February - "Meme" (pronounced may-may), "don't you have to go to New York in April?" The question was posed by my nine year old grandson, who is used to me traveling here, there and everywhere from our home base in Ohio. His grandfather lives in Manhattan and my parents live nineteen miles from the Lincoln Tunnel on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. Frequent trips home are the norm. "Well, we are going at the end of March for Easter, Todd, you know that. Maybe we'll take another trip later in the spring." That was not the answer Todd expected, wanted or accepted. "Oh", he replied dejectedly, "I thought we'd go, oh maybe, April, like the sixth. WWE will be there and maybe we could see it!"
Ah-Ha! Got it. "Well, let me see what I can do."
March 19 - "Here you go Todd! GEAR!" A delighted, excited little boy hastily slipped on a JUST BRING IT sweatshirt over a JUST BRING IT t-shirt and topped himself off with the official WWE "Rock" ball cap. Y-E-S-S-S!!! He grabbed his WWE championship belt (Santa provided that months ago) and couldn't contain himself as he made a "Kane" poster to hold up at, WWE SMACKDOWN in Cincinnati! "I can't believe this, Meme! We're going to see Ryback, Randy Orton, Shamus, Kane, the Shield, Big Show, Cody Rhodes,..." and on and on the cast/wrestlers were listed for a nearly four hour show! Todd gobbled up his ravioli faster than anyone can say ravioli, brushed his teeth and was literally jumping out of his skin as his little legs pumped and propelled him down the stairs, into the car to get to the US Bank Arena in Cincinnati, Ohio in time for the show!
During what should have been a forty-five minute ride from my home (north) to Cincinnati (south), Todd chattered, played various entrance themes on the phone...simply non-stop hype. I guaranteed him that we would be on time, even early. I asked a friend for directions. I printed out "Mapquest" directions as back up. Yes, I realize that I am crippled without a GPS. I surely get that. Todd in total exasperation, threw the directions over his shoulder, into the back seat as we crossed the Ohio River and read "Welcome to Kentucky" on a sign on a bridge. "Oh no! Meme! We're supposed to stay in Ohio, not go to Kentucky! We're lost! What about WWE?" I phoned the friend and screeched, "Hey, I'm on a bridge and I think that the Arena is behind me!" The response: "You over shot it. You're in Kentucky. Turn around and go back." Duh? Like I hadn't thought of that. So, as soon as I could make a U-Turn (I didn't say legally), we headed for Cincinnati (again). Some nice uniformed policemen guided me from the bridge, every few feet or so through my confusion.
As we parked the car, Todd noticed that we still had fifteen minutes to spare. "Whew Meme! Close one!"
Our seats were down on the floor, ringside! Todd looked at the ring, looked at the entrance stage, stood, looked around after comfortably negotiating his WWE Belt and sign, looked at me and said, "Wow, Meme! These are the best seats ever!" I smiled and didn't mention that they cost about the same as the national budget for a fiscal year of a small country. Collector cup for soda, popcorn and slushies were all rather fairly priced, I must admit.
I looked around the arena. There were families comprised of Dads, Moms and children. There were older couples- grandparents with children. There were men with boys, young and older. I saw some couples, men with boys and girls. I realized that, at least in the floor section and surrounding areas, I was the only single female with a child - Grandmother and Grandson. What would my grandmother say about a lady at a wrestling match, I wondered. Then, I remembered that my Great Aunt Carmela used to watch wrestling on television. She liked a wrestler named, "Gorgeous George". Nana didn't think that Carmela was much of a lady most of the time. And, Nana would be able to relate to an over the top, overly accommodating Grandmother anyway.
Special effects, pyrotechnics, lights, music were all amazing. One could become totally absorbed in the spirit and excitement of a match to begin as the powerful men made their entrances! When "Kane" came to our side of the ring, complete with entrance theme, effects including fire, light show and looked at Todd, I thought that Todd would stop breathing! His blue eyes were enormous! He gasped as he looked up at one of his heroes, standing directly in front of him, feeling the fire from his effects warming his little face! "Oh Meme!" Todd jumped up and down, screaming in the pandemonium, "This is the best day ever! This is the best night ever!"
Todd stood in the aisle, ringside for most of the evening. In reality, three different shows to be aired on television were being taped that night as well as "Smackdown". Between you and me, this is theatre. The "moves" are carefully choreographed. I would venture to say, WWE Wrestling is physical, musical, comedic theatre. Of course, the men are big, muscular, strong, impressive. Personalities shine through the massive, smoothly shaved (everywhere, except for some facial & a lot of head hair) as they strut their macho stuff. The wrestlers/performers/gymnasts endeared themselves to the spectators by radiating a certain camaraderie between themselves and enthusiastic fans, totally engrossed in the entire experience.
I know "fighting" is hostile, violent. This is really not the case with WWE. As I have mentioned, this is entertainment. The men train extensively to learn how to tumble, to take falls, to land, to give the illusion of certain "shots". But, it is physical fantasy. Children, of course, should be warned that these are well rehearsed professionals/gymnasts and that these antics should not be attempted by the untrained.
There is a patriotic, moral fiber that is woven through the performance. The WWE is charitable, globally. Our troops were saluted, honored frequently throughout the entertainment.
Though, I did my best to "get out of gym" while in school; though, I am not a fitness narc (lazy), I do walk and fret to maintain my weight and size 2. However, I appreciate the ability, strength, talent, maneuvers presented at a WWE performance. If children realize that this is theatre, the performers are actually rather good role models for the young fans out of the ring.
I am the ultimate audience member of EVERYTHING. Truly, I try to take the children to see everything, always. Circuses, Ice Shows, Musicals, Broadway shows, Elmo, Barney extravaganzas, etc. This is the first time that I have ever experienced a "Souvenir" stand, or "Merchandise" stand where items were not priced to support the transportation system of the small country I mentioned earlier. Nothing was "hawked/pushed". Hats and T-shirts (not $50 lights that have a 10 minute shelf life) were priced exactly as they are in stores or on the WWE website. Modestly. There was only one expensive replica of the WWE Championship belt that was not emphasized, highlighted, nor did the vendor try to entice ANYONE with it. Prices were reasonable, realistic, do-able. I compliment the WWE for "souvenir integrity".
After our "John Cena" T-shirt purchase, Todd wanted one fair well look at the Ring. Clutching his souvenir cup, new T-shirt, belt over shoulder and cap on head, he scanned the arena, the ring where he experienced the men he watches on television religiously. I fought tears when he turned and said, "Meme, I told you that this is the best night, ever! I'm so glad we came here together! Thanks Meme!"
We laughed, joked, re-hashed the evening's events on the drive home. I did not get lost because I started with a BFF in uniform to repeat directions to 75 N over and over. Todd was still at a feverish pitch with enthusiasm discussing Ryback, Big Show, Kane. Maybe next time Cena will be there, and so the conversation went.
I never, ever expected, in my life that I would be attending a Wrestling Match! I never, ever expected in my life that I would learn wrestlers' names, actually sit ringside and cheer! I was excited as Todd jumped up and down pointing at the "bad guys" - The Shield. I never, ever expected that I would join the crowd booing them as did Todd! I never, ever expected to say: "Next time we come, Todd, I think....." My devotion to Todd, my grandson was challenged and I thank God for the blessings that enabled me to come through with flying colors, as Todd has reported to everyone and anyone since we attended the Smackdown! I never, ever expected in my life that I would share with Todd and you, readers, that, "Wow! I just love THE ROCK!"
Laura Macy Author & Actress
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Thursday, February 28, 2013
THE PALAZZO
There is a man of humble beginnings, as many of us are/were. He is a self proclaimed "black sheep" of his family. I do not judge such ranks to be honest. With honesty, I can say that he has climbed from modesty to self important pompous proportions. He is really quite impressed with himself and expects anyone he meets to be as impressed as he. He is narrow minded, prejudiced, phony, grudge holding, goofy, irrational, demanding, self-absorbed, illogical, immature. I mean, this is one tough person to take seriously. His hair line is receding, so I think that gifting a clown wig just might be appropriate.
On the positive side of this ridiculous person, and there is only one positive side, he has a work ethic that enables him to earn nobly. Then again, I once heard that "money is the root of all evil".
So, Mr. Dollars and Cents, bought an old, 1800's "house". To hear him tell it, it's a magnificent mansion with a name chiseled into the stone above a front "porch" under gargoyles. I call this, because the name is as ridiculous as he, THE KINGDOM. It had a river running in front of it; however, with progress, a four lane State Route whatever now separates The Kingdom from the water. The Palazzo doesn't have much yardage between the gargoyles and rumbling semi's. However, Mr. Dollars and Cents thinks the layout, palazzo, gargoyles are just beautiful and indicative of one wealthy man of which people are green with envy. (Actually, they are red, convulsed with laughter).
To obtain an invitation and to actually see the palazzo from the inside really does take a convulsion of nature. Truly. Once, for some reason, one passes muster and Mr. D & C is either drunk, sober, fleetingly nice, or realizes that your X might have a few doubloons himself, you just might gain entrance into the palace.
Here's the deal. Everything is orderly, ALWAYS. Nothing on walls, counters, no use of dishwasher (hand wash), no dish towels out. Absolutely NOTHING on a window sill. If a chair is moved and will be again in a few minutes, it must be replaced in its exact spot and moved again. He boasts of renovations, modernization, newest, latest technology. There is no "personality" of decor. Cold, uncomfortable showroom is the style of choice. I will give this point: the most enormous television ever dominates one sitting room. However, it has six remote controls and no one can figure it out...except occasionally him.
Sadly, children can hang no masterpieces on the refrigerator. There can be no personalized little wooden signs making their rooms "theirs".
BUT
He doesn't believe in garbage cans (like tall kitchen trash receptacle under a sink), waste baskets (bathroom refuse) or any sort of trash disposal in bedrooms. He permits plastic grocery bags to hang on a door knob, or cabinet door in the kitchen. The only acceptable item seen on the kitchen counter, near the double sink with garbage disposal proudly stands a plastic container (cereal box size). Into this receptacle food scraps, egg shells, cores, rinds, skin, bones, crusts, glop are stored until it is filled to overflowing. Once the container is full, it is walked outside into the "hay field" for disposal. BUT: there is no field, no hay, no compost pile. There are no pigs to feed. Is it me? Q-tips, cotton balls, tissues, empty toilet paper rolls...on the counters. His illogic, "That's what ______'s are for." (His twice a week housekeeper's name) Personally, I think that it's disgusting. But, that is just me.
There are three bedrooms in the Kingdom. No joke. Two of them have NO CLOSETS. None. There are four bathrooms in the Palazzo. You are not ready for the physical requirements to use any of this: In one bathroom, unless you strain all possible arm muscles to have the lever work to flush...it won't! I think I sprained my wrist. I tried sharing an upstairs bathroom with the children. For the first time, I found a "dry clean only" shower. Only the hot water runs and at a trickle at that! The toilet in that bathroom really could put someone in traction; or at least a candidate for acupuncture and a chiropractor. If you have the misfortune to use that toilet, you can flush, then jump up, spin around, lift and open the tank top, push a stopper down and replace lid! If you forget, the next user is cooked. However, repeating that a few times during a stay is absolutely exhausting! There is a bathroom down in, what I would call, a "Man Cave". I think that nothing is connected. Pristine and off limits.
Speaking of not connected: In an upstairs hallway between two closet-less bedrooms, there is a smart glass and iron table with a lamp still sporting clear plastic on its shade. There is no bulb and there is no connection! The still wrapped cord hangs with no purpose!
Now, there are some of you saying, "Come on now, Laura, STOP! It's an old house! We are the poster family of an "old house". We owned a house on Long Beach Island, New Jersey which was built in 1863. It had three stories, eight bedrooms (nine if you counted the maid's room). Electricity was installed by those cute little round switches and wires ran under the transoms. You could hold your lodge meetings in our bedroom closets. I know from OLD and RENOVATION. I will tell you about that house one day, but I assure you that up on the third floor, you could sing in the shower just as heartily as you could on the first! Our children were allowed to live in the house, enjoy it and we welcomed family, friends, constantly! BUT...we never bragged, snubbed, judged.
What makes THE PALAZZO a tour of medieval reform school is not just the misery imposed by the building, but the personality of its jailer.
On the positive side of this ridiculous person, and there is only one positive side, he has a work ethic that enables him to earn nobly. Then again, I once heard that "money is the root of all evil".
So, Mr. Dollars and Cents, bought an old, 1800's "house". To hear him tell it, it's a magnificent mansion with a name chiseled into the stone above a front "porch" under gargoyles. I call this, because the name is as ridiculous as he, THE KINGDOM. It had a river running in front of it; however, with progress, a four lane State Route whatever now separates The Kingdom from the water. The Palazzo doesn't have much yardage between the gargoyles and rumbling semi's. However, Mr. Dollars and Cents thinks the layout, palazzo, gargoyles are just beautiful and indicative of one wealthy man of which people are green with envy. (Actually, they are red, convulsed with laughter).
To obtain an invitation and to actually see the palazzo from the inside really does take a convulsion of nature. Truly. Once, for some reason, one passes muster and Mr. D & C is either drunk, sober, fleetingly nice, or realizes that your X might have a few doubloons himself, you just might gain entrance into the palace.
Here's the deal. Everything is orderly, ALWAYS. Nothing on walls, counters, no use of dishwasher (hand wash), no dish towels out. Absolutely NOTHING on a window sill. If a chair is moved and will be again in a few minutes, it must be replaced in its exact spot and moved again. He boasts of renovations, modernization, newest, latest technology. There is no "personality" of decor. Cold, uncomfortable showroom is the style of choice. I will give this point: the most enormous television ever dominates one sitting room. However, it has six remote controls and no one can figure it out...except occasionally him.
Sadly, children can hang no masterpieces on the refrigerator. There can be no personalized little wooden signs making their rooms "theirs".
BUT
He doesn't believe in garbage cans (like tall kitchen trash receptacle under a sink), waste baskets (bathroom refuse) or any sort of trash disposal in bedrooms. He permits plastic grocery bags to hang on a door knob, or cabinet door in the kitchen. The only acceptable item seen on the kitchen counter, near the double sink with garbage disposal proudly stands a plastic container (cereal box size). Into this receptacle food scraps, egg shells, cores, rinds, skin, bones, crusts, glop are stored until it is filled to overflowing. Once the container is full, it is walked outside into the "hay field" for disposal. BUT: there is no field, no hay, no compost pile. There are no pigs to feed. Is it me? Q-tips, cotton balls, tissues, empty toilet paper rolls...on the counters. His illogic, "That's what ______'s are for." (His twice a week housekeeper's name) Personally, I think that it's disgusting. But, that is just me.
There are three bedrooms in the Kingdom. No joke. Two of them have NO CLOSETS. None. There are four bathrooms in the Palazzo. You are not ready for the physical requirements to use any of this: In one bathroom, unless you strain all possible arm muscles to have the lever work to flush...it won't! I think I sprained my wrist. I tried sharing an upstairs bathroom with the children. For the first time, I found a "dry clean only" shower. Only the hot water runs and at a trickle at that! The toilet in that bathroom really could put someone in traction; or at least a candidate for acupuncture and a chiropractor. If you have the misfortune to use that toilet, you can flush, then jump up, spin around, lift and open the tank top, push a stopper down and replace lid! If you forget, the next user is cooked. However, repeating that a few times during a stay is absolutely exhausting! There is a bathroom down in, what I would call, a "Man Cave". I think that nothing is connected. Pristine and off limits.
Speaking of not connected: In an upstairs hallway between two closet-less bedrooms, there is a smart glass and iron table with a lamp still sporting clear plastic on its shade. There is no bulb and there is no connection! The still wrapped cord hangs with no purpose!
Now, there are some of you saying, "Come on now, Laura, STOP! It's an old house! We are the poster family of an "old house". We owned a house on Long Beach Island, New Jersey which was built in 1863. It had three stories, eight bedrooms (nine if you counted the maid's room). Electricity was installed by those cute little round switches and wires ran under the transoms. You could hold your lodge meetings in our bedroom closets. I know from OLD and RENOVATION. I will tell you about that house one day, but I assure you that up on the third floor, you could sing in the shower just as heartily as you could on the first! Our children were allowed to live in the house, enjoy it and we welcomed family, friends, constantly! BUT...we never bragged, snubbed, judged.
What makes THE PALAZZO a tour of medieval reform school is not just the misery imposed by the building, but the personality of its jailer.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
WE'RE NOT COMING BACK, ARE WE?
A friend's Dad passed away last week. He was 98 years old. When I visited Jim about a week or so before that, I was in the company of an older gentleman with a twinkle in now cloudy blue eyes. That foggy twinkle revealed to me a rascal, as Tiff says. He was a young widower, a flirt with appreciation for the ladies, literature, the arts, finance, hard work. Now feeble, stooped, slow but grasping at the wit, the humor he once knew. Eyes faded, hearing challenged, he gracefully slipped into life everlasting. My daughter was the last living individual he saw, who's arms he felt as he met his wife who had been waiting for him for years.
At the funeral parlor, on a Friday evening, I viewed a slide show. There before me, I saw a young handsome man, a beautiful bride, attractive children in various stages of growth, maturity. I saw homes, land, celebrations, joy, life in its fullest prime. Exactly when did he age? Where is the boundary between vitality from one day to fragility on the next?
At the cemetery, after a service on the following morning, my mind swirled with questions and thoughts that I set aside as we continued through the funeral (which my Grandmother always said is for the living...the deceased, by then, was doing just fine) I had hustled the trio into their suits, ties, and a pretty dress. The four of us stood, listened, fidgeted, embraced other mourners, prayed.
And so, he rests, celebrates his life, relaxes in the joy of everlasting life. I can resume my questions and thoughts...
I see myself in the mirror. I see myself everyday. Often, many, many times in a day (I'm like that, you know). When did I acquire "age"? Where is the defining line between the child that I saw every day and the woman (with three grandchildren) that I see every day? Exactly when did that first grey hair appear on you, on your Mom? Just when did that hairline recede on your Dad? Do my parents see the young GI returning from WWII and the young NYU student with perfect skin, a twenty inch waist and long brunette hair today at 86 and 84 years old? Where is the boundary between the two year old who called me "Warrie" and the woman who calls her older sister (me) with stories of my nephew and his fraternity brothers and my niece's latest hair craze? Where is the baby, that I saw every day, changed every day, who now phones me with a laundry list of, "Mom, when do we want to schedule our Spring book event?" Did I blink to long? Where is the little girl with whom I would spend countless hours in ballet studios, nearly every day of her childhood, who now commands my new skin care, anti-aging regime?
Where is the definition between the free spirit with hair down to her a-a-a to the grandmother, who receives calls and directives from grandchildren who squeal with delight when Meme (may-may) arrives? When did the participants at the tea table change from afternoon tea with Nana, to a tea party with Tess? I swear, she was there a minute ago. I swear, I was Tess a minute ago. Where? When?
I watched myself in the mirror before dates, getting my hair and make-up "just right" while battling hic-cups. I see that same face...or so I think. I battle those same hic-cups (not as frequently) before "an occasion of state" or at least I think they are the same!
We see ourselves every day. We see each other (family, friends) every day. Exactly how, when did we evolve into the older, busier versions of the blissful children that we were? Was there a Disney time-lapse episode going on that I missed? That you missed?
When did the stroller turn into a tricycle, to a bicycle, to a racing bicycle, to a Harley or a Convertible? When did I turn from the "Mistress of the Kitchen" to a collaborator and second in command with our Four Generation Cookbook as my son takes lead? When did I evolve into the "Meme" from the driver for a prima ballerina and solver of assorted social, beauty, domestic issues and a confidant?
If I hadn't a wrinkle, exactly what is the anniversary of the first one? If I had low lights, highlights, exactly when did it become mandatory to "touch up" roots? How did pound by pound we gain or lose weight? What day do some move from thin to fat? Exactly where does weight go when we go from heavy to slight? I have been known to lament about gaining "The Ohio Ten". I lost it (in Reunion Book), but where did it go?
We see US and each other every day. We laugh, cry, play, pray together everyday. Exactly when, how before our eyes slipped in between blinks, did we become what we are right now, tomorrow, next year?
I want to find that boundary, that definitive line that marks change. Steve always maintained that I do not take to change very well. Actually, I don't take to change AT ALL. Are our lives a slide show to ignite wonder, to retrace our steps from there to here?
Two things that we can bear in mind, inspired from two books that I read when I was younger:
1. If you realize that there is no perfect Utopia, accept it, "work with it". Then you are always bound to have A FAIRLY GOOD TIME.
2. SPEND ALL OF YOUR KISSES here and now...you can't take them with you, when you go!
As Jim's son said, "We're not coming back, are we?"
At the funeral parlor, on a Friday evening, I viewed a slide show. There before me, I saw a young handsome man, a beautiful bride, attractive children in various stages of growth, maturity. I saw homes, land, celebrations, joy, life in its fullest prime. Exactly when did he age? Where is the boundary between vitality from one day to fragility on the next?
At the cemetery, after a service on the following morning, my mind swirled with questions and thoughts that I set aside as we continued through the funeral (which my Grandmother always said is for the living...the deceased, by then, was doing just fine) I had hustled the trio into their suits, ties, and a pretty dress. The four of us stood, listened, fidgeted, embraced other mourners, prayed.
And so, he rests, celebrates his life, relaxes in the joy of everlasting life. I can resume my questions and thoughts...
I see myself in the mirror. I see myself everyday. Often, many, many times in a day (I'm like that, you know). When did I acquire "age"? Where is the defining line between the child that I saw every day and the woman (with three grandchildren) that I see every day? Exactly when did that first grey hair appear on you, on your Mom? Just when did that hairline recede on your Dad? Do my parents see the young GI returning from WWII and the young NYU student with perfect skin, a twenty inch waist and long brunette hair today at 86 and 84 years old? Where is the boundary between the two year old who called me "Warrie" and the woman who calls her older sister (me) with stories of my nephew and his fraternity brothers and my niece's latest hair craze? Where is the baby, that I saw every day, changed every day, who now phones me with a laundry list of, "Mom, when do we want to schedule our Spring book event?" Did I blink to long? Where is the little girl with whom I would spend countless hours in ballet studios, nearly every day of her childhood, who now commands my new skin care, anti-aging regime?
Where is the definition between the free spirit with hair down to her a-a-a to the grandmother, who receives calls and directives from grandchildren who squeal with delight when Meme (may-may) arrives? When did the participants at the tea table change from afternoon tea with Nana, to a tea party with Tess? I swear, she was there a minute ago. I swear, I was Tess a minute ago. Where? When?
I watched myself in the mirror before dates, getting my hair and make-up "just right" while battling hic-cups. I see that same face...or so I think. I battle those same hic-cups (not as frequently) before "an occasion of state" or at least I think they are the same!
We see ourselves every day. We see each other (family, friends) every day. Exactly how, when did we evolve into the older, busier versions of the blissful children that we were? Was there a Disney time-lapse episode going on that I missed? That you missed?
When did the stroller turn into a tricycle, to a bicycle, to a racing bicycle, to a Harley or a Convertible? When did I turn from the "Mistress of the Kitchen" to a collaborator and second in command with our Four Generation Cookbook as my son takes lead? When did I evolve into the "Meme" from the driver for a prima ballerina and solver of assorted social, beauty, domestic issues and a confidant?
If I hadn't a wrinkle, exactly what is the anniversary of the first one? If I had low lights, highlights, exactly when did it become mandatory to "touch up" roots? How did pound by pound we gain or lose weight? What day do some move from thin to fat? Exactly where does weight go when we go from heavy to slight? I have been known to lament about gaining "The Ohio Ten". I lost it (in Reunion Book), but where did it go?
We see US and each other every day. We laugh, cry, play, pray together everyday. Exactly when, how before our eyes slipped in between blinks, did we become what we are right now, tomorrow, next year?
I want to find that boundary, that definitive line that marks change. Steve always maintained that I do not take to change very well. Actually, I don't take to change AT ALL. Are our lives a slide show to ignite wonder, to retrace our steps from there to here?
Two things that we can bear in mind, inspired from two books that I read when I was younger:
1. If you realize that there is no perfect Utopia, accept it, "work with it". Then you are always bound to have A FAIRLY GOOD TIME.
2. SPEND ALL OF YOUR KISSES here and now...you can't take them with you, when you go!
As Jim's son said, "We're not coming back, are we?"
Sunday, December 23, 2012
THE PERPETUAL MERRY CHRISTMAS STOCKING
There was once a rather creative, clever lady who made Christmas stockings. The stockings were felt applique completely embroidered, beaded, sequined. Each stocking was personalized in gold. They were absolutely beautiful. She made these incredible stockings for her family, for friends' children when they married and their children. Her closest friends and their children, grandchildren ALL had them. One day, her daughter (who had one of the original creations, of course) married. The lady made the most beautiful "Father Christmas" creation! Her new son-in-law and his family were extremely impressed to be sure! For six years, his stocking glowed as it hung next to her daughter's. With the addition of three stockings (children) the mantle in their home glistened with the twinkling of the sequins and beads on their stockings. After six years, the young parents divorced. Mom and the children took the family's Christmas stockings during the move.
Two years later, the "stocking lady's" daughter remarried. The gentleman was a rather affluent Doctor who had heard about the beautiful handiwork of the family's Christmas stockings. For his son, the lady made an adorable stocking. With a little action of a seam ripper, careful manipulation, extra gold thread, the original four letter name on the Father Christmas stocking became the latest spouse and step-dad's six letter totally different name. He was thrilled when he saw the stocking! He was so flattered that she made him his own, gorgeous piece of art! With pride, he bragged about the stocking to his family, patients and friends. He felt accepted, loved because of the time and thought that went into the creation! Unfortunate circumstances took the Doctor from the little family.
Two years later, the "stocking lady's" daughter remarried. The gentleman was the financial adviser to the doctor. On their first Christmas, he had mentioned that he had heard, but not seen, stories about the beautiful Christmas stockings that the family had. With a little action of a seam ripper, careful manipulation, extra gold thread, the second six letter name on the Father Christmas stocking became the latest spouse and step-dad's four letter totally different name. He was thrilled when he saw the stocking! He was so flattered that she made him his own, gorgeous piece of art! With pride, he bragged about the stocking to his clients, friends. He felt accepted, loved because of the time and thought that went into the creation! The lady's daughter and granddaughter winked and giggled.
Many families have treasured heirlooms, traditions that dance through the years, especially during the Christmas season! We have priceless trinkets, ornaments. We share precious memories, Stocking is worth a mention, a smile, a knowing nod and binds this family. Possibly the third marriage is the charm. However, the lady never leaves home without her seam ripper. The creativity and ability to manipulate with an unending supply of gold thread, can be manifested in any number of names, with any number of letters. The lady, the daughter, the grandchildren know and share the Secret of The Perpetual Christmas Stocking.
Two years later, the "stocking lady's" daughter remarried. The gentleman was a rather affluent Doctor who had heard about the beautiful handiwork of the family's Christmas stockings. For his son, the lady made an adorable stocking. With a little action of a seam ripper, careful manipulation, extra gold thread, the original four letter name on the Father Christmas stocking became the latest spouse and step-dad's six letter totally different name. He was thrilled when he saw the stocking! He was so flattered that she made him his own, gorgeous piece of art! With pride, he bragged about the stocking to his family, patients and friends. He felt accepted, loved because of the time and thought that went into the creation! Unfortunate circumstances took the Doctor from the little family.
Two years later, the "stocking lady's" daughter remarried. The gentleman was the financial adviser to the doctor. On their first Christmas, he had mentioned that he had heard, but not seen, stories about the beautiful Christmas stockings that the family had. With a little action of a seam ripper, careful manipulation, extra gold thread, the second six letter name on the Father Christmas stocking became the latest spouse and step-dad's four letter totally different name. He was thrilled when he saw the stocking! He was so flattered that she made him his own, gorgeous piece of art! With pride, he bragged about the stocking to his clients, friends. He felt accepted, loved because of the time and thought that went into the creation! The lady's daughter and granddaughter winked and giggled.
Many families have treasured heirlooms, traditions that dance through the years, especially during the Christmas season! We have priceless trinkets, ornaments. We share precious memories, Stocking is worth a mention, a smile, a knowing nod and binds this family. Possibly the third marriage is the charm. However, the lady never leaves home without her seam ripper. The creativity and ability to manipulate with an unending supply of gold thread, can be manifested in any number of names, with any number of letters. The lady, the daughter, the grandchildren know and share the Secret of The Perpetual Christmas Stocking.
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
FREEZE THAT MOMENT IN TIME
Have you ever been mid-experience and thought, "Wow! I like it here. I feel so good! I don't want this moment to end...ever!" If you are honest with yourself, you might say, "Yeah, I know that feeling! I remember when..." Not to live in the past, of course, recalling contentment, elation, joy of particular "moments in time" can be therapeutic without spending $10,000 an hour for a therapist or the fee to rent a U-Haul for medication when basic discontentment, unhappiness, insecurity, fear set in. We all experience those disappointing feelings. Reaching for that moment in time sooths the burn. Relish that "ahhhhhhhhhhhh" and "yippeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" to retain the rush when life gets tangled and sticky.
When I was about twelve, or so, I distinctly remember standing at the edge of a swimming pool, built into the vast yard of a relative. Two of three cousins had been in the water with me. The oldest sibling was sitting on a lounge talking with my mother about everything and nothing. It was a beautiful, early summer day. Our families were going to barbecue. Music and laughter surrounded us. I was content, happy and as I looked to the sky, I thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
As an adult, I remember one and only one day that I had nothing that I really HAD to do. Steve and I had just returned from a Honeymoon in Aruba. He was at his New York office while Butterscotch, my cat, and I were home in a beautiful apartment on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. We had breakfast on the terrace on a bright, sunny May morning as we watched the river roll by. Of course, I always read, embroidered, but I didn't HAVE to produce a thing that afternoon. I was content, happy and thought, " This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
One Christmas night, I drove my Grandparents home after a day of family, gifts, feasting. As my Grandmother and I embraced to say goodnight, she filled my senses. I was safe, warm, loved. I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
I lurked in the hospital one evening. My Grandmother had one too many heart attacks. Where did that moment go between life and death? I wanted her last moment to last forever. I wanted to pull and pull her to stay on my side of that sliver of time. Freeze that moment! Don't move that moment in time from me! Stay Nana, stay! I was distraught, frantic, as she slipped from my grasp. I was upset, alone, sad and thought, "This is the worst day ever! Give me back that moment!"
As Steve and I sat at a Tiki Bar at the Engleside on the beach in Beach Haven on a perfect Saturday afternoon, we watched the ocean roll in and tease us. I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
I stood with Todd, Tess and Tanner and looked to the sky on Independence Day. As we watched with our arms around each other and oooooed and ahhhhed at the bright splashes in the sky, I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
After kissing and hugging my Grandchildren - Todd, Tess, Tanner before they boarded the school bus, watching them wave from the windows. Walking back toward the house with my daughter - she in a robe and cowboy boots and me in my leopard jammies, pink slippers and winter coat, laughing and planning our shared day, I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
Think, just think. Have you ever felt the moment so intensely that you want to freeze that moment in time? Sometimes, I want to live in those moments forever - to remain frozen in the peace, in the love of the experience. When I transport my heart to those Moments in Time, I tingle with the joy that I had. I burst with gratitude to God that I had those moments and occasionally demand to know why I couldn't have stayed in their shelter! Therapy isn't in the budget and there is no room in the garage for a massive U-Haul truck of meds. So, I reflect, share.
If you have had those moments, cherish them, although we can never really remain frozen in those Moments of Time!
When I was about twelve, or so, I distinctly remember standing at the edge of a swimming pool, built into the vast yard of a relative. Two of three cousins had been in the water with me. The oldest sibling was sitting on a lounge talking with my mother about everything and nothing. It was a beautiful, early summer day. Our families were going to barbecue. Music and laughter surrounded us. I was content, happy and as I looked to the sky, I thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
As an adult, I remember one and only one day that I had nothing that I really HAD to do. Steve and I had just returned from a Honeymoon in Aruba. He was at his New York office while Butterscotch, my cat, and I were home in a beautiful apartment on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River. We had breakfast on the terrace on a bright, sunny May morning as we watched the river roll by. Of course, I always read, embroidered, but I didn't HAVE to produce a thing that afternoon. I was content, happy and thought, " This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
One Christmas night, I drove my Grandparents home after a day of family, gifts, feasting. As my Grandmother and I embraced to say goodnight, she filled my senses. I was safe, warm, loved. I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
I lurked in the hospital one evening. My Grandmother had one too many heart attacks. Where did that moment go between life and death? I wanted her last moment to last forever. I wanted to pull and pull her to stay on my side of that sliver of time. Freeze that moment! Don't move that moment in time from me! Stay Nana, stay! I was distraught, frantic, as she slipped from my grasp. I was upset, alone, sad and thought, "This is the worst day ever! Give me back that moment!"
As Steve and I sat at a Tiki Bar at the Engleside on the beach in Beach Haven on a perfect Saturday afternoon, we watched the ocean roll in and tease us. I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
I stood with Todd, Tess and Tanner and looked to the sky on Independence Day. As we watched with our arms around each other and oooooed and ahhhhed at the bright splashes in the sky, I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
After kissing and hugging my Grandchildren - Todd, Tess, Tanner before they boarded the school bus, watching them wave from the windows. Walking back toward the house with my daughter - she in a robe and cowboy boots and me in my leopard jammies, pink slippers and winter coat, laughing and planning our shared day, I was content, happy and thought, "This is the best day ever! Please don't end!"
Think, just think. Have you ever felt the moment so intensely that you want to freeze that moment in time? Sometimes, I want to live in those moments forever - to remain frozen in the peace, in the love of the experience. When I transport my heart to those Moments in Time, I tingle with the joy that I had. I burst with gratitude to God that I had those moments and occasionally demand to know why I couldn't have stayed in their shelter! Therapy isn't in the budget and there is no room in the garage for a massive U-Haul truck of meds. So, I reflect, share.
If you have had those moments, cherish them, although we can never really remain frozen in those Moments of Time!
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
I'VE GOT THE POWER!!!
!I am a diversified, interesting individual if nothing else. I am creative to the max. I have recently returned from Boot Camp. I know, I know, I hated Physical Educational in school and had 1,000,000 reasons not to go to gym class (unless I was baton twirling during football season, or in the Girls' Athletic Association Show, primarily dancing.) By Boot Camp I mean that I attended the AWAI (American Writers and Artists Institute) four day intensive writing conference. I am a member of the AWAI and while I am distributing my resume, I am a member of the Professional Writers Alliance. In other words, I am a "word smith."
I have been asked, "Why write?" Of what value are my blogs? What purpose is served? Don't you think that you should get a "real job"? Well, let me share my heart and soul, or at least my thoughts on the burning question of a writer's worth.
The writer is, in my opinion, the most powerful member of society. The writer can educate, entertain, investigate, share his feelings, can praise, berate and if copywriting - sell YOU your own Grandmother!
My book reaches into the souls and temperaments of readers with humor, giving them a call to action to celebrate their achievements large and small. I encourage them to recognize that there are no small achievements, ever.
My blogs illustrate appreciation for various attractions experienced on trips with and without my family. I share the joy of participating, singing, dancing, playing wherever I roam! Many people who perform, guide, enchant, entertain are praised for their presentations with my words. Ordinarily, they might go unnoticed. I share my family, my logic (quirky as it might be), find unique words to broaden my readers' perspectives about music, arts, their own families, various social situations or have a platform to celebrate my heritage.
The written word is the backbone of society. Words advertise, words record history, words illuminate research, explain findings. Words can make giants small; and the meek, strong and notable. Words make us laugh, cry, think, act, pray, shop, create, indulge in hobbies, travel. Writers share scientific discoveries, enhance their readers' understanding of medical, geographical, political issues. Writer words reach into cores to make us realize our desires, our joy, our disappointments. We only know of our leaders, our products, our Faith by the passion of the writer's manipulation of the written word.
It is my belief that the writer rules the universe. The writer's only tools are his passion, in intelligence, his mastery of language and his impressions of the society, science, individuals that surround him. Mechanics of grammar, vocabulary, a pencil or computer assist in the generation of the thoughts in a writer's mind onto the printed page, or the screen to universally rouse, shake, praise, instruct mankind.
Those of us who write are blessed - We have the talent and intelligence to write. Those of us who write are cursed - We have the passion, the urgency, the sheer volume of so much to say and the driving necessity to "get it out there" as clearly, as efficiently, and as quirky as we think.
When I am happy, I write. When I am sad, I write. When I am feeling quirky, funny, I write. When I want to share knowledge, I write. When I am impressed, enlightened, I write. When I am disappointed with people, places, things, you, I write. When I am pensive, I write. When a marketer wants to entice consumers, I write. My suggestion to friend and foe. BEWARE! I cheerfully absorb my surroundings, my experiences and then tap dance with my laptop to create an opus of exhausting tempo! However, bear in mind that I am not the only person in the universe who is driven to expression through the written word. We are many.
I embrace the blessing and the curse with gratitude. You can bet your bottom dollar that I will keep the keys moving and the thoughts flowing! Caution: If in fact, the "pen" is mightier than the "sword", stand back and watch this keyboard smoke! Got armor?
I have been asked, "Why write?" Of what value are my blogs? What purpose is served? Don't you think that you should get a "real job"? Well, let me share my heart and soul, or at least my thoughts on the burning question of a writer's worth.
The writer is, in my opinion, the most powerful member of society. The writer can educate, entertain, investigate, share his feelings, can praise, berate and if copywriting - sell YOU your own Grandmother!
My book reaches into the souls and temperaments of readers with humor, giving them a call to action to celebrate their achievements large and small. I encourage them to recognize that there are no small achievements, ever.
My blogs illustrate appreciation for various attractions experienced on trips with and without my family. I share the joy of participating, singing, dancing, playing wherever I roam! Many people who perform, guide, enchant, entertain are praised for their presentations with my words. Ordinarily, they might go unnoticed. I share my family, my logic (quirky as it might be), find unique words to broaden my readers' perspectives about music, arts, their own families, various social situations or have a platform to celebrate my heritage.
The written word is the backbone of society. Words advertise, words record history, words illuminate research, explain findings. Words can make giants small; and the meek, strong and notable. Words make us laugh, cry, think, act, pray, shop, create, indulge in hobbies, travel. Writers share scientific discoveries, enhance their readers' understanding of medical, geographical, political issues. Writer words reach into cores to make us realize our desires, our joy, our disappointments. We only know of our leaders, our products, our Faith by the passion of the writer's manipulation of the written word.
It is my belief that the writer rules the universe. The writer's only tools are his passion, in intelligence, his mastery of language and his impressions of the society, science, individuals that surround him. Mechanics of grammar, vocabulary, a pencil or computer assist in the generation of the thoughts in a writer's mind onto the printed page, or the screen to universally rouse, shake, praise, instruct mankind.
Those of us who write are blessed - We have the talent and intelligence to write. Those of us who write are cursed - We have the passion, the urgency, the sheer volume of so much to say and the driving necessity to "get it out there" as clearly, as efficiently, and as quirky as we think.
When I am happy, I write. When I am sad, I write. When I am feeling quirky, funny, I write. When I want to share knowledge, I write. When I am impressed, enlightened, I write. When I am disappointed with people, places, things, you, I write. When I am pensive, I write. When a marketer wants to entice consumers, I write. My suggestion to friend and foe. BEWARE! I cheerfully absorb my surroundings, my experiences and then tap dance with my laptop to create an opus of exhausting tempo! However, bear in mind that I am not the only person in the universe who is driven to expression through the written word. We are many.
I embrace the blessing and the curse with gratitude. You can bet your bottom dollar that I will keep the keys moving and the thoughts flowing! Caution: If in fact, the "pen" is mightier than the "sword", stand back and watch this keyboard smoke! Got armor?
Sunday, October 7, 2012
FASHIONISTA
I love clothes! I have always been known for vast wardrobes with coordinating accessories. I can be classic, cocktail dressy, special occasion dressy, casual, upscale casual, affluent snob, weekend play, black tie formal, ball formal and even as Darla Darling, The Domestic Diva, I can do all of that in polka dots.
I especially enjoy my formal wear. I have ball gowns and good old fashioned, classic formal "black tie" get ups! My collection is so vast, but even after an invitation to a Black Tie in Cincinnati, I did, in good faith comb the boutiques and really found nothing like my Nieman Marcus find designer black formal. The gown still slides sveltly over the last of the "Ohio Five" (ugh, of the original ten pounds that I can't shake...gained after I moved to Ohio...gotta get back to Jersey...another story for another time). The piece features a high halter-ish neck and shoulder look. The bodice is smartly beaded with black beads subtly set in black embroidered areas. From the high waist to the ground is a solid black, free falling, flattering, straight skirt . With black panty hose and strappy closed toe and heal black silk stilettos and a black beaded evening bag, not to brag, I look great!
BUT
I neglected to mention that from that high neck to the top of the waist, in the back are 1,000,000 straps attached from neck to waist. From under the left arm, to the waist, there is a delicate zipper. Ah-huh. For forty-eight hours before an event to which I will wear this number, strategy is of the utmost importance. I live alone with my cat. Priscilla is bright, pretty, in tune with me, but as a dresser...not so much. First there has to be a war table where seated is a platoon of Fashionistas set up with charts and plots for strategy to master which strap should be where in order that my head be on top and my arms to my sides with, as you can imagine, the front beading in the front and those back straps in the back! Required, prior to even touching the garment, are blueprints, written and illustrated directions, a training video and live demonstration.
SO
I showered using "Organza" shower gel, shaved smoothly. "Organza" lotion was massaged into every pore. "Organza" perfume was dotted in all of the "right" places. Evening make-up done to perfection. My hair was sleek. No "Spanks" - thank goodness! Perfect panty hose... next.
AND THEN
A friend had to stand on a chair, doing the best octopus impersonation ever to hold all straps in just the right places as the gown was slipped over my head, brought down, lining all smoothly on me, while straightening and arranging straps. That required delicate, gentle handling. It worked! All body parts were just where I was supposed to be! The tricky part was a little surprising. The tiny zipper was very uncooperative. By pulling down and up strongly while my are was above my head, we struggled, worked up a mini perspiration incident and with pliers, got that weenie zipper up! After donning an evening bolero jacket in the same fabric with no collar, but high neck in the back, I was ready to rock!
The evening was fun. I entertained the table with my GUIDE FOR AFFLUENT MEN, DIVORCING and assorted jokes, riddles and funny stories. Chatter about a few books, the ballet, and theatre, I glided through the event with my "grown up" persona.
I returned home after midnight. Evidently, my delusional mind led me to believe that all I had to do was reach around, unzip and somehow navigate my way out of the tangle of straps. That should have not been a problem because I thought, who would care how the straps fell when taking off the mass of confusion? Priscilla must have had a premonition that this would not go well. She disappeared into the abyss known as "under the bed". I reached around, began to unzip...STUCK! I couldn't see under my arm to "UN STICK" the zipper from whatever was annoying it! I pulled the zipper up again, couldn't get it down at all! I couldn't pull the gown over my head without loosening any of the rigging. NOW WHAT?
At "0:dark:30", closer to Sunday School Standard Time, than to the Saturday Evening Bash, I opted for "phone a friend". (That maneuver will not be in the HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE book, by the way.) After an hour of an uncooperative zipper - not moving, even with pliers, grunts and threats and a ten minute "Let's think about this" break, we decided that the trusty "seam ripper" had to be found. Deftly, delicately, carefully, tiny stitches on one side of the zipper were removed. After another forty-five minutes, deftly, delicately, carefully, tiny stitches on the other side of the zipper were removed.
Like an overblown balloon, I was exhilarated, liberated and felt airborne! The freedom flight resulted in a sight similar to a back full of linguine. As if we were playing "Pick-Up Sticks", the straps had to be moved and sorted to release my head and neck allowing me to breathe. Then my arms were freed by sunrise!
My gown is dangling from a hanger, with the unrecognizable zipper tossed over it. I can't find one shoe. Having had a rough encounter with the pliers (we won't even discuss that) the panty hose are trashed. My friend has a new unlisted number. Priscilla finally emerged from the abyss, but she is giggling. On top of a pile of mail is, you guessed it...an invitation to a Black Tie Formal Event!
This Fashionista must go shopping for an outfit that is not sooooooooo exhausting! I'm just too weak!
I especially enjoy my formal wear. I have ball gowns and good old fashioned, classic formal "black tie" get ups! My collection is so vast, but even after an invitation to a Black Tie in Cincinnati, I did, in good faith comb the boutiques and really found nothing like my Nieman Marcus find designer black formal. The gown still slides sveltly over the last of the "Ohio Five" (ugh, of the original ten pounds that I can't shake...gained after I moved to Ohio...gotta get back to Jersey...another story for another time). The piece features a high halter-ish neck and shoulder look. The bodice is smartly beaded with black beads subtly set in black embroidered areas. From the high waist to the ground is a solid black, free falling, flattering, straight skirt . With black panty hose and strappy closed toe and heal black silk stilettos and a black beaded evening bag, not to brag, I look great!
BUT
I neglected to mention that from that high neck to the top of the waist, in the back are 1,000,000 straps attached from neck to waist. From under the left arm, to the waist, there is a delicate zipper. Ah-huh. For forty-eight hours before an event to which I will wear this number, strategy is of the utmost importance. I live alone with my cat. Priscilla is bright, pretty, in tune with me, but as a dresser...not so much. First there has to be a war table where seated is a platoon of Fashionistas set up with charts and plots for strategy to master which strap should be where in order that my head be on top and my arms to my sides with, as you can imagine, the front beading in the front and those back straps in the back! Required, prior to even touching the garment, are blueprints, written and illustrated directions, a training video and live demonstration.
SO
I showered using "Organza" shower gel, shaved smoothly. "Organza" lotion was massaged into every pore. "Organza" perfume was dotted in all of the "right" places. Evening make-up done to perfection. My hair was sleek. No "Spanks" - thank goodness! Perfect panty hose... next.
AND THEN
A friend had to stand on a chair, doing the best octopus impersonation ever to hold all straps in just the right places as the gown was slipped over my head, brought down, lining all smoothly on me, while straightening and arranging straps. That required delicate, gentle handling. It worked! All body parts were just where I was supposed to be! The tricky part was a little surprising. The tiny zipper was very uncooperative. By pulling down and up strongly while my are was above my head, we struggled, worked up a mini perspiration incident and with pliers, got that weenie zipper up! After donning an evening bolero jacket in the same fabric with no collar, but high neck in the back, I was ready to rock!
The evening was fun. I entertained the table with my GUIDE FOR AFFLUENT MEN, DIVORCING and assorted jokes, riddles and funny stories. Chatter about a few books, the ballet, and theatre, I glided through the event with my "grown up" persona.
I returned home after midnight. Evidently, my delusional mind led me to believe that all I had to do was reach around, unzip and somehow navigate my way out of the tangle of straps. That should have not been a problem because I thought, who would care how the straps fell when taking off the mass of confusion? Priscilla must have had a premonition that this would not go well. She disappeared into the abyss known as "under the bed". I reached around, began to unzip...STUCK! I couldn't see under my arm to "UN STICK" the zipper from whatever was annoying it! I pulled the zipper up again, couldn't get it down at all! I couldn't pull the gown over my head without loosening any of the rigging. NOW WHAT?
At "0:dark:30", closer to Sunday School Standard Time, than to the Saturday Evening Bash, I opted for "phone a friend". (That maneuver will not be in the HOW TO WIN FRIENDS AND INFLUENCE PEOPLE book, by the way.) After an hour of an uncooperative zipper - not moving, even with pliers, grunts and threats and a ten minute "Let's think about this" break, we decided that the trusty "seam ripper" had to be found. Deftly, delicately, carefully, tiny stitches on one side of the zipper were removed. After another forty-five minutes, deftly, delicately, carefully, tiny stitches on the other side of the zipper were removed.
Like an overblown balloon, I was exhilarated, liberated and felt airborne! The freedom flight resulted in a sight similar to a back full of linguine. As if we were playing "Pick-Up Sticks", the straps had to be moved and sorted to release my head and neck allowing me to breathe. Then my arms were freed by sunrise!
My gown is dangling from a hanger, with the unrecognizable zipper tossed over it. I can't find one shoe. Having had a rough encounter with the pliers (we won't even discuss that) the panty hose are trashed. My friend has a new unlisted number. Priscilla finally emerged from the abyss, but she is giggling. On top of a pile of mail is, you guessed it...an invitation to a Black Tie Formal Event!
This Fashionista must go shopping for an outfit that is not sooooooooo exhausting! I'm just too weak!
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