bed for several hours at a stretch, by day four I could sleep on my left side and by day five my left and even found myself able to head over to the doctor with Z that day. The thing about the process was that just living and doing really small things seemed like such a triumph. The first time I stood up by myself I thought I could easily imagine how a gymnast feels when she sticks a landing- 4.0. Things like eating, or drinking were intensely wonderful and even my first post surgery hug from VLH (imagine a big teddy bear trying to hug a soap bubble- he was that tentative) felt incredible. Lying next to each other at night I was especially grateful for skin- his and my own.

As ever I rushed back into life and work. Even then the little knitters held me in check- whenever I overexerted myself I would feel a poke, right in the navel that said "Hey- still workin' here" I pictured now just one lone knitter stitching cleanup by the light of a bare bulb in my stomach.

I am now about 11 days past the surgery- the band-aids came off and then the steri-strips (tapes that replace stitches in this kind of surgery) and my biggest dilemma became the inability to get the adhesive off my belly. "Try acetone" suggested Syd. "You want me to pour NAIL POLISH REMOVER on an open cut???" I said. I forget Syd did her post grad work at Lucretia Borgia University.

Friendly advice aside, as I said it all feels like something I watched someone else do. Aside from not being able to eat very much (not the worst thing) as a full tummy doesn't feel so great I have most of my energy back. Unlike other times in my life when I start to fade- I let the dishes or the writing or the drawer reorganizing wait and take a little lie-down. You often hear the saying- comfortable in your own skin...for me it's even better, thanks to the care of many specialists, I am grateful in mine.

There is no spoon

2009-01-15T21:09:00.004-05:00

Spoon boy: Do not try and bend the spoon. That's impossible. Instead... only try to realize the truth.
Neo: What truth?
Spoon boy: There is no spoon.
Neo: There is no spoon?
Spoon boy: Then you'll see, that it is not the spoon that bends, it is only yourself.

Ah, The Matrix. One of those terrific movies with a lovely shivery plot twist that leaves us simultaneously fooled and delighted. That delight had definitely waned by the 350,000th Keanu Reeves "Whoa" in Matrix 3 but still I paid to get in to see them- still feeling foolish, but not quite as delighted.

I mention this because I am getting ready to do something...kind of big for me and the way I deal with that is to distract myself-HARD. I can get wrapped up in the littlest thing. Like Proust's madeleine, I can be transported into some deep memory with just a tiny nudge from the corporal world. In this case- a spoon.

I looked into my silverware drawer tonight. My silverware drawer is the utensil representation of the apocalypse- the silverware sorter-thing sits atop a mind boggling array of other kitchen utensils- garlic press and cherry/olive pitter, one small heart shaped cookie cutter, various spatulas and wooden spoons, measuring spoons and knives. You may ask youself...Knives? Loose in a drawer? Fear not. It is ever a joke among the near and dear- pretty much anyone who has ever cooked by my side in my kitchen that you can't break skin with any of my knives. Were I in a morbid state wishing to off myself with any knife in the drawer it would be a two person job. Me to hold the blade to my wrist and a second extremely determined person willing to lean on it- for a really long time. VLH got me a lovely set of knives for Hanukah, in their very own block, knowing there isn't an inch of space in that drawer for so much as a paring knife. There is, however, one small space in that drawer, the space where soup spoons should be.

The soup spoon space holds just two spoons- one long handled iced tea spoon my ex-roommate Camille left in lieu of three months rent and a big silver serving spoon someone left one Thanksgiving- I just don't know who-or I'd give it back. I know full well somewhere in the world there is an old-school felt-lined silverware box with a slot waiting for it. I pause for a second's guilt, then move on- this was not the piece of minutiae that would distract me tonight. Staring into the pathetic little spoonless void - I thought of China.

My sister and I loved spoons- specifically soup spoons, when we were about 4 years old. Not for eating- soup spoons were too big to fit in our mouths and held just enough liquid that if we did try using one we were guaranteed a baptism with every spoonful. Cindee and I liked soup spoons for digging.

I guess most kids had shovels- little plastic ones, probably purchased with a bucket for the beach. We didn't. I doubt at four years old that we felt the lack- but even given the choice I am certain we would have picked a nice hefty spoon with an ornate curliqued handle over some flimsy store-bought digging implement. We had serious plans. We had seen it on television- I am pretty sure inspired by Rocky and Bullwinkle or Mr. Magoo or perhaps Peabody and his boy Sherman- we wanted to dig to China.

We would have to beg my grandmother for spoons. It wasn't that she would deny us anything. When it came to my sister and I "no" just wasn't in her vocabulary. She loved us that much. As our primary caregiver she had to choose between ten minutes to herself of peace and quiet and never seeing her silverware again. You see, while we were big on begging, As twins we had the added advantage of two against one- tiny eyes welling up with tears, each of us with two handfuls of her housedress hem we could beg for all we were worth. The problem was we NEVER brought the spoons back. Alas, she was putty in our hands. Inevitably she chose a few precious moments of silence and the joy she felt seeing us run laughing out the door and down the stairs to the 10 x 10 cement box that was our front yard. Later on she'd send my grandfather out, usually after dark, flashlight in hand muttering to himself in Yiddish, to locate the missing flatware. Unfortumately he was only successful about half the time- but he inevitably bore the brunt of my grandmother's fussing when the silver remained missing. I can't remember her ever yelling at us- her point of view wasn't that we had lost the spoons so much as he did't find them.

I remember those afternoons so clearly-the feeling of kneeling on the inevitably hard packed earth (my grandmother could say "no" to us if it rained and the ground was damp- she believed with all her heart that if girl children sat on wet, cold ground it rendered them sterile- we didn't argue with this as her delivery of this news was as grave as the six-o'clock news and while we weren't quite sure what sterile was it sounded like something that would require a bath. We were against that on general principal. I remember the dry dusty smell of the soil as we broke it and the slight moistness underneath and the occasional half an earthworm that lay beneath the crusty top layer. Pebbles and hard bits of earth would cut into our knees and when switching to the more comfortable seated position we'd grind the dust into the seats of our shorts and allowed errant bits of earth to find their way under the elastic leg of our flowered cotton panties. We would Stanley to my Livingstone and we would sit and dig and talk as if there were no one else in the world. My sister was my travelling companion- her conviction just as strong as mine in our ability to get to China before our grandmother called us for supper. I don't remember what we talked about- it was a long time ago. I like to think we imagined what it was like on the other side of the world. With me ever the talker and my sister as my most avid listener- I am sure I spent the time telling her with absolute surety that we would have no trouble talking to the people we met in China- after all, we talked to the waiters at the Canton Chop Suey restaurant and they always brought us extra fortune cookies. I had a list of questions- Did duck sauce actually come from ducks? Were Chinese eyes slanted because they squinted at the TV as my grandmother suggested? Could I get one of those hats? The questions never really got answered but they wound their way into the air as dusk settled and we felt the weight of borrowed time knowing any moment my grandmother would call us in and the record for "5 more minute" reprieves was three before she'd threaten to wake my dad from his post-work pre-dinner nap to come and get us.

We would trudge up the stairs dragging our filthy Keds and toting more soil than we ever dug out of the yard in our ankle socks. More often than not my grandmother would undress us in the front alcove shaking the dirt from our clothes out the door and brushing the dirt that wasn't firmly adhered off our squirming naked bodies before herding us off for a bath a deux. We would only be persuaded to actually enter the tub with copious amounts of Mr. Bubble sprinkled in it creating mountains of foam- half of which would fly out of the tub when we two filthy explorers jumped in simultaneously to prevent one or the other of us from defecting. More than once I know my grandfather had to chase one soapy naked escapee from the tub while my grandmother kept a glaring eye on the twin that didn't quite make it out the door.

And after the bath we'd lie awake in bed- whispering- slipped between my grandmother's impossibly soft faded cotton sheets under her fluffy feather quilts. Planning new expeditions, finding answers to the impossible questions and promises of new adventures just past the next morning's early light. We'd curl around each other and fall asleep with our breath warm in each other's ear, nestled like silver in a drawer. The world was a simple place where I could be happy. I had a spoon.

Family Tradition

2008-12-22T20:04:00.003-05:00

"Why do you drink?
(Hank) why do you roll smoke?
Why must you live out the songs that you wrote?
Over and over
Everybody made my prediction
So if i get stoned
I'm just carryin'
On an old family tradition"

I spent last week tearing around Florida in a red Dodge Avenger rent-a-car- filling my tank for under $20 and mostly obeying Florida's generous 70 mile per hour speed limit on the highway as I hopped between Bal Harbour, Naples and - last stop Orlando. The driving has gotten easier and a real pleasure since I figured out I could concentrate on the road and sing along with the local country music stations. Oh what fun it is to ride when you can easily find another country station when the first one fades out in 100 miles.

About halfway up I-75 for a mini reunion and some Saag Paneer in Ocala I heard Hank Williams Jr- singing about his Family Tradition- his dad died in the back of a limo after a B-12 shot mixed with morphine- amazing that Sr. was able to make Hey Good Looking and Jambalaya an integral part of the fabric of this country's musical tapestry and still die at 29. So the family tradition for the Williams would be a true cautionary tale- or as Jr. sang... perhaps not.

So home I came to the frozen north- rewarded for gloating to friends in the north that the weather in Florida was a nippy 78 all week with a 28 degree slap in the face and an ice storm that left planes stranded at the gates and tugs slipping on he runways trying to move them so we could park our jet and deplane...which took a bit of time. But no matter, I was HOME.

And it was two days til Hanukah and five til Christmas. This year, having gotten settled a bit into job, relationship and some semblance of ease in the left lane I found a whole new area of STUFF that needed getting used to. I now know you do not show up at a watch industry function without wearing a watch- I LITERALLY got slapped on the wrist for that one, I have learned that "pick any car" at the rental lot doesn't always get me a convertible or that if I pack a bathing suit for a trip it does not automatically mean I will get to go swimming. There was a whole new batch of things to adjust to- that the stuffing a Thanksgiving was pork- or pork... not my cornbread and mushroom mixture. Adjusting to the fact that I wouldn't have a turkey carcass in my fridge til the week between Christmas and New Year's when I realize I am actually NEVER going to make soup out of it.

Small potatoes here (white and sweet potatoes- another adjustment) but the harder stuff- like the little guy saying to the waitress who innocently mistook me for his mom calmly explaining- "That's my dad but that's NOT my mom, that's my dad's FRIEND" But fair is fair- I did the same thing to my step-mom to be at an amusement park snack bar- I was quite a bit more theatrical at 6- I stood up on a table and yelled "That woman is NOT my mother". Ah Karma, you evil, patient wench. Getting used to the rapier witted cousin who responded to my attempts at sweetness with even MORE sarcasm but in the face of several lightning-quick barbs aimed in his direction shouted "I LIKE this girl!" and let me know "the last one was 'too vanilla'." I guess I have always seen myself as more of a mocha.

All around me I see new sets of family traditions as I watch ex-husbands deal with the new guy and ex-wives dealing with the old guy. I see the kids- whether ten years old or almost thirty trying to deal with twice as many parents as the original allotted amount. Being civilized says we should all be...NICE to each other but I can understand when a son isn't so enamoured of his mom's new husband- she married him- why does HE have to be nice to him- or see him walking around in his underwear? Bad enough to think that your parent is having sex- worse to imagine they are enjoying it, with not your mom or dad and nightmarish to think you might HEAR it. And the family photo walls- yeesh- as a newcomer I GET that when a photo has ...dad and the kids- it has their mom in it too- but how do I quell the feeling I just want to take a cuticle scissors and cut around her face? I am not PROUD of these feelings and begrudge no one their history- I'd miss the kids if they weren't here and am grateful to their mom for all the heavy-lifting that it took to get them out of diapers and into high school but sadly, here I am merely human and it is so HARD to stick to the belief that I am the only woman he ever loved when the proof is in the pre-pubescents, adolescents and adults...

I got to thinking about my own family- not so much there- a sister I rarely see, my adoptive parents decades gone and my biological parents.. my "birth mom". I admit to giving her her very little thought- my sister and I were adopted at 3 days old- I know so little about her and never really dwelled on even the little I knew, she was a womb I rented to make the nine month drive into the world. Sounds cold but my parenting history had its own challenges and after forty some years I seem to have made peace with much of it and finally last weekend thought of her. I wondered if she ever wondered. I can't imagine a woman who wouldn't give a thought to having twins and however she did it, walking away. I wanted to tell her, if she did ever wonder- it all came out ok. My sister and I are whole, loving people. Nice to each other and caring to the people in our lives. I wanted to tell her there were gifts she gave us without knowing. That we are both independent women who developed good family values without the benefit of ever having a family outside of each other for very long. That we both learned that family are the people who stick by you without a common bloodline. That our past and present is something we made all on our own and there is a certain pride in knowing and owning all of it. I wanted to say thanks to her, wherever she is, for giving me, and Cindee, a shot at this life. I guess the family tradition I like best is that we, that I, am forever grateful for every person who stopped in along my path in this life and in loving me, became my family. So much more opportunity to love and be close to some very special traditions... even canned cranberry sauce.

Another Old Lang Syne

2008-10-30T20:02:00.003-05:00

Happy birthday bud. :p X

:Ping:

2008-10-26T10:27:00.002-05:00

Diagram of what fashion (in this case the corset) does to a woman's spine...

I was sitting in my boss's office on a conference call when the caller asked- "Can you 'ping' her?" My boss was puzzled but she explained "Does your company intranet have instant messaging?" She hoped we could IM someone in another office, interrupt her for a moment with a quick question.

I had never heard ping used that way. I had learned about pinging from a system admin at my last job. Back then it wasn't an instant message situation- As an offsite consultant the admin could, and I don't know the technical jargon for it- he could simply walk in the back door my little computer citadel and take over- see my screen and system as I did and move things around. I could tell Greg was in there because my cursor was moving without any help from me. It always creeped me out. I felt like a digital handpuppet, my pixels were not my own. But Greg could usually suss out the problem and fix it without leaning over me. I must admit to a sense of relief when he was gone but more than once I moved my mouse- wriggling it a bit to make sure that he was gone and I was once again the master of my monitor.

After a month of running with my new company's 30 day long promotional extravaganza I got the ping. Foolishness manifested itself because instead of running with scissor I was running with- or should I say IN stilettos. Truly a fan of shoes making the outfit complete I ran in nothing shorter than 4" heels for the last four weeks and...found myself sitting up in absolute agony unable to walk , with an excruciating pain in my hip.

I called a cab and headed to the chiropractor's office. I have to say, the chiropractor has more toys than a spoiled kid at Christmas. Nice guy but the touchy feely geek factor came heavily into play- Questions about everything from changes in eating habits, relationships, work, somehow had some bearing on my pain in the tush. I answered honestly- I was happier than I have been in my life- worries were at a minimum- was I busy-you bet- Stressed? I live for it. Drinking a lot of coffee- I didn't understand the question.

The good doctor smiled- we're both from Brooklyn he said (yes- I even told him where I was born- if this had some bearing I wasn't seeing it) Nothing stops us (OK I was with him on that) Then he pulled out a plastic spinal cord and hips. This is your spine (I knew my spine was out of wack but was pretty sure MY spine wasn't so far gone that it had made it across the room) He turned the model so the model spine had its back to me and placed his hand on the model's left hip and said this bone here- he gripped the bone tighter and twisted in towards the tailbone with a "CCCCCCRRRRKKKK" sound I felt in my own sacroiliac- and not in a good way. "Your pelvic bone is impinging on your sacral nerves- that's where the pain is coming from". Ah, and right there in the center of that fifteen cent word was the answer. I had been"pinged".

We talked about treatment. Chiropractors are big on listening to your pain- not masking ailments with shots or ripping into a body with a knife- which is why I was there. But here the diagnosis was worse. He asked me to be patient. To lie still on an ice pack and swallow anti-inflammatory drugs like Advil and REST. I believe in listening to your body- YOUR body that is- mine is full of stuff and nonsense. I had never encountered a pain that wouldn't cringe and slink away in the face of that determination- ever a fan of the fifteen hour day, the extremely unsensible shoes and long walks- I decided I would certainly ice and advil and even don the back belt ($29.99 at CVS and I wore it AT least an hour) I would do all of this- at my desk. My biggest concession was a pair of 2" heeled Rocket Dog boots I wore in place of pumps. Please be aware that the back pain made putting shoes and socks on a new adventure in pain. I was getting up 30 minutes early so I could get in sufficient yelling time while putting them on.

By mid-week I was feeling better. I'd been icing and advilling my heart out and the belt was right where I thought it would do the most good- in a desk drawer at work. I went running around Macy's looking for my friend Keiko (what was I thinking when I said let's meet there- there are more doors in Macy's than at the Home Depot) I felt so good I forwent a 2nd trip to the chiropractor and went straight home to clean house and catch up on laundry lugging. I iced my back that night and the next morning the ping had returned but it was muffled- like a kidnap victim locked in the trunk of a Chevy. So I kept going- a full day meeting in a board room and a nice long walk after and it seemed to me the victim was beginning to make its way out- the ping was getting louder- I muffled it with ice and more advil- and heard the chuckling of pain delayed but not denied. So I decided to try something different- a road trip to Philly.

VLH had kindly agreed to travel with me- I was supposed to rent a car but as I limped along 47th Street I called and said..."I forgot to order the car, can we take yours?" He agreed but sounded dubious- and he was RIGHT. He called me the next morning to arrange a meeting time- I was trying to put my boots on when he called- "Are you ...OK?" he asked. "Fine.."I whispered " JUST fine.. seeyousoon bye." He walked in and saw my face and said the smartest thing any man has ever said "You look pretty today". Bless him- he must have a Quasimoto fetish- I was hunched over and moving like a geisha with bound feet.

The trip to Philly was fun- days like that where business can be combined with good soul music on the XM, heated car seats and a Philly Cheesesteak from Geno's and a glimpse at a rare watch- one of only 25 in the world, its tourbillion flickering under the watch face. We deemed it a good day though I limped and gasped through most of it and got dropped straight off at the chiropractor's office with a mandate from VLH- who lifted me so kindly from the car seat- "Listen to him this time would you- get BETTER." I smiled and limped into the doctor's office.

The doctor said- "So how are you doing?" he said. "I admitted- "Not so good" "Listen," he said- we're both from Queens" he said "Brooklyn" I whispered. "Worse" he said. "I can do all this and only 4 out of 8 things I do is going to work- but NONE of it is going to work if you don't REST". "I like you, you're a nice lady" he said, "and it's great that you want to come here, but maybe you could get better and just bring cookies instead." He smiled.

Sit still. So I did- all day yesterday I made a deal. Lie still. 15 minutes up and 2 hours down was my bargain. I read two paperbacks and watched two movies, made toast and ordered Chinese food and for the next 14 hours I listened- and the ping was clear. The more I listened the more I heard- the gentleness you give is what is needed here- the compassion and understanding too. Being honest, asking for help and being grateful for little things like ice and Z bring me milk for coffee. :Ping: something else is in control. :Ping: let someone else help you :Ping: there is no control here- shiddown and shaddup.

This morning I am sitting here typing with an ice pack at my spine. I need a haircut and I REALLY want to head into Brooklyn for my pre-Halloween fix. I will get the hair dealt with and if I hear a :Ping: I will head home. Because this Halloween, I intend to wear a new costume- I'm going to dress up and act like a grown up.

:P X

It's a small world after all....

2008-10-12T12:00:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I went to the NY Food and Wine Festival at the Piers- a gift from my friends at Share Our Strength whose stated goal is No Kid Hungry- but their methodology is incredible- they stage HUGE culinary events (Taste of the Nation, Tasteful Pursuits, etc) and encourage EXTREME gluttony whereby you not only want to donate money to help starving children in the US- (no joke- visit their website) but you want to give them YOUR food as after one of these gustatorial bacchanals- you never want to eat again- the starving kids can have your butternut squash soup with truffle oil and pig-head pate, thank you very much.

So there was lots and lots of food and three times more wine, beer and spirits. So much wine, beer and spirits that upon entry you are given a full-sized cabernet glass on a lanyard to wear around your neck- the absolute textbook physical representation of a cork-dork. I felt ridiculous-the glass bouncing in front of me as I walked until my companion- slightly sensitive and hungover complained that lacking sufficient cleavage her glass was bouncing on a too-many drinks the night before tummy and this was NOT a good feeling. We slung the glass backwards so it hung between her shoulder blades... I deemed it ghetto-style though it may be that the big wineglass would be replaced by..Thunderbird- on a lanyard...I love that idea- think how much wine is wasted when the owner becomes to intoxicated to hang on to the bottle. In New Orleans they have beer can cozies on lanyards- written on the cozy is the question- how ya gonna clap? My feeling is hands-free drinking is also good for holding back hair when...well you get the idea.

Anyway- a great deal of fun was had by all- and a ridiculous amount of food- I felt the teensiest bit virtuous by dint of the fact that 50% of my post event tummy ache had resulted in a donation to Share Our Strength- still- I wished there had been some little kid I could have given my little bratwurst with home-made pickle on a tiny potato bun to.

The answer is (after a night spent with Prince Pepto) not NO food- Yom Kippur proved to me that the answer is (after a night spent with Prince Pepto) not NO food- Yom Kippur proved to me that while fasting is OK for ME, those around me suffer- (by being witness to me being horrendously grouchy and caffeine deprived) So eating becomes a humanitarian gesture you see? The answer is not slow food- I dont do slow- but SMALL food.

Then this morning I got an e-mail from Neff. I had cleared my system with copious amounts of coffee and a yogurt from the event- the swag was for the most part, food- go figure. And saw an e-mail about the dessert bar Chikalicious. I groaned- CAKE? Marie Antoinettes last revenge on the peasants- I know inside she was thinking- Let the bastards get sick on buttercream- see if I care.

But the cupcakes were lovely. Visually, that is- gastronomically I am on hiatus for the day- But the author of the post- Ed Levine- made some wonderful observations about cupcakes that I will share with you here:

The cake has to be moist, light, and tasty in its own right, a difficult combination to pull off

The frosting has to be smooth, also light, not too sweet, and deeply flavored

A cupcake doesn't have to be huge. Cupcakes have become like bagels in this town, and like bagels, bigger is most assuredly not better. Size matters in cupcakes, but not in the way that you think

Listen up. This last quality is really important. A great cupcake has to have the proper ratio of icing to cake. Other people may have different ideas, but I think there should be a 1 to 3 ratio of icing to filling.

So true, Ed, so very true. So I will take my gluttony as it is actually the most readily enjoyed- in small, cupcake-sized doses.

(My quote and apostrohe key is busted...) Enjoy the day XO :P

How to Relax

2008-07-06T11:24:00.008-05:00

OK. This is NOT an instructional post. I am actually looking for advice. After 9 months of running- that is, since the new job kicked in, I have taken the next ten days off. Without a plan.
I needed the time. Truth is- I have never taken time off without a place to go, in my life. Summer camp was my idea of a vacation- and though I have taken a day or a weekend to relax and catch up- on chores, or sleep- never a ten day span like this. I am headed out at the end of the week for a few days with VLH (keep looking bud- no hints here) there is nothing else slotted in.

I planned it that way.

So, Thursday night I came home and promptly lit Shabbat candles thinking it was Friday. I guess I was still in fast forward as I did not realize til Saturday what I had done. I gotta lower the caffeine intake.

Day one of unscripted vacation.

I wake up at 7:57 am.

I spend the morning picking raspberries in the yard

Do not read "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" before heading to the garden- I was (as usual) jacked up on 3 extra large iced coffees and spent the supposed to be idyllic time preoccupied with the idea that a garden snake will slither up my leg.

I make a linzer torte and due to a lack of experience with this particular item wind up making a gallon of raspberry goosh to fill an 8" shell. Jam anyone?

Day 2

I wake up at 7:28- relaxed? You betcha.

I buy a bunch of do-it yourself materials and a couple of new plants and try macrame-ing two new hanging plant hangers. The cats think this is cool and groovy and two hours later I find myself irretrievably tangled in jute and hysterical felines and have to cut myself loose with a cuticle scissor.

Cats do not like cheese. They only think they do-

Day 3

I wake up at 10:04. This is accomplished by watching DVDs until 3 am.

Fix a shelf in my bedroom armoire and wind up with three extra screws. Any remarks regarding loose screws will be considered a threat and I have LOADS of free time to plan my retaliation.

The day stretches in front of me... Heaven help us all.... it may be my imagination but I think the cats are avoiding me.

Day 4

Wake at 8:18 and decide to go with it- breakfast on the porch coffee and learn that between 9 and 10:30 am the breeze is fresh and you can hear cicadas singing in the yard.

Take a walk with my little buddy- see Wall*E for the second time and its still damned good. Better when the bud says Wall-e's job is building castles out of garbage. Not a bad interpretation- incredible in fact. Problem is- they show a preview of the chihuahua movie from hell which results in non-stop iterations of "Ay, Chihuahua" from the little guy on the train. People move away from us on the PATH train. The litany was ceased by the assiduous application of rainbow ices from the glorious Torico's ice cream parlor and a promise of fresh corn on the cob if he never ever utters that Mexican dog song... for the next 3 hours- what he does at home is his mom's concern.

We barbecue shrimp and hot dogs and as it grows dark we catch fireflies in a jar and let them go. We do not explain why some fireflies are connected together- well, we do sort of- we tell him they are carpooling.

This time-off stuff doesn't stink so much.

Day 5

Wake at ...hmmm didn't look at the time. Progress I think. I get a text message that an afternoon at the pool is scheduled- several hours later remind myself that not applying sunscreen because I want some color will result in a case of not THAT color. Also, that unless I want a bosom that resembles an alligator handbag, a little Coppertone is essential. And it is a really summery smell. I also am happily reminded that after pool and sun and some barbecued crabs a little recreational carpooling is very OK indeed. Ask any firefly.

Summer, Kent Falls

2008-06-15T14:21:00.003-05:00

They say that these are not the best of times
But they're the only times I've ever known
And I believe there is a time for meditation
In cathedrals of our own

"Summer, Highland Falls" by Billy Joel

"How long has it been since you have been back?"- he asked. We were walking away from the falls.. And I thought- 15 years? Twenty? A lifetime ago. Before I was married or thought about it in any specific sense and before a job that paid the bills before it fed my soul or even my bank account for more than just a few minutes. "Long time" I said- moving through the grass towards the car and out of the rain. I veered a bit to the right of the path to photograph jonquils and irises growing ath the base of the falls- "Just two trout!" he yelled- there was a sign saying so on the bridge- "Two per CREEL" I thought and remembered that we didn't have a creel between us.

"I'm not up for the climbing today" he said- looking up the falls from the icy pool where we stood gazing at the winding path strung with twisted aluminum ropes and sturdy poles looking like silver strung Christmas tinsel in and among the trees and rocks. "Maybe just to there" I said pointing to the first platform "I want you to see that pool up there" We climbed- in city flip flops never meant for hardscrabble rock and dirt walking and uneven slate steps. We stood looking down the falls panting a little in the humid air. Walking onto the platform the rushing water below blew its clean green breath into our faces. I smiled- like I'd been kissed gently by a stranger- or a friend I had not seen, never imagined to see again- not with such auspicious introduction to be made. "Doesn't that smell amazing" I said- but received no answer- his face leaned forward into the mossy air, eyes closed- he was receiving the fall's kiss as well. I watched his mouth curl gently at the corner and had my answer.

"A little further- just to there" I asked- the plea was in my eyes and probably in my voice as well though I like to think I was being an adult about respecting the wishes of others. The no I waited for never came. The sand and gravel slid under my toes and I shook it off, clenching my toes so that the sandal didn't accompany the pebbles down the hill. He was standing at the next platform looking down on the falls "There" he said "can you imagine sitting there? It looks deep...". "It was" I murmured remembering climbing in Keds and cut offs into that cold little hollow- the water to my neck, thinking to myself that twenty years of rushing water had probably carved at least another inch or two into the smooth limestone.

"Just a bit more" now a statement- something stronger than consideration pulled me up and we walked past a ranger scolding a man who had climbed into the falls "...you can get a ticket for that you know" said the ranger gravely to the man dripping in front of him. " How can you look at this and not want to climb into it?" my companion asked me. "You need to come on Tuesdays" I replied " The park opens at 8 and before that it's open to anyone who wants to climb" and thought again about the bruises on my feet from walking barefoot on the rocks of the fall such a long time ago.

"These shoes aren't easy to walk with up here" he said shaking out a pebble from his flip flop. "If you think this is hard- try it with two canes" in front of us on the trail a woman stood poised leaning on her cane talking to a caregiver who held out a second should she need it. "I think she's on her way down" he said- his voice mirroring the wonder I felt at this sight before us. And thought to myself that whether going up or down- it was worth the climb, for the view.

And as we stand upon the ledges of our lives
With our respective similarities
It's either sadness or euphoria

For you. You know who you are.

Picking the Scab

2008-06-04T22:00:00.000-05:00

Life moves pretty fast in the big city. Not QUITE as fast as my boss headed for the swanky men's sample sale at a local hotel with me in tow for one of our "walk and talk" bonding sessions. My boss is a really great guy- we have now gone on several business trips together and thanks to his endless devotion to family and Mrs. Boss I am comfortable in what might otherwise be one of those ticklish socializing while working situations. Interestingly enough- we are, these days, friends who partner well at work and it is a big part of why I like going there- the paycheck also doesn't suck.

Mr. Boss is a fast talker and a faster walker. So we walked rather quickly to the corner of Madison, a stone's throw from Tiffany's- a place where Holly Go Lightly said nothing bad could EVER happen. Well we were a block south of those hallowed halls and that fact- or perhaps the uneven laying of asphalt allowed for an epic loss of grace. I fell off my shoes.

Anyone who has ever walked in heels and a skirt in Manhattan has experienced this- at least this is how I reassure myself. I landed on one summer bare knee and watched as Mr. B... kept walking and talking to me as if I were still next to him. It was 5 or more steps before he realized he was addressing a rather confused but exceedingly polite fellow business man who wasn't me. He stepped back as I was quickly righting and collecting myself. I popped up from the lumpy tar surface and started limping across."Hang on a sec- Wait" he said " Recover a minute will you?" he exclaimed. But I had a mission- total denial. It never happened. I was going to walk it off and remove myself as quickly as possible from the view of any and all witnesses. Syd if you are reading this-yes- I should've put on flats- I didn't.

Well. I wasn't REALLY bleeding and the pain, deep in the throes of "it was nothing, really" was minimal- no more than a heated throbbing. I walked crosstown chatting about EBITA and other subjects near and dear to Mr. B's heart knowing that if I distracted him by being enthralled with a riveting explanation of Sales vs. Earnings he'd know I was OK and I would actually be OK.

The sale was a bust. Really- when a $3000 dollar jacket is 70% off it's still... well, too expensive for something you wear on casual Friday so you can show off how well you dress to be leisurely. How can you relax adequately in something you cannot spill barbecue sauce on? We walked back to the office and after cleaning debris off the injured knee found a rather wide...scrape. Not so much more. Surface. A flesh wound really. Even if it was a proverbial pound of flesh wound- it was fine.

Unless you had a four day trip to an International Business Meeting in Las Vegas to go to the next day. The thing about Las Vegas, specifically the Las Vegas Strip, is that the shortest distance between 2 points is a taxi cab. Even if your destination is across the street it will take a good 45 minutes to find the crosswalk, and the overpass, and the up and down escalator and a water show, 3 come-to-Jesus preachers and 2 rent-a-date panel trucks and reach your destination. And I love to walk but with this many shiny objects in evidence walking was just too distracting- I didn't have an ice cube's chance in hell of making it ten feet in less than a millenium- oh and did I mention I was limping? Even though I wasn't sinning in Sin City and had a date arranged as soon as I got home I still found myself gawking every time I stepped out of the fantasy world of the Paris Hotel Lobby.

A word about the Paris. I have stayed at 2 Vegas Hotels other than the Paris- Caesar's and the Venetian. Somehow the Italian fantasy worlds at these mega resorts didn't work for me. It was too... not Italian- where was the smell of garlic being cooked in oil? The plump-armed Nonna encouraging you to eat- or get married? The scent of Venice slowly moldering into the canals? It just wasn't working for me. But the Paris. It was cool. Trapped as we were for 12-14 hours in windowless ballrooms listening to presentations and Powerpoint displays I made sure that each morning in the wee small hours before 7 am that I grabbed a large and delicious coffee at Le Notre and sat out in front of the hotel on a wrought iron bench under the faux verdigris arches. That 30 minutes of caffeine and Piaf gazing at the flat crystal blue sky and the miniature Arch du Triomphe made those hours a bit easier to take. I've never been to Paris but with the right music and a good cup of coffee and most essential- and a very Parisian attitude- a combination of l'aissez faire and Joie du vivre- it felt a bit French.

And I never put a bandaid on the knee. Longer skirts covered it and I told myself the air would help it heal. On the final day of the conference I had a free afternoon and lounged under the Paris's replica of the Tour du Eiffel next to the pool. Mr. B had joined me for a bit by the pool but even he got the idea that I needed some space- and to be able to pull off my cover up and not die of utter mortification by being so scantily clad in a pseudo-business environment. I remember whn I first came to the new job being worried about showing toes- 9 months later toes are ok- tits are another matter entirely.

After 4 fact and fun filled days of business meetings stretching into the 14 hours a day realm all that was left of my higher mental functions was the ability to contemplate (please forgive me) my wounded knee. While I was absorbing all that good business information my knee was developing a rather elaborate and interesting scab. As a kid I was a scab connoisseur- both in generating them and appreciating them. At eight years of age my mom sent me to school with extra bandaids because I could not resist showing off my latest creation. I was forever horrifying my friends by peeling off a band-aid and saying "LOOK". It absolutely fascinated me. How many different KINDS of scabs there were- bruises- no bruises- leaky- or not and the stuff on the little white gauze pad- AMAZING. Back then I thought it was better than any biology lesson and a guarantee that as far as the human body was concerned if you broke it- it would fix itself! It would have been great if glasses and vases could do that too- would have saved me a fair bit of time sitting in the corner thinking about what I had done.

I couldn't resist looking. The places covered by a red crust protected the broken bits. The healed places had shed the covering, revealing new skin- bright and pink and a bit angry looking. Surreptitiously I looked up- was anyone watching? I peeled a bit away ... slowly, slowly- feeling the sting when I reached a place that still needed its crisp covering.

OK- it was wierd. But I was blissfully alone and was able to go back to the time when the things my body did still amazed me. As I head to the end of my fourth decade I spend a fair bit of money on products to keep skin smooth and supple. I creak and have to shake off a bit when I sit too long with my legs crossed Indian style. Yet here I was- regenerating. Even in this later part of my life- my body screams out- there are still miraculous things I can do! And no $300 pot of creme de mere from Sephora is needed, just a little Bacitracin.

So, back from Vegas I still take a moment from the busier and busier days and peek at my scab and marvel about how life, at every stage, renews itself. And I am not as young as I was, or as old as I plan to be, but there is still some really great stuff left I can do.

The post that goes like this...

2008-04-28T19:21:00.002-05:00

My dog ate it.

A car ran it over and its still at the vet.

I've been busy.

I've been sick.

I died and it took a bit to get reincarnated 'cause there was a line and I hadn't been around all that long and there were three holy men and a skunk in front of me.

I was brushing my teeth.

I overslept.

The Primaries.

The Secondaries

And the Teriaries.

Oh. And I was happy.

Above are the reasons I haven't been posting on the blog lately.

Except I wasn't sick- I took a mental health day two weeks ago but really I just had a lot (a lot, a lot) of macaroons to make.

And I CAN'T oversleep. I asked VLH to wake me the other morning as my cel phone was wet (long story having nothing to do with not writing on my blog) and wound up waking him instead- I KNOW I can wake whenever I want- I just don't believe it and so spend the night tossing and worrying and not sleeping- I am more likely to over-wake.

As for the primaries... for me its not really a choice. Hilary gives me the shivers and John McCain...well- does this country REALLY need another old white guy in office? Let somebody else talk for a change. And even though he has ears like a pitcher- Obama seems honest- might be nice for a change- we'll see.

I didn't die- though I did go to my friend's memorial. I had the temerity to believe I could stand in front of the group and tell amusing stories of my friend now gone and instead wound up weeping onto the podium in front of a hundred near-strangers.
It was a funny time for my heart to show up, but as Frank Baum said hearts will never be practical until they are unbreakable. I felt it crack with the feeling of loss. And felt its healing with a rendition of "All You Need is Love" sung lightly off key by her stepson and the world's most earnest band. Which is exactly how she would have sung it.

And I don't have a dog- my cat would eat it.

I've travelled- to Atlanta to eat a hotdog with Cole Slaw on it- the staff at the Varsity marvelled when I said I'd never had one. Even asked "Where you from that you ain't had a slaw dog?" I said New York- "mmm-mmmm" they said- deep in their chests nodding and adding New York to other third world places- deprived of even the basest necessities. I didn't have the heart to tell them I'd never had an orange whip either (for the rest of you starved souls- it tastes JUST like a melted creamsicle slushy) they probably would've called a preacher and had a prayer meeting for this poor heathen.

I looked at the cherry blossoms in DC. A Japanese print done in 1935 of the same trees lining the tidal basin show very little change from then to now as they curve gracefully towards the Jefferson Memorial. What has changed are the people. Despite multiple signs CLEARLY reading "Please look out for LOW BRANCHES" I stood by one particularly sturdy branch that hung over the pathway and watched as one cel-phone yakking distracted so-and-so after another walked into it. Only one word for this- "Good". Nature has a way of making you pay attention- no matter WHAT happened on "Lost" or "American Idol" that week.

I've seen several plays- among them Les Liasons Dangeureuses and Young Frankensten- but though they were fine- I was most impressed by my friend Jen's fabulously frank one-woman show "The Laws of Attraction" about cosmology and being a lesbian. When we talked before the show she told me it was a play best appreciated by homosexual intellectual women. I figured- I have a brain- and a vagina- I'll just wing it. And unlike the two previously mentioned plays, Jen had a full staff serving dinner while she pulled off this massive task. In the last one-man show I saw, "A Bronx Tale"- Chazz Palmientieri would not allow the audience to leave their seats to go to the restroom during the performance. I cannot imagine him moving through something as demanding as a one-man show while a strident theater-goer insisted that her bronzino was overdone. I think that the...unifying moment (and there were many) came when Jen was discussing the universe after the big bang- stating that after that event there were 800 bazillion (ok I forget the exact number but stay with me you'll get the punch) pieces of anti-matter in the universe and 801 bazillion pieces of matter- and then compared it to dating. And before she explained I just KNEW what she was driving at- since she had just uttered the exact number of bad dates I had been on. But it's that one piece of matter that's left over, that matters. And I was as amazed at her sheer guts for putting her life up there on the stage, as I was at her talent- and how beautiful she looked up there being her- all her.

So- I HAVE been busy. Two seders- a gross of macaroons and a box of matzoh. A new hard drive and a broken button on my camera- a porch full of new plants and a looming trip to New Orleans, a birthday party to plan for which there are already RSVPS though I haven't actually invited anyone yet. My life seems to gallop along and yet there is time. And I wonder about the wild bits, my wild bits- and poke a bit in the fireplace of my life- checking on certain embers, seeing that in their own way they still glow. I move the firescreen a bit closer here, It would be just like me to let the sparks fly. But in truth I think if I've learned anything lately it's the difference between drama and excitement. And to savor the slower burn.

And I have learned one other thing. If you order from Frederick's of Hollywood- don't send the package to your office. Even if you BEG, they will keep sending catalogs to you at work.

I didn't say I'd removed the wild bits- lets just say I've channeled them.

:P X

I'm WORKIN' on it

2008-04-21T16:09:00.001-05:00

You know you have been truly reticent when a FIFTEEN year old tells you you have not been "keeping up". Whippersnapper.

Let the Pillows LOOSE: World Pillowfight Day March 22nd

2008-03-27T06:49:00.001-05:00

Last year I touted World Water Day. Hijacked a great piece of writing by George Saunders to illustrate the point... And the Museum of Natural History is doing a family-oriented presentation on World Water Day. Bring the Kids- I won't be there because I will be at Union Square at the International Pillowfight Day at Union Square.

I have been waiting for weeks- Sadly I have a foam pillow- my costume will be a really heavy winter coat (it has gotten REALLY chilly here all of a sudden- thanks for nothing vernal equinox) and a helmet if I can find one as it seems that shorter people tend to get bashed in the head a lot.In a downward motion. I may create a sideline in selling pairs of Advil... more on this later.

For more info go to: http://www.pillowfightday.com/

:P X

And now for the "more later"

Over the weekend I went to the big pillow fight at Union Square (

The rules promised if you didn’t have a pillow and/or were wearing glasses you wouldn’t get hit.

No one read the rules.

I was standing in the MIDDLE of Union Square when the melee (or fracas- you choose) began.

About 30 seconds before a little voice in my head said “oh shit”.

I got the tar kicked out of me and covered in feathers besides.

Marshmallow Peeps- A shout-out

2008-03-22T09:45:00.004-05:00

Easter is generally something I pretty much give a miss to- because it's right smack up against Passover and frankly, I can't type with macaroon goo fingers- it kills the keyboard and I dont get all the coconut out from between the keys til after the high holy days. Happily with the disparities in the US and lunar calendars this year Easter and Passover are a civilized month apart. And as I had a little PJ time between waking up and the big pillow fight in Union Square this afternoon I was looking around the web and found out -people who have way too much time on their hands tend to spend it finding ways to torture candy. Specifically, marshmallow peeps. There are peep fashion shows, peep film festivals (the Peep Jaws video is available on YouTube if you care to check)

A word about peeps from wikipedia:

Peeps (branded as PEEPS®) are small marshmallow candies, sold in the United States and Canada, that are shaped into baby chickens, rabbits, and other animals. There are also different shapes used for various holidays. Peeps are primarily used to fill Easter baskets, although the Just Born company is trying to change that by introducing new shapes and advertising "Peeps - Always in Season". They are made from marshmallow, sugar, gelatin, and carnauba wax.

Peeps are produced by Just Born, a candy manufacturer based in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Peeps were introduced in 1953 by Russian immigrant, Sam Born. When Just Born acquired Rodda Candy Company in 1953, they automated the process (originally the chicks were formed by hand) and mass-marketed them. Back in 1953, when the peeps were made by hand it took 27 hours to make one marshmallow peep. The yellow chicks were the original form of the candy — hence their name — but then the company introduced other colors and, eventually, the myriad shapes in which they are now produced.

There is peep jousting- (photos courtesy of http://www.phancy.com/peeps/joust/index.html)

The messy and largely self-entertaining game, "Peeps Jousting" is played with a microwave oven. One takes two Peeps, and licks the right-hand side of each until sticky. A toothpick is thereby adhered to each Peep, pointing forward like a jousting lance. The Peeps are then set in a microwave, squared off against one another, and heated up. As they expand, the toothpick lances thrust toward each opponent, and the winner is the one that does not pop and deflate (or fizzle and die). Both usually are eaten after the competition, however, regardless who the victor was. In any case, here- the peep never wins.

You can't toast them over a fire- the sugar coating burns. They will, however, float to the top of a cup of hot chocolate and are tasty that way. Scientists at Emory University have tried myriad experiments and comcluded- peeps are really hard to destroy.

One man has taken up the gauntlet on this- for GREAT photography and an absolutely grisly sense of the macabre there is http://www.hanttula.com/exhibits/bunnies/. An incredible website by Mike Hantula dedicated to chronicling in photos, the bunnyocalypse including

Episode 1: Bunny vs. Skewers
Episode 2: Bunny vs. The Elements
Episode 3: Bunny vs. Coffee Grinder
Episode 4: Bunny vs. Water Torture
Episode 5: Bunny vs. Blow Dryer
Episode 6: Bunny vs. Egg Slicer
Episode 7: Bunny vs. Microwave
Episode 8: Bunny vs. Hot Metal…
Episode 9: Bunny vs. Golf Club
Episode 10: Bunny vs. Doggy
Episode 11: Bunny vs. Coffee I
Episode 12: Bunny vs. Coffee II
Episode 13: Bunny vs. Sauce Pan
Episode 14: Bunny vs. Sauce Pan II
Episode 15: Bunny vs. Window
Episode 16: Bunny vs. Chocolate
Episode 17: Bunny vs. Cola
Episode 18: Bunny vs. Assassin
Episode 19: Bunny vs. House Fire
Episode 20: Bunny vs. Vacuum
Episode 21: Bunny vs. Pasta Maker

And my favorite: Bunny vs. the Egg Slicer.

Happy....whatever :) XO

Seeking Sir Real- Passing Strange

2008-03-20T06:00:00.005-05:00

"Stew"

I love going to the theater. It was once said of Sylvia Myles that she would go to the opening of an envelope if it was free. While my long history with paper might indicate I also like being home when the mail arrives- I let it wait for me, not the other way around. I have things to do... But I like envelopes.

I get mail from Broadway. It comes in the inbox at AOL but I have found at times e-mail is more than superior to paper mail, especially since the "delete" button replaces schlepping stuff I have no interest in out to the trash cans and risking stocking and heels on the crumbly sidewalk around the back of the house.

So in comes a little missive from my pals at Telecharge. "Passing Strange". Hmmm. Spike Lee endorses it and I give a half a moment to thinking about the time Spike visited the big giant paper store and pitched a fit because he wasn't given a receipt (it was in the bag). Despite my affection for "She's Gotta Have It" and "School Daze" and other joints- I can't shake the dweeb image from my mind.

But then there is the buzz on "Strange". Literally an undercurrent of murmurs. A guy with one name ("Stew") a new age/rock and roll score and a sexy media-genic cast. This can either be great or horrendous. I know- I'm IN marketing- we always put the best stuff up front- it's anyone's guess whether the reality lives up to the hype. But...tickets are $21.50 in the balcony. In my head I hear an envelope ripping and with a quick e-mail exchange to VLH we procure balcony seats to "the real". (Mind you, if you'd like this offer go to www.BroadwayOffers.com or call (212) 947-8844 and use code PSTCX33 or bring this to the Belasco Theatre, 111 West 44th St. Balcony seats are usually $26.50- you can give the 5 you save to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights Aids)

The seats we had defined nosebleed. Literally the last row- however- it was the last row- dead center- and a row comprised of only 2 seats- ours. If you can request 112 and 113 E, they are the best the balcony has to offer as far as I am concerned- it was like viewing the play the way angels watch the earth- great view and close to the amenities including a ladie's room SO small the sink was OUTSIDE the bathroom. And if the play sucked- we could neck. You see, I wasn't really sure that $21.50 bought me a good time- so I was exploring other options- necking was my insurance policy. I had a ringer with me in H.

It began. I was almost sad to see the lights go down on the beautiful murals and stained glass and wood ceiling of the Belasco. The cast took the stage like they were spending an evening at the Hammerstein Ballroom- band-style, they just walked on. The audience was obviously seeded with the faithful as their applause was immediate- or perhaps it's just because there are not so many folks on Broadway who look like Stew-at least not since the demise of Thomas "Fats" Waller. Much has been written about Stew's unconventional look, but honestly- he just looked cool to me. I never much went in for the brilliantined Broadway idol type- unless it was in a Jewish Jerry Ohrbach kind of style.

There was not a lot of the Jewish stuff here- which was very ok. Watching the show unfold (and at first it did that just a bit slowly) I loved the musicians being right on stage. I heard H gasp. I later found out that H's audible intake of breath was his epiphany that the stage was not going up and down but that the musicians were on platforms that rose and fell as the scene required. There was a driving rock and roll score and Stew is formidable on his lovely hollow-bodied electric. I loved that he had no wires on his guitar- like some sort of free-form marionette- he moved around the stage unencumbered by wires, walking us through his life as an adolescent.

At first I became aware I was watching a new form- not opera quite but most assuredly not your traditional Broadway musical. Too much thinking going on for a lark and though the words rhymed and there was dancing- the rhymes were more rap than lyric- and the dancing more a way to display energy- hence the show has a movement coordinator instead of a choreographer- it's not choreographed- it's exhuberance expressed without falling into one of the musician's pits onstagein the process.

I was not sure I was seeing what the show spoke of as "the real" after all- I was in a theater watching someone else's life- I had come here SPECIFICALLY to be drawn out of the real of MY life. But I knew- in a very short time, that I was experiencing the NEW. On the time-worn stage of that lovely old theater these guys were trying something- albeit cobbled together from several older forms, something NEW. And after over thirty years of theater-going- to see that, truly for the first time, was breath taking. Unlike H I was not gasping- I was holding my breath.This was special.

The cast is phenomenally talented. The script has moments that at least for me- were definitely core. Speaking of the choices of slaves vs. the life of a coward with no choices still rings with me. And the dialog between an adult and an adolescent being spoken to as an adult for the first time brought back memories for me long untouched. And the music was great. At one point the score soared so high I was dizzy with it- feeling the music washing over and tthrough me in a way I have never experienced in a theater. I have heard from other theatergoers that Strange's second act was inferior to the first- it wasn't- you just nevergot as high as that moment in the first act again.

I read the reviews- certainly everyone pointed out that a bit of editing would not be out of place. But how do you edit your life? For that matter- as I sat watching Stew onstage- brave in his Chucks- I wondered how you get to a place where you can be so bold as to say- this is who I am, this is where I fucked up, and this is where it got me. I am not sure what you'd leave out- what I am certain of is that for some viewer- it would be key. I'd like it a lot if people would re-learn to sit still for more than 90 minutes. This is where the epiphanies are- just north of when your rump goes numb. The 2.5 hour running time would only be excessive if it wasn't so enjoyable.

I left the theater and we walked down 7th Ave towards the PATH. H was beyond excited and I enjoyed his virtual jumping up and down at what he had just witnessed. "This will be coming back to me for days" I said thoughtfully. And it has. It's a thinking thing for me. The impact takes time. At the end of a play, perhaps what is ACTUALLY the real- is in the resonance it creates in the viewer.

I wondered about the future of the play- Broadway invented the phrase- if you can make it there... NY ain't cheap and Broadway even less so. But I hope. I hope- it was, once upon a time, that NY was a place you went to try new things- now current Broadway roster would not be unfamiliar to my mom- or my grandmother- with revivals on every street corner and older theatrical chestnuts being hawked and rehawked- not that I have anything against Kander and Ebb or Tennessee Williams. I am just hoping that there is a space, and an audience that is up for the surprise. And the real.

www.PassingStrangeOnBroadway.com

An Orchid Grows in the Bronx

2008-03-18T05:28:00.004-05:00

OK- so there wasn't ANYONE willing to go out in the rain to see the orchids at the Bronx Botanic Garden with me- no matter. Some traditions outweigh the slings and arrows of traitorous sleep-deprived, " I gotta do my laundry" LITERALLY fair-weather friends. It rolled off me like water off a duck's... ok, not exactly like that.

Aloha Oy

2008-03-04T20:22:00.011-05:00

Been gone a bit. I plan to make up for it. While I was gone I got watered in the lovely mists of too long neglected San Francisco, found the way to San Jose (thank you Garmin, Patron Saint of the Seriously Road Challenged) and then landed...in the red dirt and beautiful sunshine of O'ahu.

This is gonna be like "Memento"- I'm working my way backwards travel-wise.. In the words of the Dead- for whom I have developed a slightly worrisome affection (it's like a new freckle in an interesting place- it's ok that it's there you just don't want it to GROW) It was a long, strange trip- two weeks on the road with the end finding me on Halie'wa Beach and the closest I will come to heaven while still breathing air.

Syd wrote me a note today- "Are you back from your trip or are you still "working?". It did not take twenty years of friendship to hear the heavy sarcasm in that line. I did indeed go to Hawaii for work and the first time I set foot on Waikiki beach I was wearing a suit and suede pumps- for about a minute. No- I kept the suit on, but lost the shoes and scrunched my toes into the soft white sand. It was amazing. The first three days of my trip I worked from about 7 am to 7 pm but I was working in Hawaii- and for the girl from Brooklyn- that was heady.

O'ahu is ...well, take everything you have ever heard about Hawaii, multiply it by 8, then times it by about a thousand. It's just that gorgeous. The water stayed warm well into the evening when I finally cut loose from running to appointments and could walk along the edge of the Pacific at 10 o'clock at night watching the surf foam and lick at my toes. By the grace of Mark at the bell desk I got a room on the 4th floor of the Waikiki Sheraton facing the most glorious view of the ocean. I watched as the water changed color- blue gray at 5 am, sparkling turquoise in the noon sun, aquamarine at twilight and as the sun set- deep blue green and finally as night fell- midnight blue. I left the sliding doors open at night and slept with the sound of the surf whispering to me..."you're here...really here."

First Sunset

I reveled in the absolute funniness of it.. The Hawaiian alphabet consists of 15 letters, 5 of which are a,e,i,o,u. Add a few K's, L's and H's and that seemed more or less the name of every street, noun, verb, person, place or thing. The morning radio traffic reports left me in hysterics as the announcer (who I originally thought was a sort of lisping effeminate man and turned out to be a soccer mom turned traffic reporter) would say things like- "There's a 15 minute delay on the Havabanana Highway at the Idonwanna exit" And everywhere I went I acted as translator for my co-worker who asked repeatedly "Where's the next stop? KAMAKAZI? KALAWHATCHAMACALIT?" And I would reply with great self assurance from a night-long study of street maps- "No- it's just off Kuhio, which runs parallel to Kalakaua just before the Ala Wai canal- right near Seaside." Yeep. I even scared myself.

Statue of Duke at Waikiki

I had the gorgeous experience of standing in one office gazing down at the Iolani Palace- the only monarchal palace in the US and the home of the last King of Hawaii- Kalakaua and his sister- the last Queen, Lili'oukalani- imprisoned in the palace at the end of her reign with just one handmaiden as her only visitor. And seeing the Aloha Tower in the harbor- and knowing the tower had seen many ships come in and out long before Hawaii was part of the US.

The Iolani Palace

The Capitol Building Honolulu

The Aloha Tower

In one office someone pointed out the window at Punchbowl- my first volcano. But not my last. Before the trip was over I watched the sun rise seated at ALMOST the top of Diamondhead. I climbed it with my co-worker and VLH just before sunrise and sat breathless-first with the climb and then with the sheer amazement that my feet stood in a place right at the edge of the world and watched a day begin- with everything I needed- and then some, right beside me. And my co-worker TEXTING me from the summit that the view was worth the climb- and me texting him right back that I had EXACTLY the same view- just a different angle. My own.

Sunrise Diamondhead

Diamondhead tunnel

The Diamondhead hike

Business trips are usually one plate of fancy food or a quick sandwich on the run and in the first few days there was some of that. But along the way finding out the local tuna- Poke- was very yummy- and pronounced Poh-kee but unless I wanted to avoid the gentle smile of the locals I learned not to say "Poh-Kay"- unless I wanted my taco filled with feline. Teaching Queens-born VLH and the co-worker to say SHAVE ice- not SHAVED ice (you can take the boys out of Bayside but you cannot BEAT Bayside out of them with an outrigger canoe paddle- though at times I was sorely tempted to try)- and getting a rainbow colored mouthful of it at Matsumoto Shave Ice- reportedly the best in the world. I couldn't argue- like so much- it was a first. I had no basis for argument. I had to like Matsumoto's- they had over twenty Poh-Kay living in the backyard.

Matsumoto Shave Ice

The back yard at Matsumoto's

Coconut Shrimp

"Great Ball of Fire" at Rum Fire- Mango and Lichee sorbet covered in meringue and flamed with 151 proof rum

Margaret at Dave's

Poke Tacos

The local delicacies were the best of all possible treats- luscious sweet bread french toast and goopy egg sandwiches at Andy's in Manoa where Mrs. Andy recommended mayo on my eggs and called me sweetheart at least six times. Being waited on by her son-in-law John who encouraged us to try the buttery cinnamon-crusted apple turnovers and to "hang loose". We tried the crispy wonderfulness and thanked Andy- who was baking bread and turnovers just beyond the service counter. We tried the native Gummi Bears covered in LiHui powder- a powder made from mangoes and according to my co-workers when I returned- they are an acquired taste. Not one most CARED to acquire.

Andy's

The Foster Botanical Garden- I stood under the "Bo" tree. A direct descendant of the Boddhisatva tree that the Buddha sat under when he gained enlightenment. Of all the things I brought home- the leaf from that tree that was a gift from the botanist met on the plane to O'ahu is something I will treasure. And the Cannonball tree- we loved that- it grows round fruit that when ripe will fall on unsuspecting heads without warning. These brown fruit break open to reveal a white custardy filling that ferments in less than 6 hours and smells like...well, barf. Pretty cool, huh? And the seed from the Coco-de-Mer- the largest seed in the world- we had our picture taken together, the seed and me.

The Seed

The Cannonball Tree and an unsuspecting VLH

And the W&M BBQ Burger. Named for the owners Wilfred and Mary Kamemura. The LEAST hospitable restaurant in Oahu. No parking- a street sign the size of a license plate and a lunch counter barely 18" long and 4" wide. They don't mind if you eat but you can't do it here. They don't have to be hospitable- they make the best damned hamburger I ever ate. If you get the Hal's special you get hamburger, teriyaki steak, cheese and onions mayo, ketchup and a really messy shirt front. Come to think of it I probably should have saved the brown paper the burger came in as I am pretty sure, remembering the look on VLH's face- that under that paper is where HE found enlightenment.

"Hal's Special" at W & M

After days of running my co-worker took the plane back to the mainland and I began to feel my feet sink a bit into the Oahu red dirt. Saturday was for the North shore of Oahu- Halie'wa and beaches that stretched out inviting only surfers, small children and the occasional dog. Despite a perfect day- we shared the shore with only about fifteen other souls, and the dog.

Surf Dog at Halie'wa

Ths shadows lengthened and we made our way into Halie'wa and the little town yielded up a church barbecue with grilled chicken and shrimp glazed and charred to perfection coated with the local pineapple teriyaki sauce- Huli-Huli... I think that's Hawaiian for yummy. Topped off with Kona and Macadamia Nut ice cream from Aoki's and eaten on plastic tablecloth covered picnic tables. Even the rooster pecking just to the side of the tables seemed content- I know we were.

There was so much more. We drove the edges of the island past shrimp farms and tiny houses. The mountains rose like a curtain ahead of us and the water lapped the shore just outside the car window as we drove. The car windows were open and reggae music played on KINE FM. Folks fished off the beaches and set up tents and slept in the night air.

Baby Surfer

Halie'wa Beach

We headed for the airport and I thought about Hawaii. Hula girls and fire boys- ukeleles and the humuhumunukanuka apua'a and aloha shirts and shorts- the uniform of the island- like American Express, accepted everywhere. Before I came here it was novelty-kitsch- just this side of comic. Then I met the people. Was invited surfing, and to dinner by strangers. The aloha spirit is one of unbridled generosity and joy. The flowers on Oahu look just like they do on the shirts and are worn with pride. Flip flops are the only sensible shoe- it would be madness to shut your feet away from the sun, sand and gentle breezes. To live here is to live in joy. And wear it with pride.

Fiji Dancers

I must have made dozens of lei jokes. Then I got one, and another and another. Everyone who heard I was visiting for the first time ran to find me one. When a lei is presented you are given a kiss by the giver and asked to make a wish. I only had one.

To come back again.

Aloha.

Hello In There

2008-02-18T18:43:00.005-05:00

I was walking down 42nd street one day, I wasn't workin'42nd street I was walkin 42nd street.
And this amazing thing happened to me. It was July it was about 89 degrees. It was hot, hot for New York
You know and I was walking east and this humungous person was coming west.
And she had this big blue house dress on peppered all over with little white daisies.
She was almost bald but sitting on top of her head, forehead you know, on her forehead was this fried egg.
Which I thought was really unusual. Because in New York City the ladies with the fried eggs on their heads
don't generally come out until September or October you know.

Here was this lady, this demented lady with a little fried egg on her head in the middle of July.

God what a sight and ever since I saw that lady not one day goes by that I don't think of
her and I say to myself "Oh God, don't let me wake up tomorrow and want to put a fried egg on
my head. Oh God.

"Then I say real fast I say " Oh God, If by chance I should wind up with a fried
egg on my head", cause sometimes you can't help those things you know, you can't.

I say to myself "don't let anybody notice."

And then I say real fast after that "if they do notice that I'm carrying something that's not quite right and they want to talk about it, let 'em talk about it but don't let 'em talk so I can hear. I don't want to hear it."

Cause the truth about fried eggs, you can call it a fried egg, you can call it anything you like, but everybody
gets one, some people wear 'em on the outside, some people they wear 'em on the inside."

Bette Midler

I have this theory- if there is something you need to know- something maybe you were...avoiding. Like something you need to do, but are... putting off DOING. The universe lets you hear it. Repeatedly. From the most disparate places. Like a friend will call out of the blue after being out of touch for years. And then a bag lady will say it. And then- it's in the Wall Street Journal and before you see in written by a skywriting plane you say "OK! OK already! I got it."

Whatever it is. You can't avoid the truth when it wants hearing.

Last night's post was really close to- well- a bit of truth. Real truth. And I just put it out there. And struggled all night long. Take it off- I thought- no one needs to hear that- it's not FUNNY. Or newsworthy. It's just a little internal battle and it can stay inside.. or could it.

This morning K's phone number was on the caller ID. I called back- "just checking up" he said. "I'm FINE, great wonderful. " I said. "I know you're ok." he replied. I just wanted to TELL you that you were OK." OK...

VLH called just to gloat a little about his perch on a palm shaded veranda, and to say ... well, not everything should be so public- but in his words-it was all good.

And then I ran into an old friend from the big enormous paper store. She ran out from under a building overhang and grabbed me as I walked by bear-hugging me and almost knocking me over. "Keep writing, Mel" she said. "Thank you for saying the stuff I didn't, and wanted to."

And I picked up a book. On becoming human. It stresses that for the world to be a better place. It begins with being vulnerable and openly imperfect. If I say I am scared, or flawed.,,, it's a bit easier for YOU to say so as well. Allows the world to love you when you need it. And loving you helps them, too. And allows you to see yourself as not alone- which you were- when you were being so brave and strong and faking your ASS off. And afterwards- it wasn't so much a fake. Loved people are stronger.

And all the way home I thought about K. And my bear hugging friend. And the book I picked up out of a pile at the Salvation Army for a quarter. And how in one naked moment I said "ouch" out loud and got a band-aid and a boo-boo kiss.

So there is something to be said for this mad-crazy fried egg wearing life. And that something is "thanks".

:) X

Where faith lies

2008-02-17T19:17:00.003-05:00

"faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see" Hebrews 11

Interesting conundrum, faith. "Faith is believing in things when common sense tells you not to"- that is what Maureen O'Hara tells a 6 year old Natalie Wood in the "Miracle on 34th Street". Her very intelligent response is "That doesn't make sense Mommy". And there we have it- even at 6 a New Yorker can see if the sign doesn't say "Walk"... we ain't walking- common sense overrides our belief in our faith in our feets. We may run- but we're not walking.

In "Rent" one man living with AIDS said- I'm a New Yorker- fear's my life." But then goes on to say "I try to open up to what I don't know, because reason says I should have died three years ago... "

Moments like that- when there is nothing else- when you have exhausted all reasonable and horrible expectations. I think for many people- that is when we grab onto faith. And at least if the worst happens- we can face it with less fear.

Lately I have been struggling with things going well. I feel almost as if I have lived my life with a bomb shelter in the basement- all ready should the worst come I could hide encased in cement. But truly, even being in a safe place- encased in cement is no way to live your life. It's cold. It only comes in gray. Quelle drab. Very not me.

I have spoken of my fears before- snakes, motorcycles, excel spreadsheets and bonus checks- we all have our own mishegoss- that is the Yiddish word for... nonsense. I'm just brave, or foolish enough to own up to mine. And lately the question of faith is in what is going well. What if it's GONE? And had you ever asked me I would say I was the Charlie Brownest of optimists tearing up to the football EVERY time. But I think it may be that my faith has been not so much that the ball would be there but that I would survive the fall and the disappointment. I'm a New Yorker- fear is my life. There is no basis for dealing with all this good...

I told a dear friend the other night-" I don't know what I want." He laughed- "It sounds like you ABSOLUTELY know what you want- and you're getting it" and smirked at me. I reminded him that having an MSW isn't the same as having a license to be a smart-ass.

And being a scrappy survivor means folks ADMIRE you. When things are going well all you can DO is fake humility (no... the extra income is no big deal) Or minimize (It wasn't a HUGE bunch of flowers- just kinda...big) Or put it down (Yes the next trip is Hawaii but I have to WORK you know) This goes over like a lead balloon- especially if you are buying a sundress in February and the girl behind the counter asks WHY you are buying a sundress- this answer gets you tax charged on your purchase- even if there is no tax on clothing in New Jersey. I take this on the chin- this person is helping just a teensy bit to restore my faith in the status quo- things SHOULD be going badly. Shouldn't they? Oh wait- I just checked the receipt- she charged me for sunglasses- not tax. Oy.

So if faith is knowing what you want- or at least being sure of what you hope- shouldn't I hope for the best? Truth is I already have it. And when I get a bit shaky- I know who I can ask. Yov asks how good can you take it- I dunno. But it'd be a hell of a leap of faith to strain myself a little to find out. I guess for me faith comes a minute at a time- if the last year in any indication- the minutes are pretty good. I grateful for the minutes.... for me, it's where faith lies.

Looks like Four of a Kind

2008-02-14T12:18:00.003-05:00

"Four of a Kind" Cassius Marcellus Coolidge

I recently read a list in a magazine out of LA about how artists can sell their work-specifically painters. I CANNOT resist a list.The list read as follows:

Tips for artists who want to sell

* Generally speaking paintings with light colors sell more quickly than paintings with dark colors .

* Subjects that sell well-: Madonna and Child, Landscapes, flower paintings, still lifes (free of morbid props...dead birds, etc.)nudes, marine pictures, abstracts and surrealism.

* Subject matter is important. It has been said that paintings with cows and hens in them collect dust...while the same paintings with bulls and roosters sell.

This list made me completely dispeptic. Hiccup-py actually. Bright colors? Yet Van Gogh only sold works to his family in his lifetime- no one else would touch em. Dark Paintings- you mean like anything by Rembrandt or perhaps...ooo the second most recognizable painting (arguably) in the world; the Mona Lisa?

I once dated- very briefly, a man named Richard- he had an awful last name that sounded very much like a dead wet fish being slapped on a countertop- that, in my mind made a long-term relationship unthinkable. No, really. His issue (aside from his surname) he could not tell good art from bad. And he was ironically in a position to advise large corporations on how to invest money in art as a tax shelter. He described this...disability and likened it to being color-blind. It all just looked like paint (or ink, or whatever) applied to a flat surface. He wanted me to teach him- give him the Cliff Notes actually- as to how he could immediately identify good art from bad. I goggled. I asked him- You mean- you want me to give you...examples of good and bad art? Like- Dogs Playing Poker-bad- American Gothic-good?

Dogs playing Poker? he said. Yes- you know, 4 dogs playing-- He stopped me- he said YEAH I know- I LOVE that painting- it makes me laugh. And the dogs look really, real. I have one in my HOUSE.

Oh. Oops.

Years later there is a lesson in all this. To my mind what makes a piece of art successful-is liking it. Remembering it and on whatever level- laughter, tears or being moved to your wallet. Well- that's what art IS. Or should aspire to be. A vision of life slightly better than it is. And without criticism the job market for critics (and experts) is pretty bleak. So if what moves you is four of a kind- that's still a pretty good hand. Ultimately- the expert opinion just becomes a lot of cock and bull.

:) X

I See Bones....

2008-02-11T07:57:00.000-05:00

We took a meander around the "Bodies" exhibition, me VLH and the younger Loquatious-es. We were fascinated.. and awed... and grossed out and in my head, Allan Sherman sang- to the tune of "C'est Si Bon":

"I See Bones
The doctor was looking at the X-ray
And I asked him, "What do you see?"
And he kept on looking at the X-ray
As he said in French to me:
"I see bones.
I see gizzards and bones,
And a few kidney stones
Among the lovely bones.
I see hips
And fourteen paper clips,
Three asparagus tips
Among the lovely bones.
I see things in your peritoneum
That belong in the British Museum.

I see your spine,

And your spine looks divine.
It's exactly like mine.
Now doesn't that seem strange.
And in case you use pay telephones
There's two dollars in change,
Among your lovely bones.
Oh hello there, Nurse.
Come over here and look at this X-ray.
It's really remarkable.
Look at this.
Isn't the lumbar vertebrae supposed to be connected to the clavicle?
Well I know, but with Scotch tape?
Hey, look what's in there.
Look at that, it's a stamp.
It's a 1922 McKinley ultramarine blue with imperfect perforations.
I've gotta get that out and put in my collection.
Look in there, there's printing.
What does it say in there?
"U.S. Certified Grade A."

Look at this, fascinating.
See those little round things.
Know what those are?
Those are M & M's.
Those people are right.
They don't melt!
Among the lovely bones"

And in the end we figured out

a. People look a lot like a rack of lamb when their skin is removed.
b. I will KEEP my skin, thanks
c. It freaks you out a little when folks just stand there with their skins off....

d. And that since it takes a great deal more planning than any of us could do to make anything this complicated that works- that God exists.

Then we went for ribs..

:) X

Her last letter

2008-02-07T22:14:00.000-05:00

I got a letter from a dead woman today. Two weeks ago I learned that a woman that I'd worked with for ten years at the big famous paper store died- very unexpectedly- at 49 years of age.

The news of her death came to me when I was in Scottsdale. We were not close- but we worked next to each other. I knew the names of her sons, remembered when she met the man who became her second husband- heard every Monday in excruciating detail what she had cooked for her family over the weekend. We talked about going to lunch one day. Or taking a yoga class. It never happened. So often I think the universe plants us next to someone who seems to grow independently of you and yet- you share space and cannot help but be affected by that time. Rilke said that we change a room merely by passing through it. How much more can we be affected by sharing a room for ten years. I try and wrap my mind around it but- my brain gives a little squeal of inadequacy to the task and I start compiling a grocery list or answering e-mails.

And today I got an e-mail. This woman had written her family holiday letter. The holiday for her was the Chinese new year and it was your basic family catch-up on all the news, graduations, passings, weddings and the rest. A big year for her as her teen-aged sons had graduated high school and started college, her boyfriend of ten years became her husband and with the passing of older relatives she had become the family matriarch. In her letter she said "I don't know if I can wait until February 7th for this year to end" I shivered as I read that. Is there a voice that whispers in your ear-"better tie up those loose ends". I don't know- my rational mind says not- but there is so much the rational mind ignores in order to get to grocery lists and e-mail. Too frightening by half to acknowledge how much is invisible to the rational mind and how little control we actually have.

Photos, there were- of her wedding, her garden and her honeymoon in China. Her recognition of the simple joys and blessings in her life. And the pride in her sons. The love for her husband, her family. In talking with her day to day I know that there were challenges in loving ALL of them all the time, but love them she did and her words echoed that. Things she missed, things she looked forward to. Now that the time of raising children was passing, that love was found and firm and she had a safe and loving home- she looked outward to the planet and worried aloud as to its fate, outlined ways in which she was trying to help.

It was all little things. Nothing huge- no mention of a Nobel Prize or a cure for cancer or a new job with a blockbuster salary, no offer from Antonio Banderas to run off and be her love slave. She had it. She saw it. And as she wrote, she appreciated it. Her letter ended with an exhortation to celebrate the Lunar Chinese New Year, February 7th.

I try hard to appreciate all the big changes that this year has brought me. And right through our own New Year I still struggled with all the comings and goings in my life. Tonight I was reminded, several times and on the most profound level that all the little blessings make a life for which to be extremely grateful. That insomnia brought on by a strange bed is ok if offset by the opportunity to watch a sunrise on a new horizon. That traffic can be bearable because for the first time in my life I'M driving- and God bless everyone else on the road. That missing someone- is really a testament to finally, finally finding someone worth missing- who misses you right back. That seeing old loves as they truly are doesn't mean you were foolish then- just a bit wiser now, and loving them still, just as they are. And when I went to the vending machine at work tonight- working another late night and pressing the button for pretzels and having the machine deliver a bag of M&M's as a little gift on the side.

My friend reminded me tonight as I spoke of something pressing on my heart; "Remember Zama." she said. And I do. Because even though she is no longer in the room. She effects me still. Only now I am aware. And I can thank her. And that is no little thing. Happy New Year Z.

Be My Valentine

2008-02-06T18:18:00.000-05:00

"The heart isn't heart-shaped, that's one of our problems."

Julian Barnes

I'm late. Not for Valentine's Day of course- with eight days to go I have oodles of time to write this- but I can't. Maybe it's my all-too-many years in retail where Valentine season begins on January 2nd- never too early to instill fear in the heart of every male who thinks he might have missed it. But I have SUCH a backlog of things I want to write- about how I fell for the antique cars at Barrett Jackson or that Las Vegas was more than tits- not a whole LOT more, and maybe they were the highlight of my trip but there are still a few thoughts kicking around I'd like expressed. And then there is getting ready for Hawaii though I cannot imagine writing about it- just the research has led me to the extremely STRONG opinion the Hawaiians rely much too heavily on vowels and I can't spell a damned thing. Programming the Garmin down there is going to be a hoot, I feel it coming.

But the heart is on my mind. And Valentine cards, as I have not made mine yet. I try to make mine. And if I don't- I don't sent store bought ones- I just sulk. I am hoping in all the busy-ness to at least pull out the red paper and glitter and remind a couple of my closest friends I love them. I made a bunch last year and didn't send one 'til July- I was mad at the person- that didn't mean I didn't love them. And love is one of those things that keeps.

A few Valentine facts

Every year around 1 billion Valentine cards are sent. After Christmas it’s a single largest seasonal card-sending occasion.

Teachers receive the most Valentine's Day cards, followed by children, mothers, wives, and then, sweethearts. Children between ages 6 to 10 exchange more than 650 million Valentine's cards with teachers, classmates, and family members.

The second fact... teachers get more Valentines than anyone. This, along with summers off may be the reason folks BECOME teachers- it certainly can't be the pay. And children are the largest group of card givers-and most of them don't even have their own money! Anatomy says that a child's heart is actually much larger than an adult's- 1/130th of their body weight as opposed to 1/300th in an adult. And the heart is the first organ to develop in the embryo. This isn't really a surprise. Remember the box in the front of the classroom for Valentine's day? You gave a Valentine to EVERYONE, but didn't sign the one you gave to the person you truly wanted for your Valentine. I didn't anyway. Joey Tormey if you are reading this- Valentine circa 1972- that was me. Forgive the peanut butter kiss marks- my mom always hid the lipstick.

"Let's start at the beginning. Love Makes you happy? No. Love makes the person you love happy? No. Love makes everything all right? Indeed no. I used to believe all this of course. Who hasn't? (Who doesn't still, somewhere below decks in the psyche)? It's in all our books, our films; its the sunset of a thousand stories. What would love be for if it didn't solve everything? Surely we can deduce from the very strength of our aspiration that love, once achieved, eases the daily ache, works some effortless analgesia?"

Julian Barnes

Saint Valentine was a felon imprisoned under Claudius the 2nd for secretly marrying young men and women when the emperor forbade it. His letters to his niece were signed "your Valentine". He died for love. I wonder how he would feel about a 70% divorce rate. I don't think he would change much. He'd want them to at least try- to take that leap for love- even if two people are only that brave for one moment, it is a moment is worth celebrating.

Two Valentine's Days stand out for me. When I was oh so young my then special person MADE me a Valentine, each year for the seven we'd been together. I do not know if it was that we had no money- or that we'd both gone to art school- I choose to think it was because that made it special. And real. He proposed one Valentine morning by taping a white ring box to the top of my Kermit the Frog alarm clock so I couldn't slap the snooze button, as was my daily custom. I remember looking only at the box and then turning to look at him lying still on his pillow-his eyes wide open and a bit scared- "will you?" he asked. I hadn't even opened the box. I can't remember what I said but it must've been something like "yes" because we married that June.

The Valentine's Day I was six is still clear- I got the first heart shaped box of chocolates of my own. It was red foil and held eight pieces of Whitman's chocolates in tightly pleated little brown waxed paper cups. The cover of the box read "Be My Valentine" in gold letters and it was from my dad. I'd like to say that I treasured it and would not touch it but the truth is... I kept the box for years- I doubt the chocolates lasted an hour. I am certain I didn't share. And just as certain that year that I had the best Valentine, my dad, and that he loved me.

I would like to say that we lived happily ever after- but I think I knew there was a change when my Valentine came from a store one year. Or say that I get chocolates from my dad, but he hasn't been around for quite some time. In both cases- I wouldn't change the past- or have missed those moments, especially if I knew the future. Some memories are precious and perfect just as they are.

"And so it is with love. We must believe in it or we are lost. We may not obtain it and find it renders us unhappy; we must still believe in it. If we don't then we merely surrender to the history of the world and to someone else's truth." Julian Barnes

So I'm getting out the red paper, and the deckle scissors, some glitter and rhinestones and whatever inspiration the back-to- school aisle at the Duane Reade offers up. I have my work cut out for me.

"What will survive of us is love." Philip Larkin

Viva Las Boobies

2008-01-29T10:01:00.000-05:00

I was warned about Las Vegas- I didnt believe it. There were slot machines in front of me as I left the plane- I mean IMMEDIATELY as I left- like, before the Starbuck's or the Chili's. And they were everywhere. Next thing I saw was a poster that read "Shoot a REAL Machine Gun" with a big blonde in a tank top (big hair, big gun...big everything... except her clothes which were exceptionally tiny)holding an AK-47 and smiling for all she was worth. I think it would be a toss-up whether a fella would want to work the gun or the gal- it's Vegas- my guess is it'd be an all or nothing gamble.

Aside from extreme overstimulation from just...too many of EVERYTHING blinking ringing and clanging I came to a realization. I mean with everything going on somehow one particular item (well, two actually...) snapped into extreme clarity and, well, not to be crude- it stood out. All the statues here have HUGE boobs. No kidding. I expected it on showgirls but everywhere I looked- Greek, Egyptian, Italian- I mean Venus rising from the sea looked like Dolly Parton in a wig- and she was SMIRKING. So- I plan to keep looking as I have not yet found my way out of Caesars Palace but here is the evidence thus far. The proof is in the statuary. As ever- tits rule.

:) X

And now a word about a dinosaur...

2008-01-17T18:48:00.000-05:00

Barrett Jackson... I felt like I had landed on Planet GUY. So you will get this in segments- as I did. The store manager hauled me directly from the entrance to Barrett Jackson to see...the BIG attraction...the world's largest robot...who thinks a Mini Cooper is an hors d'oeuvre!

Robosaurus. I felt like the prettiest girl at the monster truck rally that day- let me tell you...

It stood

It picked up a poor defenseless Saturn (it was a car show, they announced the make of the "victim")

It belched a lot of fire (and a little confetti)

And then chomped it!

OK, OK. I kinda liked it. Sue me.

:)X

Remember, "All You Can Eat" is a Suggestion, NOT a Challenge!

2008-01-17T09:15:00.001-05:00

Taking a break, mentally from Houston, which so far is gray, cloudy and at 50 degrees, colder than I packed for... and filled with the most agressive drivers I have seen since Mad Max the Road Warrior. (My mantra- "there's no place like home, there's NO place like HOME".) I give you my latest and scariest NYC discovery.

Todai Restaurant www.todainyc.com Located at
6 E. 32nd St. I had buzzed by a few times on my way to an appointment and been amused by the Happy Squid waving from the lobby.

The restaurants on 32nd Street are mostly Korean and fairly daunting as ... well, nobody in there looks a bit like me. Frankly I worry that without my occidental posse I might not be welcomed- or at the very least commit some grievous error in etiquette for which the waiter will need to kill me or himself.

But who says "No" to a happy squid? Or an all you can eat buffet of Asian delicacies including sushi, snow crab legs, all sorts of grilled meats and really scary skewered shrimp with their heads on... (I had VLH decapitate- I tried but it kept LOOKING at me)This and much more for the prime time price of $27.95 (I think it's about $3-$5 cheaper if you go on a weeknight) I worried that If this place catches on I may not be able to get in but with seating for 700 and a buffet LITERALLY a city block long- I could tell a few of you...

A little salad

A lotta sushi

THEIR dessert bar

VLH's dessert plate (I helped...)

Bon Appetit!

Toto check the map- I don't think we're in Kansas, anymore

2008-01-15T10:52:00.000-05:00

Our booth at Barrett Jackson is located adjacent to and unfortunately within smelling distance of the Famous Dave's BBQ stand http://www.famousdaves.com/
If anyone wants to find me I will be lunching there today.

It looks a bit like Detroit. My cerebellum registers cactus, sagebrush, roadrunners and retirees and its 61 degrees in January. And yet what hangs over my head fluttering like flags over a fiefdom are the banners of the kings- GM, Ford, Bentley. And they all share an anthem- VRoooooooom VRooooooooom.

It's not Kansas. It's not the Motor City. It's Desert World in Scottsdale, AZ. and the Barrett Jackson's world famous auto auction http://www.barrett-jackson.com/. Aside from the fact that ALL I care about in a car is a. that it goes and b.that I like the color (I picked up the car on Sunday and someone asked me what model I got and I said "Red".) What the HECK am I doing here- to me a Hemi is half a planet. I looked at the booth across from my company's and asked the sales person if it came in any colors besides...metal. No idea what I would use it for but gray is not my color.

But- work beckoned me here to Scottsdale so I came here to make money, for work and to make trouble- for fun and enjoyment. It's actually a hoot as I have not spent a great deal of time with the sales staff below the manager level I was now thrown in with the guys who essentially make the money that pays my salary. And they think of me as a "higher-up" One guy actually introduced me that way- "This is Melanie Nerenberg, my higher up" Made me feel like I was ON a lift- or at least 5'6" tall. Yep- to THESE guys I am "corporate" A word which means- QUICK act like you never do ANYTHING but work. I was deferred to. I was escorted. I was driven around AND practically genuflected to. It was UNBEARABLE. So I did what any self respecting corporate brat would do. I blew my cover.

The evening's gala was invitation only and silly me- I left my invitation to the $400 a head invite in my other LIFE. But smart me- being corporate- having NOT worn the long sleeved golf shirt with the company logo embroidered on it and because I look AWFUL in khakis (kind of like a bowl of butterscotch pudding with pleats) I had on a suit. And according to one of the sales staff- at least in his opinion I looked like the folks going into the gala. I made a mark on my hand with a magic marker, picked up a shawl and threw it over my suited shoulders and grabbed a plastic cup someone had left on the counter and walked up to security. It had been suggested I affect I southern accent but frankly, I couldn't hold it- I went for New Jersey with money but no class. "Excuse me Hon" I tapped a beefy girl from Security on the shoulder. "You seen my husband?" She looked at me- after all there were 4998 other folks inside besides me and my fictional husband. "No M'am" she said "Can I help you?" I waved the hand with the drink and the marker mark quickly past her- gesticulating a bit and sloshing my drink dangerously close to her nice red windbreaker for effect. "He was supposed-ta wait right HERE" "Oh" she said- "I didn't see him". "He has my PURSE" (slosh) "How'm I supposed to get IN?" (shoshity slosh)I held the drink closer and closer as I moved. I was getting dangerously close to HER and she REALLY didn't want to get hit with whatever was melting in my cup. "Why don't you go find him?" she said and lifted the velvet rope to give me entrance.

I ran past the Elvis impersonator (sheesh) Cleavage with more depth and breadth than the Grand Canyon and Mickey Dolenz doing a Monkee's set in front of the Monkee mobile and headed straight for the Barbecue station. "Pile it on" I said as I stood there- "He's on Atkins". I appeared back at the booth with food for my new found and very grateful buddies. "How did you do it?" they asked. My boss has a saying- "only the paranoid survive" I did not want to let them know I had broken the rules but was really happy INSIDE myself to know that I had. "I just asked someone nicely." I said. "Eat up guys" And they did.

More- with pics- later. :)X

Twelve Years of Rent

2008-01-10T09:45:00.000-05:00

The waves of fortune keep washing cool stuff up on the shores of my life. The other night- 4 tickets to RENT. Oddly enough, even being the culture hag that I am, and having seen the movie more than a few times- (I own the DVD), I had never seen it in the theater. I knew the story behind the story- Jonathan Larson's untimely death the night his play opened on Broadway- he was 36 years old. It is ironic and horrendously fitting that the author of a play which relates to a disease that consumes so many young people- that his life also ended so awfully early. The credo of the play "No Day But Today" hits a little harder when seen from that perspective. For more on the show http://www.siteforrent.com

So- it was me, an office mate, her friend and VLH in the 12th row of the orchestra, stage left. The set was distressed and multi-leveled with blue-gray acoustic tiles soaring to the rafters serving as a backdrop for a twisted pile of metal and garbage that I know is an echo of a similar structure in a community garden on the lower East Side of Manhattan.

And the play began. The cast are for the most part relative newcomers to Broadway, having cut their not inconsiderable teeth touring with Rent as well as other shows. I think that Declan Rogers who played Roger had a cold- either that or a mouth-ful of marbles as he spent a great deal of the 75 minute 1st act mumbling his lyrics. I fully enjoyed the performances by Tamyra Gray- a former American Idol contestant and astonishing acrobat- her rendition of "Take Me Out" performed while looping her lithe frame through a metal banister 3 stories above the stage in high-heeled boots and skin tight electric blue latex pants literally took my breath away. And oh how I loved watching Justin Johnson as Angel leaping his way through "Today For You" in patent leather platform heels- you go...girl, kinda. Loved it.

I watched the show and tried to imagine what this all looked like in 1996 when it opened- when men kissing men and women kissing women and cross dressers kissing everyone would have been ground breaking. When tattered clothing onstage meant you were watching Les Mis or some other period piece that had nothing to do with the present time. When walking out to your car meant you might actually encounter a homeless guy with a squeegee.

And when AIDS was actually something new. A raging epidemic that outlaw groups like Act-Up were fighting and there was a question as to whether their guerilla tactics were effective or alienating. When the fight against AIDS was a street fight and newspaper headlines in less urban areas talked about the plague that was "killing all the right people."

Rent as a play felt a bit dated, with so much of the shock value gone from all the kissing and the street folk relegated to dark corners these days. But, as Angel was dying... as it happens every time I see it- I cried and cried, more than a bit aware that this might alarm VLH- who does not know me well enough to know how I feel about AIDS- not enough of my personal history to know that I held the man who made my wedding dress and walked me down the aisle as he lay dying in St. Vincent's of this disease. I looked around the theater and wondered, to all the young, healthy, mostly out-of-towners- was this a STORY? Because I know for me- at that moment it was NOT a story. It was a reminder. It has been awhile since I looked at the statistics- so I did and was sickened (statistics from http://www.until.org/statistics.shtml:

United States:

An estimated one million people are currently living with HIV in the United States, with approximately 40,000 new infections occurring each year.

75 percent of the new infections in women are heterosexually transmitted.

Half of all new infections in the United States occur in people 25 years of age or younger.

And in the larger world the story is worse

Over 22 million people have died from AIDS.

There are 14,000 new infections every day (95 percent in developing countries). HIV/AIDS is a "disease of young people" with half of the 5 million new infections each year occurring among people ages 15 to 24.

The UN estimates that, currently, there are 14 million AIDS orphans and that by 2010 there will be 25 million.

And if the larger world has an orphan issue with regards to AIDS, about 2 years ago I started volunteering to cook at God's Love We Deliver- www.glwd.org an organization which provides meals to homebound people with AIDS. They deliver over 3,000 meals a day in the NY Metro area. That in and of itself was a sad statistic to learn but what struck me was that 15% of those meals are for dependent children. 450 children who could lose their parents- it is amazing to me that the 14 million number does not affect me as those 450 do. Not because they are here- but because I cannot conceive of 14 million children left alone. The grief is unfathomable. For the 450- I can help, a little. So I chop onions.We each do what we can.

I guess what I want to say. Dated or no- marbles in the mouth or not. I want Rent to continue to run. If an audience member can care about the death of Angel, maybe they would be compelled to look a little further- be a bit more careful in how they conduct their sex life- maybe even send a dollar or chop an onion. But it is most important that people realize- it's not over. Our friends are still gone. And very young people will continue to die in staggering numbers. So it all helps. What was heartening was at the end of the show the audience rose to its feet and gave a standing ovation. I hope at least a few will be moved to do more.

Chasing the Eto

2008-01-06T19:10:00.000-05:00

New Year's day brings with it many fine traditions like the consuming of black eyed
peas for luck. I think the tradition actually showed luck in and of itself as HAVING peas, a hock to cook them with and a pot in which to accomplish this were signs in and of themselves that you were pretty darned lucky to begin
with.

Nursing a sick head from too much wine or a sick stomach from too much food are also fine American traditions- as if somehow we need to punish ourselves for being well off. I decided this new year to A.) Be sensible and sensitive to the
needs of others and B.) Be more than a little cranky about it and C.) Be OK with that.

Fred had recently introduced me to a new concept. We were speaking about an aquaintance of his who recently did some THING (I forget what) for herself and stated she was NOT being selfish, she was ENTITLED. It became the theme for
my evening let someone else feed me and do for me and if I won at Candyland (which I did, beginners luck actually having never played before-) I was teaching the little guy good sportsmanship AND I was entitled. The crankiness? Well
after having absolutely no fun sharing my own crabby company I decided I was ENTITLED to a better time and took my grumpy butt to bed at 11:30. I was awoken at 12:08 and about every 4 minutes thereafter by well wishing friends who
were astonished I was asleep. I explained I was not asleep I was just answering the phone lying down with my eyes closed in pajamas and leaping to conclusions was no way for them to start a new year.

Bed was important as I had a plan for new years day. I was going to catch a mouse. Specifically an Eto. 2008 is the year of the Eto- the Japanese Good fortune Rat.

I met 'Neff at the Mitsuwa market a Japanese mall in Edgewater, NJ. I arrived at 9:00 that rainy morning and was met with a line of about a hundred slightly damp Asians awaiting the opening of the market. According to Keiko it is customary for Japanese folks to go out and celebrate on New Year's morning. Mitsuwa offered Taiko Drumming, Ceremonial Dragon Slaying, soft serve black sesame ice cream and the big draw the 1st 500 families would receive a free porcelain rat meant to bring luck in the coming year- the Eto.

I got mine, Neff got hers and we wandered Mitsuwa looking at...the everything. There was so much to see. Amazingly marbled Wagyu beef, a vast array of pickles, sake, ramen and gyoza all beautifully displayed. Even a lowly cello pack of okra was elevated to 'okura' giving it not only a certain Asian exotic-ness but an additional syllable as well.

New Year Cake

If I had 2 Etos- I'd give one to you...

Taiko Drummers

Mizuna

A whole LOT of sake

I am assuming this is a cocktail snack....

VLH joined us just in time for brunch. Mitsuwa offers a stunning array of Japanese and Chinese style foods as well as taking a stab at French and Italian inspired cuisine; offering croissants (stuffed with red bean paste) and soba noodles with baby clams served as ' linguine con vongole'. I was very pleased when the counter lady at the St. Honore bakery greeted me in English to be able to respond with my only complete and absolutely correct Japanese phrase " Shinnen akemashite
omedeto gozaymasu" Which I have believed for the past 25 years meant 'Happy New Year' in Japanese. Keiko, ever aware of my desire to learn and be appropriate in Japanese informs me that this phrase actually means "Happiness to you on the
dawn of the New Year's Day" basically I had until noon that day to say my one phrase and then it was another 364 days of waiting.

25 years ago I learned the phrase to impress a Japanese man named Alan that I had a crush on. I repeated it over and
over to myself for weeks and learned the night I actually SAID my hard-won greeting to him that A.) Alan was gay. And B.) Knew not one single word of Japanese. Looking back I cannot say which discovery upset me more but I know the
counter lady and the fifteen or so strangers I greeted this new year's morning at Mitsuwa appreciated my work all those years ago.

As I mentioned-VLH joined 'Neff and I for a gorgeous brunch in Mitsuwa's food court. H had been a bit late to the party and was so stunned by the museum-quality display of plastic food at Mitsuwa that he was launched into a sort of food fugue and rendered completely incapable of choosing a stall from which to purchase breakfast. It was a giddy state brought on by an excess of ...noodles and potstickers. All he kept muttering was... "I dunno- you pick and then I'll choose- I dunno, I dunno..." I was worried that drool was imminent or some form of spasm.

As I had arrived 2 hours earlier I had calmed down sufficiently to narrow the field. Eggs. Scrambled. Sounds like everyday fare in the U.S. of A. until you find that these particular eggs are scrambled with crab and served over rice with pork and scallions. Yum. H chose a plateful of plump pork-filled gyoza, pan fried and 'Neff a bowl of soba noodles with pork accompanied by rice covered in salmon roe and a somewhat ancient-looking hardboiled egg in what appeared to be soy sauce. The question for me was how in the world did the denizens of Mitsuwa market maintain such diminutive and trim stature? The portions were ENORMOUS!

As with many New Year's past, the post brunch activity was VERY serious napping. 'Neff went on to home and parents and VLH and I to our patriotic duty of sleeping off the effects of a Japanese super-sized brunch. A very pleasant way, in many ways, to spend a New Year's Day. Easy as snapping a garter. I did not miss the hangover or the black-eyed peas- not even a little.

I spent THIS weekend thinking about my good fortune- this the first weekend in recent memory that I spent on my own and I set myself (again crankily as I would rather have had company but did not provide any for myself- self imposed grouchiness-even worse) to straightening cabinets and closets and clearing things out for the new year. I found that I had at least two of everything, and sometimes more. As the afternoon wore on I also found the crankiness moving away and being replaced with a sense of awe. Maybe for the first time in my life, I have much more than I need. Especially of luck and prosperity. And it did not come by chance- just like my Eto- I went out and got it and more and more- like the Eto- good fortune and happiness comes to my door- free of charge, even if I'm too cranky at that moment to appreciate it. So next time I'm feeling a bit like this I can just reach over- grab my Eto- and remember to be grateful.

Shinen Akemashite Omedeto Gozymasu!

The Bind That Ties

2007-12-31T10:47:00.000-05:00

December has- without really looking, probably been the skimpiest, entry-wise, of all the months this year since I began blogging last March. It has been pointed out that there have been 50 entry months and 8 entry months, a sure sign of ebb and flow which is common in everyone's lives. I DID notice and even came close to mentioning it- saying something like..
"Sorry, your readership is important to us and we will get back to you as soon as life hocks up something amusing, visually stimulating- oh, and something that by writing it, won't invade someone else's private moments by writing about it in a public forum. Please stand by, or have a seat- it may be awhile and it looks like those shoes might hurt." oh "Beeep."

The interesting thing is that the 32 entry month/8 entry month statistic was revealed to me and taken for granted, as well as the references to early, early blog entries. Discounted as just someone trying to catch up with me- and my life. Bit of hubris actually- as this particular individual has a life which barely allows for a change of socks and a laundry drop off. And the collaborator also has a life pretty chock full of child, school and dealing with a new life and the challenges it brings. But I have always heard that if you want to get something done- give it to a busy person. If its a biggie- give it to two busy persons and watch them multi task by not only getting it done but by becoming really good friends in the process.

You little co-conspirators, you.

So it was my favorite little guy's fifth birthday and paired with Christmas there was a pretty big haul on the table for him as well as a natal-fest feast that would make Rachael Ray wince (this didn't take 20 minutes, babe- deal with it- go down a shot of EVO wouldja?) I volunteered ( and dragged an ever-willing VLH and his brand new food processor along for the ride) to make hummus and grill vegetables. The work was pretty minor for a former chef and his amateur assistant to knock off with a mere 2 jugs of very strong coffee. We finished the required cooking activities and VLH took the lead, heading over to Z's apartment chatting merrily on his cel phone to one person or another. I scaled the stairs to the apartment- Z lives in a 4th floor walk-up- some days- like at the end of a month of sheer culinary indulgence and zero trips to the gym- scaling the stairs to Z's house feels like scaling Annapurna- in heels.

We arrived and stood panting in the hallway and Z opened the door simultaneously greeting us, complaining about the cat, pointing out that the garbage needed taking out AND did we want anything to eat. I ran into the kitchen- which looked like the Falklands after the invasion- small and ...well it wasn't covered in goats but with all the dishes pans and other party prep remains- goats might have been an improvement. I grabbed 2 sausage out of a waiting pan and stuck one in my mouth and held the other in my hand as I walked back to the living room to offer assistance to Z and a sausage to VLH. Z stood in the middle of the maelstrom holding what looked like a pair of dictionaries clutched to her chest. VLH turned down my sausage offer, which should have tipped me off- and directed me to Z, who insisted I wipe my hands clean. I thought about wiping them on the back of my jeans, but at this juncture drawing attention to that area of my body- NOT my best side at the end of the holiday season, was just not prudent. I scarfed the 2nd sausage (waste-not, waist, also not.) and found a napkin and did a serviceable job of cleaning my greasy paws.

I held my hands out and Z placed the two 500 page tomes in my upturned hands- one book red, the other deep green. The green one had gold letters embossed into the cover. In Times New Roman it read: "The Ephemerist's Notebook" and on the second line optically centered "Volume One". The red book read, in Times New Roman golden letters "The Ephemerist's Notebook, Volume 2"

I'm crying as I write this. and I did then as well. I could not speak. I could not breathe. I know Z spoke to me. I know VLH did as well. I cannot tell you what they said. I have been struck speechless before as you know. Strangers saying with their actions that they care for me, that will take away my ability to come up with some glib comment. This took away my breath and I was not quite sure I could take anything more in- not even air. The letters glinted at me from the pristine hard covers. This...book. THESE books. I could not wrap my head around the idea that I had done this, that THESE were me... and mine. And then I looked at the faces of those two- one who has stood by me for almost twenty years and literally kept me alive through some of its darkest moments, been more than a friend and better than any sister could be to me and then to the face so new and so incredibly dear to me, my precious, precious and brave yov. The yov that has always been one step braver in loving me.

It wasn't just that they were bound- though seeing my writing as books- as opposed to some glorified Myspace page or Facebook ego trip (hot or not- you decide!) And more that hearing that they both felt this work was worth the tremendous effort to get this done. It was an incredible visual. This amazing year in two volumes. Special. Three-dimensional. And mine.

Eventually I stopped crying and was able to whisper my thanks. The books had to be put away as they brought on a new spate of tears every time I saw them and my red tear-stained visage was frightening the little party-goers and putting them off the remaining sausages.

I asked VLH to put the books in his car as we were going to see Fred for dinner in a glorious restaurant in New Canaan called Aloi and I wanted him to see this amazing gift. It was my one-year anniversary of knowing Fred and I wanted to celebrate the changes he had brought into my life and introduce him to the newest one. At dinner, which was incredible, we talked about the nature of loving, and Fred said something- he said that a particular person we were discussing "just wanted to be appreciated for the love they were giving".

At the time the phrase had a different context and it was not until just now that I realized that was what the real gift of the books was. Recognition of the love I had been giving, returned to me- in red, green and gold.

Oh my.

To any one who reads this- from Brooklyn to Helsinki. Happy New Year.

:) X

Cheezborger, Cheezborger, Cheezborger, no fries (ice) chips

2007-12-28T07:30:00.000-05:00

Chicago twice in one year. This absolutely constitutes a record for me as my goddaughter Nikki, the world's most glorious adolescent pointed out, the last time I saw her that often we were waiting for her to be potty trained. After a weekend spent with Syd and the fam in Hinsdale (for those of you who wondered- the latch on the patio door is still unrepaired- at this point I think Henry would use a piece of chewing gum to fix it and Syd is considering total house razing to rectify the problem and a compromise does not appear to be likely or imminent)

Flying into Chicago on Saturday morning fell asleep (yahoo- the ephemerist becomes a seasoned traveler!) I woke to the man in the seat next to me smiling at me- a bit disconcerting as I am pretty certain I was drooling a teensy bit. Seems he had been flying for the past 15 hours and was actually looking over my shoulder as we taxied into Chicago- "Is that snow?" He said. I turned- blinking and trying surreptitiously to wipe my eyes. Snow. Lots of it. I YELLED at Syd "you didn't TELL me". I texted VLH- there is SNOW here- he texted back- "Strange turn in the weather- currently 85 degrees in NJ- taking the kids to the beach." I knew- unless he was suddenly raising polar bear cubs that was just a MAJOR dig that said- it's winter all over, babe- deal with it. Personally I feel dealing directly with reality is highly overrated and occasionally ..well, often a buzz-kill.

Fortunately I learned very quickly that like New York, Chicago is a walking city. What I mean by that is you do not need to get into a car to reach civilization- in this case- I walked out the door and saw...TONS of civilization- lots of cool and groovy architecture, public transportation and stores- even a GARMIN store- right there on Michigan Avenue. I guess to allow you to BUY a Garmin they needed to find a retail location you could get to WITHOUT one. Blind people could see this place the windows were 2 stories high and the travertine marble exterior had a big GARMIN logo on it. All they needed was a voice outside the store repeating over and over- "You have reached your destination". The store was trying very hard to be an Apple Store- lots of hip looking sales people of multiple ethnicities and none over say...27.5 years of age (just old enough to resist calling EVERYONE- male and female- "Dude"). And they TRIED to help me but..in a way it was just like the Scotch tape store on the old Saturday night live which only sold- Scotch Tape. They seemed to only feature 1 model of Garmin at only ONE lofty price point $699. It seemed ironic that the display, and the merchandise and the super cool store staff- just made me wanna say- "Get Lost".

Chez Garmin

Sayat Nova Armenian Restaurant

The Navy Pier in Winter and Lake Michigan

But. Garmin also sponsored the MAPS exhibit at The Field Museum. As much as I love the Natural History Museum here in NYC- you had to love the Field- home to "Sue" the world's only/most complete tyrannosaurus rex skeleton. I did not realize- until making Sue's acquaintance, that most/all OTHER tyrannosaurus rex skeletons were cobbled together or made with artificial parts- I can just imagine the exchange- "I'll trade you 6 tyrannosaurus vertebrae for a stegosaurus hip joint and 3 triceratops toes..." Add in 4 calling birds and 3 french hen skeletons and it's a merry holiday all around. The best part for me- Sue- the display and maintenance of- is sponsored by McDonald's. There is a joke in there SOMEWHERE I just can't find it.

However- there was another joke I found- ALMOST as old as Sue, hamburger related AND as free of tyrannosaurus rex meat as Sue's old bones. The Billy Goat Tavern. What? You may ask- I didn't know either. The Billy Goat Tavern was immortalized on Saturday Night Live. The real Saturday Night Live in the days of Belushi, Ackroyd, Morris, Newman, Curtin and the glorious Gilda Radner. The Skit?

Cheezborger, Cheezborger, no fries- chips- no coke Pepsi.

The Billy Goat is located UNDER the glitzy Michigan Avenue shopping strip and across from the cool and groovy Chicago Tribune building- notable for the bits and pieces embedded in it from other cool and groovy buildings.

A piece of the Trib

Under Michigan Avenue

I was dressed in road exec gear- suit- coat with fur collar- heels- the Billy Goat at the height of its dress code- requests you wear nothing with permanent stains on it. So the greeting I received when I walked in the door was- in a SPITTING imitation of Belushi - "You wanna EAT here?" Yes, actually yes, I do. I love dives- greeeezee spoons- not dirty- or smelly but- unpretentious and filled with stuff- oh and at the smell of meat on a griddle- my whole being yells YIPPEE lets PARTY! Barely disguising his surprise the counterman swiftly went into his patter-

"You want cheezborger? Double cheezborger the best!" OK I'll have that
"You want chips, no fries" Yes Please.
"Corn Chips, Regular Chips?" Regular.
"Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, Sprite, Ginger Ale" Diet Pepsi (OK,OK I KNOW double cheezborger... we save where we can...)

And it came to me on a slip of waxed paper- just as you see here (I added pickles and pickle relish and lots of ketchup, the only red wine that truly complements hamburger grease)

And- as greasy-divey experiences go- it was MIGHTY fine. Oh and I managed to keep it off my white shirt... BONUS!

And finally- a reminder on the cold Navy pier- how far I was, exactly, from yov.
It made getting home and what it would take... a little bit clearer.

And I'm home :)

:P X

The Leader of the Band

2007-12-17T20:59:00.000-05:00

And here is the key
To a house far away
Where I used to live
As a child.
They tore down the building
When I moved away
And left the key unreconciled.

Souvenirs- Dan Fogelberg

Christmas. I have always felt that Santa's bag was a mixed one. Lots of presents to get- upside. Downside: finding presents to give- and heaven help me, the right one (the internal pressure on this one for me is the same strength used to turn coal into diamonds) Tons of great foods (the office today offered a cornucopia heavy on chocolate covered salty things -breakfast this morning was dark chocolate covered popcorn- I had em with a glass of milk) but alas little time in the holiday hubbub to get to the gym. And visiting my friends- spending time, precious time with Nikki who will be older and a lot less a little girl the next time I see her- but the upside- she grows like the most amazing flower and there is joy in that. And saying good-bye to those far-flung friends- feeling the tear as I drive away into a gray midwestern morning- the upside- I'm driving- it still rocks. And there is so much, so much, to come home to. You know who you are.

And then a note, an e-mail, Dan Fogelberg died at 56. It seems so... young. 56 years old- shouldn't there be some sort of divine dispensation for talent? For those people whose gift- in this case whose music, is so intricately entwined in memories our lives? But there isn't. What is beautiful and oh so fine is too often fleeting.

And so it goes- I listen to the songs. I remember those times and I am grateful. For the music that brings those times so close that I taste the wine of those moments on my lips, sweeter for the aging and the bitterness of such a young vintage now mellowed and fine. I choose to be sad for this moment because when beauty passes it is fitting to grieve and I rejoice for the moments that this sad, sad death brought back for a visit.

And here is a sunrise
To set on your sill.
The ghosts of the dawn
Moving near.
They pass through your sorrow
And leave you quite still...
Sitting among souvenirs.

Office Christmas Party Etiquette

2007-12-06T21:57:00.000-05:00

I have read the articles posted online about the do's and don'ts for the office Christmas party. Traditional wisdom summed up it says- DO go (because you HAVE to) but for the Love of your JOB do not have fun (if they catch you being yourself- your career is toast). All these ridiculously sensible rules make my heart yearn for a slightly less- sensible, wildly politically incorrect time. So- for your reading pleasure and mine, a memo (written in 1957 and edited somewhat by me for length and well- it's 2007- we actually HAVE come a long way, girl-wise) by Alan Sherman (yes, the guy who wrote the Camp Granada Song- Hello Muddah- Hello Fadduh) on conduct at the office Christmas Party:

Memo to: All Office Personnel
From: Alan Sherman
Subject: The 1957 Office Xmas Party

The office party as most of you know is set for next Tuesday, December 24th, at 12 noon.

Girls who have been present at previous Office Parties have been, I realize, looking forward to seeing me at this party next Tuesday.

Due to the unprecedented demand for my services this year, and the limitations imposed on me by nature and time-- I must set forth the following rules and regulations for conduct at the Office Party:

1. ALL OF THE GIRLS WISHING TO PECK ME POLITELY ON THE CHEEK, or pinch my cheek and say "isn't he a doll?" will kindly line up at the 29th floor water cooler. If time allows, I will appear there late in the party to accomodate one and all.

2. GIRLS WITH NO PREVIOUS SEXUAL EXPERIENCE, OR GIRLS SUFFERING from emotional trauma, will please report MONDAY night at 7:30 to my assistant, Mr. Chester Feldman, who will give you pre-party instructions, a chalk-talk, and a specially prepared pamphlet from the National Safety Council.

3. DOROTHY KRESSLER WILL REPORT DIRECTLY TO ME IMMEDIATELY UPON RECEIPT OF THIS MEMO What I have in mind is the same thing as last year but this year I'd like to get started a little earlier.

4. ALL GIRLS WILL TAKE WHATEVER SPECIAL PRECAUTIONS ARE INDICATED. DON'T DEPEND ON ME FOR PRECAUTIONS- YOU KNOW WHAT A MAD, IMPETUOUS FOOL I AM.

5. I HAVE NO DESIRE TO REPEAT MY UNFORTUNATE EXPERIENCE OF LAST YEAR'S CHRISTMAS PARTY. Most of you will remember my regrettable case of trench mouth which lasted well into February of this year. I'm not going to name any names- you know who you are.

6. DUE TO THE UNPRECEDENTED DEMAND priority will be given this Christmas to those who have done their part during the course of the regular year.

7. GIRLS--REMEMBER THE GOLDEN RULE. Be fair to the other girls. Do unto me only what you would let me do unto you. Take only what you need. Waste not, want not. Remember a man isn't made of wood, but he isn't made of iron either.

8. GIRLS WHO BRING UP THE SUBJECT OF OFFICE POLITICS at critical moments in the proceedings will be regarded as blase and tabled indefinitely.

9. TO THE NEW GIRLS WHO HAVE JOINED THE ORGANIZATION SINCE THE LAST CHRISTMAS PARTY. I must beg you to control yourself as much as you can. For heaven's sake maintain your dignity if it is at all possible. And in years to come, when you tell your friends about it--and I know you will--please be kind.

Thank you Alan...

I have my own set of Holiday Party rules.

I always say "Happy Hanukah" to everyone. I am Jewish- this is known as "representing".

I never pinch anyone's tushy. Not on purpose. And if someone pinches mine- I always say "thank you"

I eat dinner before I go. It's not the drinking I worry about- it's spilling hors d'oeuvres down the front of whatever I am wearing.

I don't drink alcohol- I can fall down without it- why bother with the calories?

I hug. A lot. It's a good time for it. And you can't BUY presents for everyone.

These are just MY rules As for you- please follow common sense- xeroxing your tushy as your holiday card or getting extremely busy in the stock room (that act is NOT also known as collating) is probably not a stellar career move.

Enjoy the party!

:)X

Ways to have fun at the holidays

2007-12-06T15:02:00.000-05:00

Ralph Guild...embellished

I am loving this holiday season. Loving the travelling and the coming home- it's all good. HOWEVER. Not so many folks share this point of view and seem to need to INFLICT their crankiness on those of us content to fa-la-la our way through the season. Strangely enough both my examples happened THIS week, on the subway.

Yesterday a man who spent a great deal of money buying some high-maintenance female a Chanel purse for the holiday took an inordinate amount of glee pokng me in the back with the huge honking shopping bag (with razor enhanced corners by the feel of it) on the subway.

Tuesday, when I was VERY late for dinner at the fabulous Leo's Grandevous whith a lovely bunch of folks (I hate being late) the trains were delayed and each "E" train was more crowded than the last, not allowing so much as a shopping bag, much less the shopping bag OWNER onto the train. Finally I WEDGED myself into a space that would have made a supermodel "suck-it-in" and two MORE people squished in behind me. I have been less intimate with LOVERS than I was at that moment to the people around me on the train. Just to the east of my right ear a woman started shrieking. "OH NO- there is NO more room in here- don't even THINK about getting on..." OOps- our bad- we did not know this was HER train.

So. I figure there are a couple of ways when- not desperately depressed, but slightly tweaked, you can cheer yourself up.

I will add them as I come up with them (I get tweaked pretty often)

Thing 1. Dress up busts in museums. Let's face it- busts are a way of a person saying- I am IMPORTANT- but only from the neck up. It is the sculpture equivalent of a dickie (a fake shirt front that goes under a sweater or jacket thus freeing the wearer from putting on extra clothes...it's a goofy form of clothing) Anyway- they are just ASKING to be dressed up as, unlike whole statues... you can usually reach their heads. The statue of Ralph Guild (shown fully dressed above) was at the Museum of Radio and Broadcasting and ... I had help. I find it advisable when committing a crime, to have a partner. It helps if the partner is a little kid- they are harder to arrest, and they giggle.

And speaking of giggling-

Thing 2. Go to the nearest large toy store and find the Tickle Me Elmos. Begin at one end of the display and start tickling. See if you can get all the Elmos going at once. Before they throw you out of the store.

In a more traditional realm:

Thing 3. Kiss Sidewalk Santas. They are cold. They are bored. This wakes them up. Avoid the ones with yellow beards- smoking Santas do not taste so good.

:)X

Oy, Again with the lists....

2007-12-05T08:38:00.000-05:00

Finding a kosher chicken at the holidays- not so hard in NYC

Last night was the 1st night of Hanukah. Aside from phone calls to the near and dear and a pork product/cream sauce dinner at a "red sauce joint" in Hoboken, the first night did not have that holiday feeling. I didn't light any candles. The candle lighting prayer was said, albeit over a plate of (oy a shanda) shellfish fra diavolo. I have deferred my gift giving until Christmas eve- offering the excuse of flying to and fro as the (weak, so weak) reason why I haven't gotten to the gift shopping. Truth be told I seem to have found PLENTY of time to shop for me.

But I am not avoiding the holiday. I want to stretch it out. I want... well- I thought I would offer a wish list for Hanukah:

I want more time- with friends, and people I love, and with my pillow on cold winter mornings

I want a reason to get out of bed- and a reason to stay five more minutes (you know who you are)

I want to laugh so hard my ribs hurt

And to shed a couple of tears to remember there are two sides to every coin- but we make a choice each time we flip it as to how we deal with the result

I want to be better- at ALL of it- and yet be satisfied at the end of each day that I brought the best I had in myself to that day

I want my favorite foods to be calorie free. Understand here (as we learned from the panty fairy, wishes must be specific) I do NOT want to learn to love iceberg lettuce and celery- I want pizza to never, ever stick to my hips- even with extra cheese.

Also in the food vein- I would like people to give fruitcake a second chance- it's yummy- and just plain misunderstood.

I'd like to spend an hour with the folks that....aren't with me, here, anymore. It would be great just to have enough time to tell each of them I love them one more time.

Not so much to ask- and any one of them would be a terrific gift all on its own (except maybe the fruitcake- if fruitcake catches on there will be less of it for me... not such a good thing)So- until I open the first branch of the Fruitcake anti-defamation league(and weight loss emporium) I will just wish you dreidels, lots of gelt, latkes (sour cream or applesauce- you choose) and jelly doughnuts, non-drippy candles and 8 great wishes to end the year.

:) X

The Mess With Texas

2007-12-02T21:18:00.001-05:00

The Fried Macaroni and Cheese Nugget from Sonic

Pure evil. 280 calories 140 of them pure unadulterated FAT. Fortunately only available from Sonic for, as Sherell the fast talking Sonic counter girl assured me- for the season. I was wondering... WHICH season? The Cholesterol Season? Say... September until death by arterial clogging? Or the holiday season- which needs no help after stuffing, pies and Christmas cookies, potato latkes and chanukah gelt to pack on an additional 10 lbs from November to January which will cling to your hips like a horn dog ex-boyfriend until the promise of summer forces you to brutally shake them (the pounds, not the boyfriend) by dining on water and celery until thinner or fed up. Oh. And the worst news- they're really tasty.

Wedding Flags in La Marqueta San Antonio

A stylish lady of San Antonio... thos one OBVIOUSLY gave the mac and cheese nuggets a miss...

The Guadalajara Grill in La Villeta, the original settlement of San Antonio. A note to the ... well to myself. When you have a post awful cold stomach do not, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, order the smoked tuna enchiladas with chipotle sauce. Even on a good day.. well, Montezuma's reach, in the name of revenge, is extensive and truly potent.

The Alamo. Located MOST unfortunately next to a BIG mall and across from a Ripley's Believe it or Not

A friend suggested not only that I tell their child about jackelopes but that I ran this particular one over with my rental car.

And then there was the mess...

There was a horrendous line at security in the airport going from San Antonio to Dallas. One frustrated woman, an hour into the wait announced to everyone in the line- "I have NO idea why this is taking so long. All they have to do is search the Muslims." I could not help myself. I said out loud "Oh my God". A man next to me said "Yeah". Except he wasn't saying it to me- he was saying it to the woman who made the initial comment.

The next two days the comment stayed with me and then outside the Alamo I saw the most adorable Mexican child. Her abuela was sitting having a cold drink in the shade and the baby wandered back and forth waving a tissue like an unofficial greeter of Alamo visitors. I thought about Davy Crockett. And General Santa Anna. Lots of strife. Certainly not a great deal of love for Mexicans back then in San Antonio. And yet here we were. And here was this tiny muchacha waving hello. Things pass. Ultimately despite whatever the day's strife- approach with love, openness and innocence. This and time and the rest all passes. Especially with love.

You know who you are. :) X

The Panty Fairy- A slightly naughty love story

2007-11-30T10:32:00.000-05:00

For you- and you know who you are. Thanks for sharing so nice.

"I can't believe you will be gone again...." he sighed into her hair- which she had spent an hour washing and curling and he spent 15 minutes dissolving into a passion-mussed tangle

"It's just a week- duty calls" she whispered into a space slightly below his rib, ruffling the curls of hair on his chest with mutual exasperation.

They exchanged mundane reassurances. "It'll be ok." "You'll see" "You have work- I have work". They both knew the excuses were hollow and the reality was that no matter how filled the days were- the nights had a empty cool spot on the opposite side of the bed.

Her downcast eyes suddenly glinted wickedly- "I know!" She pulled a pair of embroidered sheer black panties from the pile of hastily disgarded clothing at the side of the bed- and the nightstand, and the doorknob, and the chandelier (how did that GET up there?).

"Take these"- she said. "I won't be here but you can hold these and remember- there are lots of good times ahead." His eyes lifted to hers- and then looked back at the panties and then at her..."These are better with a girl inside..." he smiled- "Any girl?" She said, her lip curling in a knowing smile... and the panties hit the floor again.

Later that day (you can fill in the details above- this isn't THAT naughty a fairy tale) He waved goodbye at the airport and watched as she schlepped her luggage into the long line at curbside check in. As he drove off he felt the small bundle that was the panties curled like a little reminder of what he would miss in what appeared to be an endless succession of days- just 5 actually, but oh those long nights!

That evening he got ready for bed, remembered and pulled the panties from his jacket pocket. Feeling a bit sheepish he held the panties at arms length- little ribbons, thread flowers and the slightest hint of what had taken place between them earlier that day. "These ARE much better with a girl in them"- he said aloud startled at the sound of his own childish indignation. "Well they are"- he muttered- "what good are panties here and a girl wayyyy the hell over THERE?" He sat on the side of the bed and put his elbows on his knees and his fists into his chin grinding the little panties ever so slightly into his cheek- he turned his head towards the lacy lingerie and closing his eyes he whispered into them once more- "SO much better with a girl in them..."

Suddenly the air was scented with the distinct aroma of... fabric softener sheets. He opened his eyes and standing in front of our hero was... a clothes hamper. Upon closer inspection- HIS clothes hamper. "How did THAT get in here?"- he wondered aloud.

"I am the panty fairy"- said the hamper- its wicker lid lifting and falling with each word.

"You have three wishes..."

“Why?” the hero asked, the panties now clutched inexplicably to his chest, in all likelihood from the shock of encountering talking bathroom furniture in the bedroom.

The hamper rippled its lid in near-derision- “Schmuck, who says no to three wishes? Look a gift hamper in the mouth and all you’re gonna get is a faceful of dirty gym socks.” The wicker gave the distinct impression of a huff by tapping its lid insistently for a full minute. “So… what’s it gonna be- its laundry night y’know” the hamper grunted.

The hero remembered the panties in his hand. What the hell- he thought- he’d tried Atkins, bought sea monkeys and x-ray specs from the back of a comic book- even tied a cape around his neck and jumped off the garage roof- he’d passed foolish a long time ago.

“OK, OK- three wishes, right?” he said… shaking his head in wonder and just the beginning of belief. “Yeah, brain trust- and I’m the panty fairy so have it make sense from that angle wouldja? I’m fresh outta mansions, trunks of gold and being blessed like a racehorse if you catch my drift” Our hero understood- at least the first two… he’d figure out what all this had to do with horses another time.

He looked at the panties- “a sexy, sexy girl… to fill these.” The hamper sighed- “okie doke.”

And standing in the panties was a beautiful brunette- JUST in the panties.

We pause a moment to let our hero catch his breath- which he then let out in a low…”Whoa”
And then quickly pulled back in because he needed the air to make the room stop spinning-

She held her arms out. Our hero went to her- the hamper chose this moment to slide into the living room and make casual conversation with a wrought iron plant stand he’d been eyeing for weeks. He liked the look of her sturdy legs.

Our hero was only momentarily stunned and took the fairy’s apparition into his arms. She was beautiful, and sexy, and she could KISS. And kiss… and kiss….. And

He pulled back from her sexy tousselled visage- with his eyes half closed. “You are so… beautiful… “ He whispered “Uh-huh” she said. “And sooo sexy” he spoke into her perfect ear. “Uhuh” she said. “ And,,, hey…ummm don’t you have anything else to say?” He asked- pulling back from the perfect face to look into her eyes- “Naaah” she said- “you can just keep talking- it’s all true..Oh wait- there is something…” she put one pink polished nail to her slick pouting lips “Got any gum? All this kissing makes my mouth dry…" ” Uh maybe a tic tac…I’ll check” he said. He walked into the kitchen and began checking the drawers for loose hard candy… “ Make it sugar free” she yelled from the bedroom “and could you move it I’m getting COLD” Hmmm our hero thought,,, me too.

Our hero walked into the living room where the hamper was getting into a very serious conversation with the plant stand regarding the distinct advantages of cross-pollinating the wicker gene with the wrought iron gene and creating a nice flexible… “A- HEM” the hamper looked over what would have been a shoulder- had there actually BEEN a place for shoulders on a hamper. “Can I TALK to you a sec?” the hero asked the hamper. “Finished so soon?” the hamper smirked “ I knew a seltzer bottle once that had that problem and solved it by icing..” “NO” Shouted the hero “Look she’s nice and all but… kind of a pain… and I kind of prefer someone with more than a three word vocabulary” “Picky, Picky… big talk for a guy who was talking to UNDERWEAR half an hour ago.” “Look” The hero began losing patience- which, for a hero is really a stretch, “could you just- you know- disappear her?” “I look like Tony Soprano to YOU?” the hamper barked. The hero sighed. “She’s an apparition not a mob informer-look, just.,,,”

“OK,OK, OK- she’s gone.” said the hamper.

I’m going to bed- said the hero with a sigh, and as he walked to the bed he spotted the little black panties lying by the side of the bed. He picked them up- folded them carefully once, and then again, and slipped them under his pillow. As he lay down on his side his hand slid to the cool empty place on the other side of the bed.

“See ya tomorrow schmedrick…” said the hamper as it ambled back to the living room- the night was still young…

Our hero (heretofore referred as “H” to save typing "OUR hero"… over and over- feels like overkill and he’d be embarrassed if he read it… heroes are modest like that) returned from work the next evening, dropped jacket, car keys, shirt, pants and scootched off his socks (that motion where you take off each sock using the opposite foot to avoid bending down- you know, scootching.) as he walked through the empty apartment and into the bedroom in t-shirt and somewhat less than his BEST underwear- after all (sigh) who would notice?

“Where have you BEEN?” there stood the hamper- next to H’s sock drawer with a pile of random single socks scattered on the floor around it. “What?” “HUH” stammered H.
“Great act!” sneered the hamper- “banter like that should be on Carson” H looked up from the pile of socks- “Carson’s DEAD” H shot back. “So’s late night TV- it’s all dreck.What’s your point?” the hamper replied with a resigned air. “So! Ready for wish #2?” the hamper asked- wriggling a mismatched pair of socks on its lid- which eerily resembled Groucho Marx’s eyebrows in a not-so-good way..

“Look,” said H sagging onto the bed and slipping his hand under the pillow to find the panties “ I appreciate your doing this but- last night was really awful- she was beautiful- but …” “Yeah- what a bimbo… no problem kid- I felt bad yanno so…” The hamper glanced downward- “ I decided to fix this…”. H looked down as well- “You’re fixing …
my socks?” “Nahhh- returning the one-sies” said the hamper” I usually keep ‘em until you throw the singles out and then return the first ones but… you looked like you could use a break after last night..” H goggled… “But…WHY steal socks?” “Hard to hide a Cadillac in a hamper kid- if ya know what I mean” said the hamper with a small wicker shrug. “So! Make your wish- we’re burning spin cycle here…” . The Cadillac notion danced briefly on H’s consciousness hoping to find a purchase based on reason… and ultimately gave up- making sense of a talking hamper was just too gargantuan a task for one hero with panties on the brain- the Cadillac got parked along with the racehorse reference for further consideration at a later date. That being dealt with H gave the second wish a moment’s thought- what was he going to do? She was still hundreds of miles and days away- and he was just a guy with panties under his pillow and a big night of reheated beef stew and bathtub cleaning scheduled for the evening’s entertainment agenda.

“I’m still missing a girl” said H-. “Natch”, said the hamper- “whaddaya think I AM a FRUIT basket?” “No- that’s not IT- sexy is great- but… someone…SMART… someone I can talk to…trade IDEAS with…” H implored the hamper- “Understand?”. “You got it” Said the hamper- and sitting behind H on the bed where the panties had been was yet another brunette- wearing one of H’s shirts- and the little black panties. Her dark hair was piled on her head and a pair of neat horn-rimmed glasses perched on a very nice but not exceptional nose and highlighting a very intelligent pair of brown eyes. “ Er- kid- I’m gonna head out for a bit. It’s Dollar night at the Fluff and Fold” said the hamper. H waved a hand in the direction of the retreating hamper, giving barely a thought as to how exactly the hamper would open the door- or WHERE the dollars came from for Dollar night at the Fluff and Fold and making a mental note to be more thorough when going through pockets before putting pants in the wash.

“Hi…” said H- a bit amazed at the very…interested woman sitting on the bed. “Greetings and Salutations!” she said brightly- peering over her glasses at H. “May I sit down?” asked H. “It‘s YOUR bed isn’t it?” asked the woman pleasantly… “ it’s not mine to GIVE permission” H sat down next to her. “Charlotte’s Web” said the woman. H- who was still busily looking at this latest apparition- who definitely filled his shirt in ways he didn’t, not to mention rather nicely filling the panties which peeked fetchingly from beneath the hem. H’s brain heard through a fog of shirt and panty inspired…preoccupation and finally registered the words “Charlotte’s Web?”. Yes! said the woman waggling a well-read paperback book in front of him- “I simply ADORE E.B.White’s writing- I am rereading his works and analyzing the Freudian and Jungian archetypes present in each book” she said- the words delivered precisely in a slightly breathless voice which brought neither pigs nor spiders to mind for H. He leaned towards her cross-legged corporeality on the bed- intent on those fast moving chatty lips, his eyes half closed, his own lips moving forward and touching…nothing

For suddenly she had shifted from sitting up to lying on her stomach on the bed with her face propped on her elbows revealing a not so perfect but absolutely serviceable and very nice tushie which peeked rather fetchingly from below the shirt as she bent her knees and crossed her ankles and continued talking. “Greetings and Salutations is what Charlotte says when she meets the pig for the first time- but you knew that” The apparition paused for the briefest razor thin moment and looked up to H for recognition. H, with great effort removed his eyes from the aforementioned tushy just long enough to smile in false affirmation.

“… I think that Charlotte is actually the mother figure and her death in the end as well as the birth of all those baby spiders is just the ULTIMATE in Oedipal fantasies- you know….” Again she allowed a sliver of a pause for agreement- it was at that moment that H realized that the panty fairy did not have a matching bra fairy and could only murmur “Yerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” as a basic form of agreement. “Good!” piped the woman. I’m so glad you GET it- so few people get the DEEPER ideas and the BIG picture- it’s so nice to have someone to BOUNCE these things off. “Bounce…” echoed H who by this time was incapable of locating his own nouns or verbs .

It was at this moment, in an singularly UNhero-like moment- H heard a rush not unlike the ocean in his ears- he grabbed the apparition by the shoulders and gave her a long, soul-searching, extended tushy-gazing inspired kiss. Drawing back from her inexplicably stiff form H opened his eyes. The lip thing wasn’t really WORKING here- it was more like lip MASHING than kissing- he thought. Altogether too much teeth and not enough of the softer slipperier stuff. It was at that moment the roaring sound in his ears that preceded the kiss subsided and he located the problem.

She was STILL talking.

“and THAT rat…. With his LONG tail . It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to see that this is all about the father issues – cold, distant and..”

It was at that moment that the second unhero-like moment occurred. H leaned towards her and whispered to her still moving lips… “Shut up and kiss me- wouldja?. The apparition’s eyes opened WIDE. “Whatever for?” she piped- “We DID that. I simply don’t know what all the fuss is about- you kiss- hug, messiness- so much more exciting- the exchange of ideas, than say- lip sucking and neck biting..” “ But.” said H- still feeling a bit sheepish for overstepping the hero boundaries twice in such a brief period.. “ I LIKE hickies…especially the installation process” he mumbled, mostly to himself as she was still talking.

“....the geese with those long necks and beaks…OBVIOUSLY a reference to…” The end of her sentence was muffled by the slamming of the front door and the hamper ambled in, a powder blue plastic fabric softener dispenser ball dangling jauntily from his left handle. “Heyyyy kid- home run… this one’s STILL talking- bet you’re in head-heaven huh? Whatta BRAIN!

“Can I SEE you in the other room?” H asked- his voice communicating a sense of more than a little urgency, he grabbed the hamper by the first thing that came to hand- the softener ball- “EASY” yelled the hamper “new piercings are SENSITIVE” And dragged the hamper into the living room.

“GET. HER. OUT.” growled H. “What is your damage Boy-o?” asked the hamper- rocking slightly from the left to the right as he experimented with the side to side momentum of the softener ball. “STAY still, please…” begged H “ Yes, she’s smart, and yes we exchange IDEAS but… what can I say- NOT MY idea of a conversation- I don’t know what she is saying AND I can’t even get a word in edgewise with a razor blade to TELL her. “But she’s a cutie, too, huh.. ain’t she? Didn’t I get you what you asked for? Hunh? Didn’t I? The hamper began to develop the distinctly ripe scent of indignation- sort of a cross between greasy kitchen towels and old gym uniforms. “Yes, yes- you delivered… “ sighed H “it’s…just.... not what I was looking for… could you…” “Done” said the hamper-

“You’re not makin’ this easy boychik.” Huffed the hamper. “I’m outta here- see you tomorrow.”

H lay down on top of the covers and curled his body around the panties lying on top of the comforter. “ You think THIS is easy? He said to the air above the bed… and rolled onto his stomach, and the panties and fell asleep.

The next night H struggled to juggle keys, groceries and knapsack as he opened the door to his apartment. His soul needed soothing and the comfort food of the evening was a cheesy risotto (the beef stew of the previous night- or perhaps that same evening’s “date” had left H with a bit of a sour stomach and turned his digestive tract into an express lane.

He had just shoved the door closed with his hip when a voice behind him said “Looocy is dat YOU?” . H’s struggle to maintain the balance on his load was lost as keys, knapsack and groceries hit the floor, the bag of Arborio rice broke and rice skittered across the floor, the container of grated cheese popped open and a fine dust of Parmeggiano Romano filled the air, finally a large tin of chicken broth followed, bouncing off H’s foot . “What the ………….!!” He howled in a combination of shock, pain and exasperation- a potent recipe for driving even the most staunch hero to the occasional bout of potty mouth.

Standing in the doorway wearing a red checked apron tied about its mid-section was the hamper.“I love that show- especially Ricky- he could always make me laugh. How ya doin tonight kid?” H just stood there gingerly favoring the broth-wounded foot and brushing Parmesan off his pants. “Look- I’m fed up- I’m OK on my own- I have the TV- my work to do, and I can FEED myself” (“when dinner isn’t raw and on the floor” he thought to himself, not daring to utter the words aloud should the apron be some indication the hamper was of a mind to actually cook- truly a recipe for disaster- or at the very least-severe indigestion) “I’m just fine”- he continued ”so thanks and see ya, bye.””

“Kid, kid, kid. Man does not live on…” the hamper glanced down “ whatever this hard crunchy stuff on the floor is, alone. Look- you’ve got one more wish- why waste it?” The hamper looked up at H- his lid open and earnest, and inadvertently revealing H’s need to do a white wash, soon. “I just want a girl who is HERE for ME.” “DONE” said the hamper.“Wait, wait, wait!!!!!! Shouted H but the hamper was trundling off to the kitchen, sweeping the rice and grated cheese ahead of it and rolling the can of broth as it went. From behind H a voice cried “Oh You’re HOME!” and he was suddenly blindsided by a slightly cushy, flannelly, rather nice smelling bundle of…girl.

“OOF” H grunted, for the second time since entering the apartment- which had suddenly and inexplicably begun to feel like a roller derby arena with flying debris and flying…girls. H’s face was at that moment being covered in a series of quick moist kisses- “I missed you, missed you missed you!” H began to notice an unfamiliar feeling at the center of his chest… he tried to identify it… Fear? Nope- too warm. Apprehension- no- missing the twisty stomach/nausea thing. Depression? Wrong again, the corners of his mouth were turned the wrong way- in this moment- up. So lets recount- thought H. warm, smiling and not sick, female kissing me and moving assorted girly parts against me wearing – what WAS she wearing? H pulled back as far as the kissing girl/bundle’s arm’s length would allow. She was clad in an EXTREMELY short but decidedly red flannel lace-trimmed nightgown which was delightfully both short enough and low cut enough to reveal… the little black panties. The girl pushed forward wrapping her arms tightly around H’s neck- “WHERE have you BEEN?” “It’s been FOREVER! She whispered urgently. H was a bit occupied surveying the VERY short expanse of nightgown at the back of the girl and.. the way the flannel.. draped- in a way that flannel shouldn’t if one expects to behave in a gentlemanly hero-like manner through those cold winter nights. On the other hand what better way to stay warm thus avoiding the need for even this miniscule yet fetching little scrap of fabric?

“I have been waiting FOREVER” she looked up at him, her big brown eyes imploring and her dark brown hair falling in a really cute way in her eyes. She swung from her arms draped in a rather friendly half- Nelson around H’s neck. “Well honestly,” said H moving a wisp of hair out of her near tear-filled eyes…“I just wished you up ten minutes ago”. “But I’ve been waiting ALL that time” she pouted-. “I’m sorry” replied H. I’ll focus on you to make up for it. What did you do today?” he asked as he attempted to sit down, this made somewhat difficult as the girl did not seem to be willing to unlace her fingers from around H’s neck so he sat down on the bed and she sat down - on H. “I waited for you” she said- her face inches from H’s. “ Well, did you DO anything interesting?” he asked- “I thought about you- where you were, what you were doing… when you’d be home…” she said dreamily and at the same time still disturbingly close to H’s face. H began to notice a distinct drop in the amount of oxygen in the room and breathing freely was getting slightly more difficult. “But let’s talk about YOU” she said in a gush “Did YOU miss ME today?” she asked brightly- tightening her grip on his neck as she tossed her head flinging a half dozen tresses into his mouth as he struggled to take a deep breath while locked in her embrace. “Well…” “P-TUI”, “Yes..KACK” said H, “Or I would have,” he said- spitting one final tress from his mouth “had I known you were here…” We’re TOGETHER NOW that’s ALL that matters” she sighed blissfully.

H was now experiencing a bit of numbness in his girl-encumbered legs as well as a slight spinning sensation which could either be attributed to so MUCH girl at one go or a distinct lack of personal space and oxygen. The resulting feelings were quite similar, H imagined, to being trapped in a nice smelling but utterly sealed coal mine with an overly chatty canary.

“Could you- WHEEZE- give me a sec here?” H managed to gasp. “O-KAYYYYYY" She said coyly… but you be RIGHT back”. “Certainly” said H as he stood and simultaneously ducked under her tentacle-like embrace “Be right back!” he said, backing out of the room to avoid being recaptured.

He ran into the kitchen where the hamper stood next to a bubbling pot on the stovetop. “Help” gasped H. “What now?” the hamper grunted.” The panties are filled- she’s ALL yours- Whaddaya want? Green Stamps, too??”

H raked his hands through his hair in exasperation.and said urgently “Listen- ALL I want is an intelligent, sexy girl who HAS a life of her own, who wants to be here with ME- even when she ISN’T exactly here- is that SO MUCH to ask?”

“ I knew you’d be a LITTLE lonely but this is kind of extreme don’t you think?” said a voice from behind H. He turned and there in the doorway was yet another brunette; a little travel-rumpled, smelling a bit of airplane and very, very wrinkled from a long flight and smiling at him.

“You’re HOME” he said. “Yep.” She smiled and walked over to him, and placed her arms on his shoulders and looked directly in his eyes- “ Missed you” she said quietly and kissed him in a way that verified that she missed him very much indeed. She took his hand and led him to the bedroom… and there in the doorway lay the little black panties. “What were you doing with THESE?" She laughed. “Trying to fill them.” he said “You can’t BELIEVE how difficult that can be!” “Probably not” she said- “but c’mere and let me show you how easily they get emptied” she grinned.

“Wait” said H ( because a girl THIS good deserves a hero) “you just had a long flight- do you want some dinner?”

“Nahhh” said the girl- “We had risotto with fabric softener on the plane” and then she giggled.

And the moral of the story is:

It’s not the panties on the girl- it’s YOUR girl in the panties – and really, with the right girl- who needs panties?

A Recipe for Thanksgiving

2007-11-22T10:59:00.000-05:00

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. No presents. No angst over who sits next to who or what cruel words separate people no matter how long ago they were uttered when forced to sit in the same room with the ones they injured. Aside from my sister who works in a supermarket on Staten Island and who works every Thanksgiving so other people can get that last minute whatever that will make their holiday complete, I have no family, my parents having died long enough ago to be counted in decades. Years ago-I began cooking for people who come in ones and twos. People like me who don't have a large supply of blood relatives, or who live too far from their home fires. There is a core group- folks who come every year and always- new ones. Travelling students, actors between shows, people whose countries do not celebrate this particular feast. The table is not always stable but its always interesting. There is something delightful about showing people from Australia marshmallow covered sweet potatoes- I remember my friend Bridget from Melbourne when upon seeing that particular dish in the oven shrieked and ran for her camera insisting on taking photos ("Back home we thought this was a JOKE" she said in her gorgeous accent, as exotic to me as this Thanksgiving staple was to her)

So the crowd at the table over the years fluctuates- there have been as many as 30 people and as few as 2. No matter how many people come to dinner- until at least 3:00 it's just me. I don't know exactly why- I have never said to anyone don't come earlier- dinner is at 6, and I tell them so but until at least late afternoon its just me. But I am never alone.

I do the stuffing first. While I am chopping and sauteeing onions I feel my dad at the stove. Up and chopping the giblets and putting them in a pot to simmer for broth. And when I sneak a fingerful of just-mixed stuffing I feel him there.

I make the cranberry apple pie and catch myself peeling the apple in one long peel, the way my grandmother did. And as I slide a slice of apple into my mouth I remember the sweetness of an apple coated in cinnamon and sugar that she slipped into my mouth, admonishing me to keep my hands out of the bowl. I never listened.

I stuff the turkey and remember the first year my dad took my sister and I to my soon-to-be stepmother's house for Thanksgiving and seeing her grandmother's stuffing- pinkish and the consistency of oatmeal, oozing from the cavity of a paprika coated bird. I whispered to my dad and he looked back and me and whispered fiercely that NO ONE threw up in the turkey and could I PLEASE behave. I behaved, but I would not touch the stuffing.

I slide the turkey into the oven and after about 2 hours the smell of turkey begins so scent the air. It is then I remember my friend Robin. I cooked my first on my own turkey at Robin's house. My surrogate father he both made my wedding dress and escorted me down the aisle. It was at his house I learned about wine glasses and chargers and cloth napkins. That food made a meal but the ambience- that made it a dinner, and a party. In the years since he passed I have always strived to create the magic he did- cloth napkins, candlelight- its good- but still after all these years I finally come to realize that there are some people who dress a table by their presence at it and the glasses and plates twinkle with their charm and grace- I do what I can. No paper napkins. But I miss playing Scrabble with him and losing while he cheated shamelessly every time I got up to baste.

And there are people who have their obligations- to family, to work or my friend Carola, whose favorite thing to bring to dinner is Tupperware. She e-mailed me that she is in Scotland. I was surprised she did not ask me to save a plate. I will miss her fringey wonderfulness and keep fingers crossed they feed her well wherever she is. I hope it's not Haggis... some things should just not be stuffed, ANY time of year.

And the phone rings- with serious concerns like "I baked a pumpkin pie yesterday- does it need to go in the refrigerator?" Nope Miriam- tastes better without the fridge- just don't tell your mom. Or VLH who has been teasing me mercilessly because he is attempting to debunk the myth that my DELICIOUS cranberry sauce takes LOTS AND LOTS of work (truth be told its just 2 bags of berries, a can of frozen OJ and some spices and sugar and the pizza resistance- star anise plopped on the stove- in a pot- to cook til the berries pop) OK its not hard work but it's ALL MINE. VLH likes the kind of cranberry sauce that still has the ridges from the can on it- I want to be snobby about it but I actually think it's kinda cute. And then when I am getting a bit behind myself Kiwi will call to let me know he has the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade on TV, muted, so he can listen to Alice's Restaurant. This has been my ritual for years and was discovered 3 years ago by Kiwi as the thing that was missing from his Thanksgiving. This, along with a traditionnay- near RELIGION shared by the folks closest to me- the post holiday leftover sandwich which includes everything from the meal including gravy-which has been refrigerated and therefore can be SPREAD and the addition of mayonnaise and some kind of very white bread (my choice this year? Onion Naan. I believe it will be a high water mark in the pantheon of post turkey day leftover sandwiches- toasted- in case you want to try this at home)

So this year- at least as of 11 am there are seven of us. (OK its 1:22 and we are at 8) That can change and as I cook enough for twenty (just in case) is never a problem. Two years ago the last minute guest was a woman relocated to New York because of Hurricane Katrina, I hope she has found her way home. Last year it was Kate- a co-worker who was trekking her way across the globe and spending her first American Thanksgiving at my house. She took before and after photos of her plate to send to folks at home. Too long ago to remember there was a pack of jazz musicians, Germany, Switzerland, Canada, Sweden and Denmark were all represented and 30 people consumed 14 bottles of wine, BEFORE dinner. Afterwards we all watched Alice's Restaurant and kept pausing the video (it was that long ago) to explain dialog and idiomatic phrases unintelligible to European ears. The movie was followed by an hours long jam session which had my neighbors growling at me for months after. It was worth it.

As I finish reading this over I guess the statement that I am alone is not completely true- people often get a sad look on their faces when I mention the no parents thing- or no close blood family. I hear a great deal from people who say that the holidays depress them- and list what they do not have that makes them so. But I have never been alone on the holidays. I think the recipe is put out as much love as you can- it comes right back, stays with you ever after and multiplies. For my family. For my friends. For all the love and all the great surprises life has brought to me- you know who you are.You are all here with me, and always will be. I give thanks. :) X

The UNcommon cold

2007-11-20T14:26:00.000-05:00

This falls into the "I feel so ab-so-frickin-lutely awful death would be welcome" category. I don't get sick. Ever. I tell people that in a smug kind of way that says KEEP your healthy living no smoking no drinking in bed by 9 and only eat organic foods grown by monks in fair trade environments. I by virtue of a superior immune system and an unfailingly positive attitude can burn the candle at all ends, travel the country back and forth and suffer no ill effects- none whatsoever.

Til now.

This cold makes the bubonic plague look like a case of mild poison ivy. It laughs at Day-Quil (which makes me sleepy) and giggles uncontrollably at Nyquil leaving me gasping and re-reading Alan Sherman's autobiography at 4:20 am. I tried herbal remedies- which leave me feeling virtuous but still sniffling. Tea- ha- til it tastes like coffee it will do me no good at all. Starve a cold- ok- I survived a day on triscuits- which I ate trying to alleviate the itchiness at the back of my throat only to wake up choking like Minnie trying to hack up a hairball. I text friends at 5 am and try to leave them all my worldly possesions- the reply- I do not want your collection of vintage Handi-Wipes- just quit making my phone beep at 3 am.

OK- they go to the Smithsonian. My choice of placement? Right next to Archie Bunker's barcalounger. They are just THAT great a piece of Americana.

And to the friends kind enough to bring by soup, juice and various remedies- I thank you but placing them outside the door and running so as not to become infected themselves leaves me more than a little lonely and after 4 days in the house, even Minnie is giving me that "Don't you have someplace to GO?" look. Great- even my cat needs a bit more "personal space" in my hour of need.

Truth be told I am crummy company in this state- personal hygiene is limited to removing the 3 winter coats on my tongue precipitated by the incessant parade of Ricola drops. Bits of me are alternately too cold or too hot so I alternate between hanging over the oven or standing in an open doorway. And in an act of TOTAL denial, last night I decided I would NOT let this malady interfere with my Thanksgiving I baked pies. A feat which left me dizzy and clutching the table edge. I spent a bit of time on the phone last night in the midst of this saying how this cold was not affecting me even a little and heard my friend say- "You know you are WHEEZING"? Truth be told- I was happy air was going in and out of my lungs.

I am saying here and now to this strain of whatever it is that I picked up on Continental Airlines flying from New York to West Palm Beach- I give in. I am forcing liquids. I am laying in bed and letting the most strenuous thing I do be using the TV remote to flip channels and drinking tea until my eyes cross. I am taking Advil and using the lotion tissues which feel marginally less scratchy than the paper towels I was using before. There was a moment between 3 and 4 am when I thought for sure my nose was going to fall into the tissue every time I used one. And can I ask why it is in the nature of every human to look into the tissue after blowing? What will you see? A cracker jack prize? Some hidden fortune cookie message like "Good Health is not to be taken for Granted" written in unspeakable bodily fluids? Of course at that hour of the morning there is not a hell of a lot to see- you take your entertainment where you can.

So- I actually don't get sick- at least not in little bits- I get sick all at once. And here I am. Still typing. Need a tissue.

Scuse me.

:P X

No more travels...

2007-11-19T17:45:00.000-05:00

'til after Turkey day or when the tide comes in.... and to this we say (while sporting a MONSTROUS cold, thank goodness for tissues with lotion) AMEN.

The Crocodile Rock- Travels in Southern Florida

2007-11-19T16:33:00.000-05:00

Sign at the pier in Naples...

I have often thought that a diet should be based not on what you did eat but what you didn't. NOT eating a slice of chocolate cake should count just as much as choosing salad rather than fries for your burger dinner. Never mind common wisdom suggests maybe JUST having the salad- a thought too gruesome for contemplation- pure frivolity and we will discuss that no further. That the burger was not garnished with bacon and bleu cheese should be an act of virtue worthy of a nomination for sainthood. Oops. Digression- go figure.

What got me from the manatee sign to chocolate cake was- I didn't see any manatees- or for that matter while crossing I-75 from Bal Harbour to Naples- a road known as "Alligator Alley" I didn't see any alligators. I saw something with a scaly pointed end but I was pretty sure it was a blown out tire... At 85 mph the distinction was vague but I wasn't stopping- having just realized I was GOING 85 was a big enough realization. Alligator Alley is not much more than road and everglades- I think I counted 3 exits off the entire 80 plus mile route and I shared the road only for moments with other cars- At one point I figured out (right after noticing the spedometer) that the other cars were not exiting- they were WAAAY behind me eating a dust sandwich.

The other reason I didn't stop was a result of a TV show I caught in the hotel the night before where a serial killer was dumping women's bodies in the swamps right off of- you guessed it- I-75. This particular poor soul had been eaten from the waist down by gators. Stop for a photo op with the reptiles- nossir. There is no guarantee he'd only eat my not-so-good side and that my last photos would not be as unattractive leftovers from the alligator plat-du-jour.

So I covered the spots I was supposed to- and saw a fair amount of Florida in a week. According to National Rental Cars I drove 555 miles total and aside from a confrontation with a curb in a parking garage in Coral Gables, didn't hit anything big. And as I cruised alligator alley I laughed really hard when "Crocodile Rock" came on the radio and sang along at the top of my lungs. About halfway through the trip across I opened the car window, turned off the AC and the radio and just listened. A warm boggy breeze blew my hair and the sun was warm on my arm. It was a lot of things- but it was especially NOT home. And that was, for the moment, a really good thing. Home could wait, just a little.

View of Palm Beach from the causeway

Submerged man sculpture Coral Gables

Koi Pond Bal Harbour

Sunrise Gulf of Mexico

Ultimately you look for the light in the window- the lantern in this case. And start to realize, home would be nice, and the things that greet you when you get there- nicer still. You know who you are.

:)X

Pizmo Beach at Last!

2007-11-15T07:59:00.000-05:00

On the road- this stop- Florida's Treasure Coast- Miami, Coral Gables, Boca Raton, Hanging Gardens of Babylon, Bal Harbour, Naples. Ok you may say- that's NOT quite right. Correct- Naples is on the Western side of Florida. Nice looking out. Truth be told I do not know exactly WHERE the Hanging Gardens of Babylon are but IF they are in Florida- the Garmin will find it. This trip is all about learning things. Some of them suck. But...if I have not experienced them by now- it's long past time I learned them and though I may NOT be as flexible as I was in my younger days I have enough grace to admit "my bad" and move on.

Things I have learned:

The GPS will not prevent you from getting lost- it will just prevent you from getting irretrievably lost. You may need to go 328 miles out of your way to get back where you want to go, but you will get there. And thanks to the Garmin- you know JUST how late you will be when you get there. The Garmin also is like a single minded 6 year old. Say you want to go to a shopping center on the left- and it is directing you- IF you take the entrance NOT recommended by the Garmin it will continue to redirect and recalculate and babble on until you chuck it onto the car floor and say "I HAVE reached my destination- clam UP!".

Important: If you drive home in the dark, turn the headlights on (the control is on the right side of the steering column-no, NOT the windshield wipers the headlights LOW beams please...) MORE important: When you arrive at your destination and have finished chucking the Garmin on the floor and kvetching at it, please shut OFF the same headlights before leaving the car. Because if you do not the grouchy man who comes to give your battery a jump in the morning will charge you $15 a MINUTE to do so. He will also ask humiliatingly direct and obvious questions like- "Left the lights on all night didja?" and " Got a meeting or something?" As I am the only woman in south Florida in pantyhose and I am clutching my datebook and Treo while tapping my foot- the only appropriate answer is a wan smile in lieu of say... kicking him.

And if you are all dressed up- hose, heels, skirt, (NEW skirt) Even though the phone is ringing while you are texting and you have one hand digging in your purse for your keys and your sunglasses are slightly askew for the love of God DO NOT try and walk from the parked car to the shade because.... you will fall in a hole in the sidewalk- the kind of hole which inevitably presents itself in situations just like this. And it will not be a level one fall (you hit your knees) or a level 2 fall (you hit your elbows) it will be a level 3.5 fall(hit FACE on the pavement and spill contents of your purse for 18" in every direction. The only thing worse would be level 4-(doing all of the above while carrying liquid i.e. a cup of coffee)

After repairing from the fall- a trip back to the hotel, change of pantyhose and a hello kitty bandaid (that was what the lady at the desk HAD- fortunately covered up by the skirt) I got a call from my boss- I updated him on my trip and then told him about my fall. "And what did we learn?" he said. "Don't walk, text and chew gum" I asked. He said "No...try doing ONE thing at a time, hmmm?"

I never thought of that.

:)X

The View from the Wings

2007-11-11T19:49:00.000-05:00

"Hummingbird Feeders" Balboa Park, San Diego

There are phrases in the English language that are pure music to the ear- "The tumor is benign" "I love you, too" "This one's on the house" or "No your tush looks just fine in those pants...c'mere...". I learned a new musical phrase this week- albiet offered by a box on the dashboard- there is no more beautiful phrase to the ear than "You have reached your destination"

Me and the PT Cruiser gave the Garmin GPS a real workout as I seemed to test and retest the recalculating route function OVER and over. But I got everyplace I needed to and if I wasn't early (I gave an hour for every 15 minute journey) I was always on time. And it got fun. One night I was even brave enough to turn on the radio as I drove back to the hotel and Garth Brooks was good company for that last leg of the journey.

One cool stop on the trip was Balboa Park and a visit with the Corporate Sponsorship specialist at the Old Globe Theater. I got the full backstage tour as well as tickets for that evening's performance of "A Catered Affair" (more on that later- Harvey Fierstein, Faith Prince and Tom Wopat deserve much more than a footnote).

Because I had appointments in the daytime and theater tickets at the park in the same day I got to see two sides of the park- day and night. I ALSO got to visit backstage as they prepared for the next show to enter the space. The costumes should give it away... if not- read on.

An ancient tree with roots that stretched into another world...

El Teatro del Prato

Backstage at the Globe

The Costume Shop

MAX!

This costume belonged to a character known only to the backstage crew as "Palm Beach Who"

Who heads

The Night...

In walking through (and driving......) I have to say that it was difficult at times to discern between the stage fantasy and the dream that has become the life I am living. It is all so beautiful and strange. Sometimes I get scared. A little bit I get lonely- and want to have a friend close-by. But the phone, the IM and the e-mail keep me connected when I need a check in with my own voluminous roots. And when I share these images and thoughts- I know I am very much, not alone. You walk with me. And laugh. And wish, right along with me, that we could stay just a bit longer and see the Globe Theater's offering of:

The Grinch Who Stole Christmas.

You knew that didnt you- ya Who- you!

:)X

The Affair

2007-11-11T15:58:00.001-05:00

Harvey Fierstein takes the stage in "A Catered Affair" at The Old Globe Theater in San Diego

Sometimes travel brings you back home in unusual ways. You encounter an old love, in a new place. You never knew how you broke my heart that night- walking past me on the stage of the Lortel pursuing a sweet young thing- never saw me standing there. I'd loved you so long... since Torch Song. And I knew how much we had in common- I liked boys- you did too... somehow the commonality made it harder for us to be together. And from that day to this I have worshipped Harvey Fierstein from afar. Never further than the orchestra- though- seeing Harvey is always worth the price of admission. It shames me a bit that he looks better in a beehive hairdo than I do.

I had heard through a theater marketing person in New York that Harvey was bringing a new play to New York in the Spring. That he had written a musical and aside from his own adorable presence he would be joined by the only Miss Adelaide for me- the glorious Faith Prince. As far as I am concerned Broadway should be supported if only so that should Ms. Prince deign to perform, she has as MANY venues as she would like to choose from to do so. And Tom Wopat... I bowled with him on the Broadway Show League when he was performing in "Annie Get Your Gun". He is a real guy's guy and... a definite vintage hottie... it was always a pleasure to watch his jean-clad backside approach the lane.

And then someone said- why not go see a show at the Globe while in San Diego? Why not go and see. " A Catered Affair"- on us? Why not indeed??

I sat gently vibrating with excitement in row L at the Globe- just a paltry few yards from where I had toured that morning. And then the lights went down.

I love when that happens.

"A Catered Affair" is a musical, but as musicals go, more Carousel than Pajama Game. As one fellow outside the theater flipped his paisley shawl over his shoulders he opined to a crowd of his friends- "dark, it was dark" But sometimes it is good,
I think, to sing through those times. Or at least whistle. I hadn't seen Faith Prince onstage since "Bells Are Ringing"- and before that in "Guys and Dolls" loved them both. It has been more than a decade from then to now- she is not the slim waisted chorine any more.. In this role she played a mother who has lost her only son to war- and her daughter was now leaving home- with a city hall wedding as a send off. Trapped she says- in a loveless marriage she contemplates all of this and battles with her past- and her future. Tom Wopat plays her taxi driving husband. Hard working, steadfastly unglamorous and apparently unemotional- at first. I have to say that though I knew I would see powerful performances by Harvey and Faith, I was truly struck by Wopat's strength and his amazing performance of a man who stayed- and his portrayal of what that costs.

And Harvey. He wrote A Catered Affair- and there in San Diego, it was a real welcome home to hear so much New York onstage. Funny, but also, more. It would have been easy to turn his gay brother role to slapstick- and in his hilarious drunk scene when he has threatened to move out of the house ("as Oscar Wilde said, looking up from his death bed at the flocked wall paper- 'One of us HAS to go'") But he conveyed..so much more. And all of it being his wonderful and unique self.

I am looking forward to seeing this again when it comes to Broadway, but... as every peeping Tom knows- a sneak peek is always just a bit more exciting...

:)X

Trading Recipes

2007-11-09T06:25:00.001-05:00

Nobu Matsuhisa and I trade lokshen kugel recipes...

Remember the Alamo

2007-11-07T06:35:00.000-05:00

Me in Betty's rear view

On the road again. San Diego, California. They say Sun Diego but so far it has been gray and a bit soupy here and at least 5 degrees colder than home. Or maybe it is just that texting, talking on the phone and boarding a plane simultaneously are not conducive to ALSO remembering to grab your coat before boarding. Yep- left it by gate 70. Note to whoever finds it- that piece of gum in the pocket, and the book of matches and the 81 cents (that's an INDIAN HEAD penny there) are all yours if you just hang onto the coat til I get home- if you can meet me at Kennedy- better still) (ok- there were no direct flights to Newark when I needed one- good news is- 1st class seat home- ooooo) Anyway. So there I was coatless- and thanks to a somewhat more than occupied night spent trading recipes and brisket tips (Sear first THEN into the oven) with VLH I was having an Arlo Guthrie/Alice's Restaurant morning (I wanted to look like the all-American kid from New York City- hung down, brung down... hung up and BEAT and all of that on herbal iced tea- I AM a wildwoman)I forgot not only my coat but in leaving the house in a hellacious rush forgot my cel phone charger AND a hairbrush.

What's the hubbub bub? I have been travelling a bit now- maybe got my legs under me by this point- EXCEPT.

When I landed at San Diego I wasn't getting a cab to the hotel. Oh no. I was headed for...

The Alamo. The rental car place yanno- San Antonio isn't on the schedule til the end of November. Yep. Her 1st car. So with a lack of sleep, a license so new it squeaks and way too many pairs of shoes in the luggage- (5 pairs, 2.5 day- WHY???) I got in line and prayed the man behind the counter would not LAUGH when I handed him my license. He didn't. His QUESTIONS concerned me more

1- Did I want MEDICAL insurance (why? was there some sort of plague common to rental cars??)
2- EXTRA insurance- the list was incredibly long- so many things that could go WRONG it seemed like asking for trouble so I said no to everything except teensy scratch and dent insurance- it was pretty much a lock I would need that- sure enough- I did not see that little cement thing you are suppose to stop BEFORE when parking- car's now got that tiny owie and my $9 a day was not spent in vain.
3- Was I going to Tijuana?- no sir, not on purpose. I made no guarantees. The GPS is still a bit of a mystery.

He handed me my papers and off to the parking lot I went.Space c10 held a very sensible silver Impala. I got in- made fifteen MILLION adjustments and then noticed that the shift had (EEEK) no markings- where is drive? which is reverse (shoot, shoot shoot) I experimented. Boinked into the concrete thingy- that's "drive". Scared the guy sweeping behind me- that's "reverse". Vrooooooooooooooooom and I don't GO- "neutral" With my breathing back to normal I begin SLOWLY to drive. I get up to the lot attendant who asks me for my papers. I hand him my mapquest stuff- NO lady I need the rental agreement- I hand him my laptop case and ask HIM to find it. Bless him. "Lady", he says- "put the car in park you're rolling" (ooops) Funnily enough he is not surprised- maybe he sees this more than I might believe. He scans the papers once more and informs me I have the wrong CAR. Mind you I went to the spot they sent me to- this seems to happen a lot. BUT I just got this one the way I WANT it. He was unmoved. "That's your car over there" he says and points to...

A black PT Cruiser.

Her first car is just too cool and P.S. The shift is marked with R, D, P, N. ::Whew::

More later :)X

Wabi-Sabi

2007-11-03T12:10:00.000-05:00

"How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?” Dr. Seuss

Tonight - or rather tomorrow 2 am, we turn the clocks back an hour- you remember that hour of sleep you gave up last spring? It's back. I for one have missed it. Watching people fall asleep on the train- (and I personally would like to thank the woman who let me nap on her fake leopard fur shoulder for the 22 minutes it took to get from 33rd Street to Journal Square) I know I am not alone in wanting to revisit those sixty lost minutes.

The other day I walked into Takashimaya. I have been wanting to visit for a very long time. Takashimaya is a lovely, serene department store, Japanese in origin and - well if you can call a store serene- you know it is unusual. I went to the Tea Box- the little tea room on the lower level of the store. I spent a good five minutes just looking at the rows of simple gray bowls holding dried tea leaves, petals and buds. I didn't take a picture- just stood and breathed in a moment of quiet. A few weeks ago a friend told me he had spent a night buried underground (he claimed it a holy journey- closely monitored by friends and an exercise in releasing control- I guess lying in the ground with 2 feet of dirt piled on a board over your head for 8 hours is about as released as control EVER gets). I could not understand how, or really despite hours of explanation, why anyone would do that- but at that spinning moment in a long several months of spinning, running and jumping that is my life nowadays- what I thought was- it must've been...quiet, and a relief.

I turned from the tea bowls and on a table by the elevator was a book. "Wabi-Sabi". I smiled- seemed a lot like Dr. Seuss gone Occidental- I opened it and read:

"if an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi." "It (wabi-sabi) nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three simple realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect."

Nothing about green eggs or ham. If imperfection was the goal- should there not be a cat in a hat orchestrating it? And such a serious notion- the Japanese equivalent of the Greek ideal of beauty- and such a sing-song almost silly-sounding saying to express it- it stuck with me and today began to take a form, for me.

On the day that time changes everything is still the same- but I'm running through it- trying so hard to MAKE things happen. How many people try daily to control and change the world? Maybe it is just my own little dictatorial fantasy for one. And in trying to make things perfect- or running in my head to the next thing- I miss that particular moment and all that is in it. Finishing something before it ends, trying to control the outcome- but things never end. These things continue in their lives and I continue in mine- often leaving in the middle of the show, at least in my own head. One Fish, Two fish and all of a sudden Horton is hearing a Who and I never get to see the house restored to order before mom walks in and sees what damage the cat has wrought. Like so many posts- there should be footnotes and notations but my friends understand and, if you don't.... consult Dr. Seuss- it's all explained and oh, bonus. It rhymes. And we all know- nothing ever truly ends- like blood, bones and soft tissue, like love, like memory, the things close to us- the heart of all that matters- those are with us as long as we choose to hold them, as long as they serve- often longer. The treasures that make a life.

I learned another phrase, too: Mono no aware (物の哀れ lit. "the pathos of things"), also translated as "an empathy toward things," or "a pity toward things," is a Japanese term used to describe the awareness of the transience of things and a gentle sadness at their passing. It also is referred to as the "ahness" of things, of life and of love.

This post isn't about retail- or rhyme. It's not about sadness at things passing or even an extra hour's sleep. It's a little personal pledge- and a nudge to anyone reading this to think about the hour you just got- how will you spend it? I am going to try- to do it a bit slower- to look for the ah-ness in that hour. And maybe spend just 10 minutes re-reading Dr, Seuss.

"Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple." Dr. Seuss

:)X

August: Osage County

2007-11-01T00:36:00.000-05:00

"This Madhouse is my HOME!" Tracy Letts- August:Osage County

There is such a thing as too much of a good thing. But that does not make a thing less than good.Tonight was a preview of August: Osage County and as is the case with many preview performances the audience had been "papered" which means that many folks had been comped (yours truly included) for at least two good reasons- 1- so that the critics did not view the play in an empty theater and 2- to create buzz.

So here is some buzz. Like bright, bubbly musicals with a happy Disney ending? Enjoy a play that sends you off humming some inane melody that you cannot remember the words to and commenting on the scenery, costumes and how quickly 90 minutes flies by in a Broadway theater? Go see Mary Poppins. This is not the play for you. The new Steppenwolf import by Tracy Letts clocks in at over three hours and three acts. And, as you know- I have been burning the candle on ends not yet invented. Fortunately the concession had a fantastic innovation- the espresso machine.

Drug addiction, family strife, a teenaged pot smoking lolita, and incest have never been funnier. Letts delivers his real life punch inside a fluffy moon pie and takes you places you would never expect. I have been moved by theater- cried, laughed, sighed and waxed nostalgic but this is the first time a play made me speak out loud (I normally loathe people who talk during the play) "Oh no, she didn't." At one point in the third act I actually blurted out "WHAT!" and heard the director (who was sitting behind me taking notes) snort with laughter and a bit of smug glee that the truth had been revealed with absolutely no clue where this particular story line led.

So once again, I am short on sleep. But as a character in the play said- "You're almost FIFTY years old- you can't go to New York- you'll break a hip!"

Some things are worth risking hopping down Broadway on crutches.

:)X

Answering the Bat Phone

2007-10-31T19:24:00.000-05:00

Ephemerist as Great Pumpkin or Living Abstract Painting.....

I was offered Devils tickets for tonight

I passed.

I was offered tickets to see the Police in concert tonight.

Sorry, thanks- got something to do.

It was Halloween night and I had a hot date- showing my favorite 32" high guy the Halloween parade and anticipating the absolute glee of a little fella up way past his bed time. Except..

The little guy had other plans that involved his favorite DVD and a blanky with his mom. I didn't take it personally, after all award winning (1st prize in the school costume contest- way to go kiddo!) pre-k's have every right to choose how they spend their Halloweens. We'd catch up later.

But it left me thinking. There have been a LOT of loooooong days in my life lately. Last night- fab Italian Dinner and a wee bit late out for a "school night" (the conversation more than made up for it- but that's another story) and tomorrow- tickets for August: Osage County. My whole being said- oh for the love of MIKE go HOME.I did Halloween on Sunday. I didn't miss it- just did it a couple of days early.

The city had other plans. I dragged my tired self to the train contemplating a bubble bath and an early night and walked onto the V train. If I wasn't happy, I was at least serene in the notion that this was the sensible thing to do. But sensible and I have never been on easy terms. Then... the bat phone rang and on the train I saw (all in ONE subway car, mind you)

Elvis and Marilyn

A witch took a picture of me- taking a picture of her... how Dali- or How Norman Rockwell- not sure which.

A swarm of Japanese Beetles (and a token Sailor Moon) I wanted to explain to the ladies that Halloween was not sponsored by Victoria's Secret but who am I to spoil EVERYONE'S fun?

It seemed WASTEFUL to take the train directly home so I jumped off at the turning point for the parade- 6th avenue and 14th Street. It was only 6:20 and the parade was at least 40 minutes off. It was a scant 5 block walk to the PATH at 9th Street- how crowded could it be?

QUITE crowded....

Spook Central- 11th Street and the Jefferson Market Library. This building originally housed (in the early part of the 19th century) an indoor market, a police station, a jail AND was the site of a famous trial where Mae West was tried for "public indecency" (Bless her, she was YEARS ahead of the times in Greenwich Village)

A covey of pirates and wenches

Mom answers the call...

This is the very best part of life here. Close your ears to this siren's song and still it rises up to meet you. Tendrils of its energy and excitement twine themselves around you. The ultimate seduction- be a part of all this. Just stand amidst it and even if you do not move a muscle you are in the moment- and it is a part of you. The evening and the sights and the sounds reach for you- drags you by your starched white shirt front into an irresistable embrace, presses its sensual lips- traces of bitter and the ale of the night, to yours. And you are revived. The breath of life.

The scariest moment of all this Halloween?

The freakin' CHRISTMAS trees decorating the counter at a tony department store nearly obscuring the cashier's Halloween costume. It's OCTOBER 31st dang it- is NOTHING sacred??

The Online Birthday Card

2007-10-31T00:01:00.000-05:00

"There's only now
There's only here
Give in to love
or live in fear
no other path
no other way
No day but today
"

For this, YOUR day-

With much, K.

B. :P X

The worst that could happen....

2007-10-28T20:12:00.000-05:00

As adults we don't for the most part pay much attention to Halloween. If you have children- there is the racing to the store, for candy- for costumes or if you are my friend Miriam you are sewing until 4 am the night before creating costumes so complex they would make Martha Stewart blanch- or if you are Syd and Henry and family you are doing things to pumpkins that would make the basis for a vegetarian horror movie. But- its a diversion. At this time of life- we see it as a day with maybe a couple of extras in it- egg on your car, toilet paper strewn in the trees, maybe a surreptitious viewing of a hidden "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown" DVD when no one else is around (OK, my own personal treat...) But for kids-even beyond Christmas presents and chocolate Easter eggs and only a short second behind birthdays lies the holy grail of childhood. Halloween. Inside every child lurks a true pagan whose greatest desire is to don fantastic attire, cover oneself in paint and glitter and eat candy until swooning is a foregone conclusion.

At 8 years of age I remember planning my Halloween costume. I would be the most gorgeous princess ever. My hair would magically become blonde and fall in long waves to my shoulders. I would be long and lissome in pink satin with a tiara and I would wear glass slippers like Cinderella without a mean stepsister in sight. My dad took me to the local Five and Dime and hanging from the ceiling were the array of Ben Cooper costumes. Superman, Fred Flintstone, Dino... it was 1968. And there it was- pink- silkscreened flounces and had ties that went up the back like a hospital gown. The mask was a painted pink smile and frozen blonde helmet of hair complete with sparkling rhinestone tiara and two holes for eyes to peek out and a little slit at the mouth just narrow enough to slice your tongue on. As I write this- I shudder. How awful! But- the mirror looking back reveals another picture. I remember seeing that costume and believing that in it- I would be the most beautiful princess ever. I remember carrying it home in its day-glo yellow and black box and wearing it over my pajamas to see how it looked. And I loved that costume. Until the day Halloween arrived and it was 35 degrees out. I explained to my dad that princesses did NOT wear their powder blue quilted snow jacket with the fake white fur in the hood over their gown. The effect would be RUINED no one would KNOW I was a princess. And try as I might- I could not imagine my knitted mittens into evening gloves.
Needless to say I, like every kid before me, lost that fight and had to wear the coat (the alternative was not going out at all and letting my sister collect candy FOR me. Wasn't gonna happen I knew my sister always liked chocolate a lot more than she ever liked me- I'd wind up with raisins and Necco wafers.)

So even now- when I talk about Halloween- I mention the coat over the costume scenario to an otherwise mature adult and can see the seven year old in each of them cringe. This morning though- I woke to the unthinkable. My friend Judy called at 7:39 am and said her granddaughter Amani was SICK and could not come out for the Ghouls and Gourds Festival at the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. We go every year. We spend the day. It was.... too sad.

I puttered around the house. Made coffee. Pouted.. Considered going on my own. 11 am rolled around and the phone rang again.

A Halloween miracle. Amani had made a miracle recovery (a 24 hour virus cut down to 6 hours by the promise of pumpkins and trick or treat) And she looked like this:

With her was sidekick Ciara.

A train costume from Starlight Express (this is NY, we don't DO Thomas the Tank Engine)

\

There were many Jack Sparrows

This looked like a header into the koi pond for sure

This little guy kept trying to use his hook as a dental pic

Three years ago was the first time I took Amani and her grandmother to the gardens for this festival. A surgery had left Amani unable to walk for almost 18 months. We walked her in a stroller through that festival, that year she was a princess.
This year I watched her running through the gardens with Ciara, so beautiful and tall and straight. And smiled. It's Halloween.
She could be whatever she wanted. And didn't need her coat.

Lights, Cameras...The Box?

2007-10-24T22:17:00.000-05:00

No use permitting
Some prophet of doom
To wipe every smile away.
Come hear the music play.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret!

If I need to explain where this lyric came from- you happened onto this blog by mistake... have a nice day, old chum.

So if I had a moment to be concerned that tomorrow is my SECOND road test, the universe said "PSHAW- Life is a Cabaret, old chum... " So I went to see... a Cabaret.

In a private event hosted by one of my new company's premiere brands I was delivered- a 21st century- honest to gosh- is that girl naked- burlesque in the form of The Box NYC (www.theboxnyc.com) hosted by Cirque Du Soleil star MC Raven O. The show featured himself- Mr. O... The Hammerstein Beauties- a slender chanteuse whose slim frame hid a lovely contralto voice much too big for her slender satin-draped frame- several near-naked dancing girls- a tapper and his percussionist and more naked girls (because everyone seems to be ok with naked girls in ANY quantity) and a hip-hop Harlem based dance crew, the fantastic James Gang. Add unlimited yummy sushi and sake/chambord signature cocktails and if I did not forget about the road test- I can say in all honesty I was SERIOUSLY distracted. Now- instead of doing your work- you can be too....

The pre-party gussied up atrium

The Hammerstein Beauties and Raven O

Underground Tap

The singer

The JAMES gang

Naked

More Naked

And Finally-Finale Naked- You will not be surprised they had NO difficulty getting applause at THIS ending...

Put down the knitting, the book and the broom... Heck, I can't knit for beans anyway. :)X