Oh Snow She Didn't!

So if we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
-Sammy Cahn

I have nothing against snow really, as long as I don’t have to actually leave the house when it happens. A snowy day, when I have nowhere to go and food in the house, is delightful. Add a cup of hot cocoa and a nice warm afghan to the scenario, and I couldn’t be happier with a wintry day.

Unfortunately, it has almost never worked out this way for me. When I have had to venture out in it, the sad fact is that snow has not been my friend. My misadventures in the snow have been so numerous and spectacular that I am not sure that they will all fit into one blog, but I’ll give you the short versions of a few of the stories.

There was my first trip to New York City, which was also my first plane trip. I was out of college a few years, and I decided to visit one of my college roommates who was living in Brooklyn and working in Manhattan for a long weekend. We were walking the 16 city blocks from the Empire State Building (our first sightseeing stop) to the United Nations when the blizzard hit. Undaunted, we continued to the U.N. which was closed because of weather when we got there.

At that point, Midge and I gave up and spent the rest of the weekend having a very nice visit in Brooklyn. In the end there were 26 inches of show, a blizzard the likes of which the city hadn’t seen since 1946. Snow drifts completely buried some cars. The regular cabs weren’t running to Newark Airport – I ended up getting lost by myself in the New York Subway system and being delayed a day. Hey, at least I wasn’t driving.

I was driving one snowy day when I was about 9 months pregnant and my water broke at work. The people at the hospital seemed to think that it was important that I get there just as soon as possible. There were no cell phones then, and I was unable to contact my then-husband who was out making deliveries for his company. I drove myself the 30 miles to the hospital in the snow to have the baby.

There was the time that a co-worker and I drove to Erie on March 21st one year for a day trip to tour a state-of-the-art facility there. At lunch, it began to snow. Our hosts assured us that it was just a “little lake effect snow"- nothing to worry about. After seeing 12 cars off the side of the road in a 12-mile stretch on our way home on 79, we stopped at a little motel in Sandy Lake, PA. There were no phones in the rooms, and we only had the clothes on our backs, but there was a restaurant across the road serving all the homemade ham-and-cabbage you could eat for $3.50 and for that one low price they threw in dessert and a beverage. That made up for a lot of the inconvenience.

But the worst snow event for me, hands down, was when I was working for a quasi-military centuries-old religious organization with a social service mission, in a position that involved driving sometimes fours day a week throughout the western part of the state. I started the job at the onset of one of the worst winters in that decade, and I had already spent countless hours driving the company car over some absolutely miserable roads. I thought perhaps God was testing me, and when I survived that first winter, I had finally proved myself to be worthy of doing His work.

However, they weren’t done with me yet. The next winter they sent me and most of my co-workers in the Development Department to a regional conference at a center they owned and operated in New Jersey. It started to precipitate just as two co-workers and I headed out for NJ, where we should have arrived by about 11 p.m. I say “precipitate” because it wasn’t just snow. Actually, the snow was alternating with sleet, hail, and ice storms. It was not fun, but I went slowly and by 11 p.m. we had reached Carlisle, PA, about halfway to our destination. We spent the night there.

When we set out the next morning the weather had not improved at all. Several hours later we reached the town where the conference was being held. We were pretty excited and then we blew a tire, just a mile or two from our destination.

When we left for home a day or two later, the weather was even worse than it had been coming out. This time, though, the sleet and ice were coming down so quickly that the car’s defrosting system couldn’t keep up. For much of the trip, we had to pull over every few miles and chip away the ice from the windshield. It was fifteen hours later when we finally arrived in Pittsburgh, and I had driven the entire way.

I could go on but you get the idea. So, trust me when I tell you that it is not that I can’t drive in the snow. Oh, yes, I can, and I have. I just don’t want to – ever again, if I can help it. Can you blame me? When I hear a forecast for snow, I experience something akin to Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I’ve stopped planning trips between November and March. I’ve accepted jobs specifically because they allowed me to minimize my commute.

And I keep the house stocked with hot cocoa and food in the winter.

Carol of the Smelts

It’s Christmas Eve, and today my family will gather together for our very own Feast of the Three Fishes. Yes, yes, I know that it is supposed to be Seven Fishes, and while we celebrate many other fish in our hearts, on Christmas Eve we only eat three-anchovies, smelts and shrimp.

You don’t have to be Italian to love anchovies, but it helps. My mouth is watering just thinking about the anchovies that will be prepared with oil in angel hair pasta, a long time traditional family dish that my husband has been refining and fine-tuning each year. I have never met anyone who is neutral about anchovies – you either love ‘em or hate ‘em. Despite the controversy, the anchovy has found its way into the menus of fine gourmet restaurants – it is an ingredient in the most traditional Caesar salads.

Not so the lowly smelt. It is often referred to as a salmon-like or “salmonoid” fish, but I don’t see the similarity. It doesn’t look or taste like salmon, and in fact the only relationship I can see is the fact that smelts are food to the salmon. Salmon is a favorite menu item in restaurants, but you will very rarely find a smelt dish on that same menu. I only enjoy smelts on Christmas Eve, but I look forward to having them all year. Despite all this, at our Christmas Eve celebration the smelts have been the subject of more thought, care and planning than any other item.

My husband, who nows whips up the best fried smelts in the world for my family each Christmas Eve, inherently understood and embraced the significance of the smelt in our family tradition. To celebrate that tradition, he penned “Carol of the Smelts,” sung to the tune of “Carol of the Bells.” He and I sing this for the family every year before we eat our Christmas Eve meal, whether they like it or not.

I give you "Carol of the Smelts":

Let's get the smelts
Let's buy the smelts
Gotta find smelts
Who sells the smelts?

We got the smelts
Let's clean the smelts
Season the smelts
Fry up the smelts

We cannot stand the
Smelts; they're too bland. The
Oil isn't hot, the
Hell! Why the bother?

Smelts are very, very, very yummy
They're a special present for the tummy!

Oh, let's just eat,
Smelts are a treat.
It's Christmas time.
These smelts are fine.

Dine, dine, dine - gone!

Our Miraculous Season - Eight Nights and Seven Fishes

The first time I observed Hanukkah, the Festival of Lights, was the year I started dating my husband. My husband explained that we would be exchanging eight small gifts, one to be opened each evening of the festival. Like stocking stuffers, I thought, only they didn’t have to be physically small enough to fit into the stocking.

On the eighth night my husband opened his last present from me. It was a day-to-day calendar on a topic I thought he might like. Then it was my turn. In the gift bag he handed to me was a book on planning an interfaith wedding ceremony, and a typewritten note. The note explained that the eighth day of Hanukkah, which celebrates the miracle of oil that burned for eight days when it should have lasted for one, coincided with the eighth month anniversary of the miracle of our love, and asked me if I would consent to be his wife. He then presented me with the engagement ring. For this Italian Catholic Gentile, the “miracle of Hanukkah” now had a very personal meaning.

Each year, my husband, son and I celebrate Hanukkah (or Chanukah if you prefer). Each evening, my husband and I light the candles of the hanukkiah, which is a special menorah used for Hanukkah, and my husband says a prayer in Hebrew blessing the lights and the occasion. We each open a present. My son comes over one day during the eight-day festival week to celebrate, and brings a small present for each of us. He is happy to accept eight small presents from us.

A few years ago, my son arrived for our Hanukkah celebration carrying a beautiful poinsettia as a gift for me. When my mother was still alive, I would bring her a poinsettia every year at Christmas. My son remembered that and felt that it was time for that tradition to continue. Now each year I receive a Christmas poinsettia from my son as a Hanukkah present. We also decorate the Christmas tree that day, after enjoying a traditional Hanukkah meal of homemade latkes (potato pancakes) with apple sauce and sour cream.

My family has always celebrated Christmas on Christmas Eve, which is the Feast of the Seven Fishes, a tradition among the people of Southern Italy and Sicily, where my grandparents were born. These traditions probably have their origins in the observance of the Cena della Vigilia, the wait for the miraculous birth of Christ in which early Catholics fasted on Christmas Eve until after receiving communion at Midnight Mass. According to my family, Christmas Eve had at one time been a Fast Day, when Catholics had to abstain specifically from eating meat. So, we celebrated Christmas by eating all kinds of fish, and exchanging presents. Midnight Mass was also part of the tradition, one we chose not to follow. No one really knows why there are seven fishes, and different families choose different fish.

When I was growing up, we celebrated the holiday at my Aunt Connie’s house, with the entire extended family. There were actually seven fishes, including squid, eel, shrimp, baccala (i.e. dried salted cod), clams, anchovies in angel hair pasta, and most importantly, smelts.

Over the years, as the family grew, and the kids grew up, my immediate family started celebrating the holiday on its own. We trimmed the menu to the three fishes we actually liked, which were the anchovies (in pasta and on homemade pizza), shrimp and smelts. Eventually, lasagna replaced the pizza, which was later replaced by my sister’s much-loved and anticipated stuffed shells. Meat is now a part of the meal, along with the fish.

The first year my husband spent Christmas with my family was also the first Christmas after my mother passed away. My mother had always made the fried smelts for Christmas Eve, which to me, anyway, was the most important part of the meal. I agreed to take responsibility for the smelts, but the person who really stepped in to save the smelts was my husband. My husband is a trained chef with a degree from the Culinary Institute of America. He produced fried smelts the likes of which the family had never experienced. He cemented his place not just in the hearts of my family but in our Christmas celebration as well. He also participates in the annual Family Grab Bag- exchanging presents seems to be the great constant in all our traditions.

Since we celebrate Christmas Eve with my family, we do very little on Christmas Day. We just relax, try to recover from all the fish consumption, and enjoy our newly acquired presents. One year, “Dreamgirls” was opening at a local cineplex on Christmas Day, and we decided that it was the perfect time to see it. We decided that we might like to get a little dinner on the way home, and found that a gourmet Chinese restaurant that we liked in Squirrel Hill was open. And so another tradition was born – we now celebrate what my husband always jokingly told me was a Jewish Christmas- Chinese food and a movie. The merging of the traditions was complete!

It’s all about miracles, really- this season in which we celebrate our various religious and ethnic holidays. Whether it’s the miracle of one days’ worth of oil that lasted for eight when the Maccabees reclaimed their temple, or the miracle of the birth of Jesus Christ who was born to save humankind, it’s about God giving people what they need to make it through. For our family, blending our traditions and eventually creating some of our own has evolved naturally, with love and respect for each other and our cultures. And that is our miracle.

May you and yours experience your own miracles this season.

Christmas Tree, O (Artificial) Christmas Tree

My parents were never exactly cutting edge when it came to keeping up with the latest crazes on the market, but they were practically the first in line to buy an artificial Christmas tree.

I was seven the year my parents bought the tree that would adorn our living room every year thereafter. This tree was truly spectacular in its tackiness. It was pure white, it rotated, and had a built in music box that would play your choice of “Jingle Bells” or “Silent Night.” It came with its own rotating color wheel and all-red bulbs and a red art deco star. They couldn’t have been happier with this tree- no fuss, no muss, and no yearly expense!

In a year or two, I decided that this tree was an embarrassment to all that was good and pure and Christmas. I begged my parents to buy a real Christmas tree again. Never ones to indulge an overly emotional child, they wouldn’t hear of it. Real Christmas trees are messy and expensive, they explained. They shed their pine needles all over the place, and then you just had to figure out how to get rid of the darn thing. But real trees are also green, I protested, and this tree was white. The artificial trees only came in white or silver, my parents said. Snow was white, my mother pointed out helpfully. She advised me to just pretend the tree was covered in snow.

The first time I had a real Christmas tree again was when I was a freshman in college. One day my friend Andy walked into my dorm room with a perfect and very real little Christmas tree, about 2 ft. high, in his hand. He went out and cut it down for me just because he knew how much it would mean to me to have a real tree. I was thrilled with the tree and grateful to have a friend like Andy. I lovingly decorated the tree with homemade paper chains and snowflakes, and even took it home with me for Christmas break, where it shared a space in the living room with my parent’s beloved white tree.

As an adult, I finally had that real Christmas tree I always wanted. Decorating the tree was an important part of our holiday celebration. These trees were everything that my childhood tree was not. They were as big as the room would allow, chosen carefully, and very, very real. I made all kinds of ornaments for the tree – stuffed, painted, needlepoint- and bought unique single ornaments. I called it my hodgepodge tree. Nothing matched, but it was beautiful.

There was only one problem with these trees. They were real. They were messy. The pine needles shed everywhere. We pricked our fingers as we hung ornaments, and the branches couldn't always hold the heavier ornaments. You had to water the thing and the water would drip and sometimes leave a mark on the carpet. It was a significant expense added to all the other additional expenses of the season. Getting rid of it was always a hassle. In turns out that my parents were, as so often was the case, right after all.

So it seems that I had wanted an artificial tree all along- just a green one that looked like a real tree, and with all my wonderful mix of ornaments. But my family was as attached to their real, green trees as my parents had been to their white artificial one. So I was stuck with a real tree each year.

After my divorce, all of my holiday traditions were up in the air, ready to be redefined. When I remarried, it became even more complicated. My Jewish husband obviously doesn’t celebrate Christmas, but I still very much wanted a Christmas tree in my house. After the shock of the idea wore off, my husband agreed to let me have a tree. However, he had absolutely no-preconceived notion about what a tree should be or how it should be decorated. It was entirely up to me.

I can’t even convey my excitement the day that we went to Pool City to choose our tree. Now I have the perfect, beautiful green artificial tree of my dreams. My son still prefers a real tree but comes over ever year to help decorate, and we use the same ornaments that once adorned the real tree of his childhood. And my husband still can’t believe that he has a Christmas tree in the house.

Another Parade Passes By

This may sound un-American, but I hate parades. Watching bands and dignitaries and floats made of tissue paper flowers march by while I stand on the sidewalk is just not my idea of fun. And, in case you didn’t know, parades generally take place outside, in all that weather. Either the sun is beating down or it’s raining. I don’t really like crowds, and there are always lots of excited people milling around at a parade. I can take all this in short doses, but the really good parades are ridiculously long.

I came by my dislike for parades naturally- it’s genetic. My mother also hated parades. Nonetheless, when I was a kid, we would faithfully attend every parade in our hometown of Swissvale. Why? Because my cousin was a majorette, and we were there to support our family, my mother explained. Mom would sit there with a huge smile on her face, waving her little flag, muttering under her breath, “Boy, I hate parades.” The lesson was that loyalty to family trumped everything else – you can endure anything for your family- even a parade.

Over the years, I couldn’t really get away from parades. When my son was young, we attended the Canonsburg Fourth of July Parade annually. This was the quintessential parade. It was the second largest Fourth of July parade in the state, second only to Philadelphia, but primarily this parade was known for the lawn chairs lining the parade route that residents would put out sometimes days in advance to reserve their spot. Even I had to admire the breadth and depth of the participants – sometimes the polka band would be followed directly by the ABATE club members riding their motorcycles. It was also really, really long – 2 ½ hours was pretty typical. It was torturous for me.

Just as my son was reaching the age where he might be able to attend this parade with some friends and would, in any case, be totally embarrassed to be seen in public with his mother anywhere much less the local parade, he became a drummer in his high school band. The Chartiers Houston Junior Senior High School Marching Band was, in my humble and totally objective opinion, terrific. Even if I did not just love my son enough to attend band functions, it would have been a pleasure to watch this band perform. Thank goodness, because for the next 5 ½ years, I attended every home football game, band festival, School Bus demolition derby, and, oh yes, local parade, including the Canonsburg Fourth of July Parade, specifically to see this band and my son perform.

That brings me to the Houston Pumpkin Festival Parade, which was the exception to my parade-hating rule. I didn’t just tolerate this parade. I LOVED this parade. It was part of one of the best three-day fairs in all the land and took place the second weekend of October, when the weather was more likely to be temperate. The Chartiers Houston Marching Band, the best marching band in the world, was the only band in the parade. While it had all the elements of any typical parade, it was small and intimate, and, more to the point, short, generally less than 30 minutes. It was the perfect parade.

The first year that my son participated in the Houston Pumpkin Festival Parade, I realized that he would have to be dropped off at the high school about an hour and a half before the start of the parade. I decided that after dropping him off, I would just find a place to park in the residential area near the parade route and wait around for the parade to begin.

Parking was scarce, and I was having trouble finding a spot. I was driving by the house of one of my son’s friends, which was on the parade route, and I noticed that their off-street parking spot was empty. Bobby’s dad was standing in the back yard, so I stopped and asked if I could use their spot. Sure, he said. The next thing I know, Cindy, Bobby’s mom, was at the side door, inviting me in. She had just made a pot of coffee and had some fresh pastries all ready. Cindy and I had gotten to know each other very well when our boys were friends in elementary school, but as they got into high school they developed different interests, so we didn’t see each other nearly as often. We had a nice visit, and then watched the parade from her front porch. This became an annual tradition, one I looked forward to each year, and one I remember fondly every October.

I thought that my days of enforced parade attendance had long ago come to end, but then I took a job in downtown Pittsburgh where I am sometimes forced to listen to parades even if I don’t have to watch them. The Veteran’s Day parade was marching past my office building just the other day. I immediately turned into the Ebenezer Scrooge of parades. My mouth clenched into a frown. “Infernal noise,” I muttered, “will that incessant racket never end?”

Then the sounds of the marching bands made me remember those days as a Chartiers Houston Marching Band groupie, and sharing the Houston Pumpkin Festival parade with Cindy, and I softened a little. My nostalgia ended long before the two-hour parade came to an end, but for a moment I remembered that any event – even a damn parade- can be splendid when spent with family and friends.

Don't Cry for Kanye, Taylor Swift

I didn’t actually watch this year’s MTV’s Video Music Awards. In case you didn’t either and were away from all media sources for the week following the broadcast, here’s what happened.

Taylor Swift, a 19-year-old country singer, won Best Female Video. As she was excitedly accepting her award, she was interrupted by rap star Kanye West. He jumped onto the stage, yanked the microphone out of her hand, and launched into a tirade, saying that Beyoncé, one of the other nominees in the category, had made “one of the best videos of all time.” Taylor was in tears. Beyoncé was sitting in the audience, stunned. When Beyoncé won the Best Video of the Year award later in the evening, she called Taylor Swift onto the stage and donated her air time to her, allowing Taylor to finish her acceptance speech.

So, in the end, Taylor Swift won a video music award, a lot of sympathy, and some invaluable exposure to a lot of people who had no previous knowledge of her (like me). I even checked out her video, "You Belong with Me" which was the age-old Cinderella story- nerdy girl wins cool, popular guy away from his nasty cheerleader girlfriend- but the there was a fresh, young sound to the song itself. Beyoncé won the top award, and demonstrated that she was the epitome of class. The only loser, as I saw it, was Kanye West, who lost the respect of most right-minded people by being an unspeakable cad.

Then one day I came across a video of a baby dancing to Beyonce’s award winning video “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).” It was Beyoncé and two other women singing and dancing. This was the video Kanye deemed one of the best of all time? Really, Kanye?

Wow. Obviously Kanye hasn’t seen very many videos. Now, I don’t pretend to be an expert on music videos, and obviously rating them is a subjective exercise. However, back in the olden days of videos – the 1980’s- I watched a fair number of them, as I was happy to stay home in the evenings with my baby and MTV. While I stopped watching videos of any kind on a regular basis sometimes in the 90’s, I can tell you that there were some mighty fine videos made back in the 80’s that could best “Single Ladies” any day.

In my opinion, the best videos were those that told a story, preferably one that reIated to the song itself. This is not to say there were not some terrific performance videos, like Van Halen’s joyous and colorful “Jump.” I think the general consensus is that Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” was the best video ever. It was a 15 minute extravaganza that was actually a short campy horror movie. It was spectacular but clearly extraordinary as videos go. My favorite more typical Michael Jackson video was “Beat It” which is kind of like the “West Side Story” of music videos- complete with warring gangs and intricately choreographed dance numbers.

If I had to pick one video that I loved the best, though, it had to be Madonna’s “Like a Prayer.” “Life is a mystery” the song begins, and so was the song itself. I could never decide if the song was about finding religion, or finding a relationship that was so fine that it was actually spiritual, or if it was just saying that sex could be like a religious experience. Maybe it was about all three, or any one of them, depending upon the listener. That’s what made it such a brilliant song. All that, AND it had a beat and you could dance to it.

The “Like a Prayer” video captured that ambiguity perfectly. Madonna, dressed for church in a black slip, escapes the attention of some thugs by going into a church. She is saved by a statue of a saint who comes to life and embraces her. Meanwhile, another woman is raped and murdered by the thugs, and the come-to-life statue finds the victim but is then framed by the police for the crime. Madonna visits him in prison, and –I think- testifies on his behalf- freeing him, perhaps? There is also a choir involved in rescuing Madonna- representing the redemptive power of song, I presume. There is a lot of religious imagery, and they dance. So is it about the power of religion to save us, or about our ability to save each other through love and spirituality and/or sex? Who knows? It was fabulous-that’s what I know!

Naturally, what with the burning crosses, and the stigmata, and the message, it was also a highly controversial video. It was called sacrilegious by some critics, and there were even calls for Madonna to be thrown out of the Church. This probably pleased Madonna, who was never one to shy away from controversy. Heck, Madonna loved controversy- she thrived on it.

Taylor Swift went onto win “Entertainer of the Year” at the Country Music Awards the other night, where she was presumably among friends, and where she was able to complete her acceptance speech uninterrupted. However, country music star Winona Judd complained the next day that it all came too soon to Taylor, and then added some nonsense about her mamma and her having to pay their dues driving from concert to concert in their early days. Taylor is learning a valuable lesson early- no matter how great your success, accomplishments, or recognition, there will always be detractors but you can’t let them get you down. Just ask Madonna.

What's your favorite music video? Comment below.

Dimples and Hydraulics- Riding the Rapids in PA

I am two with nature. -Woody Allen

It was 6 a.m. on a drizzly, overcast, unseasonably cool Saturday morning in August. I was meeting 14 co-workers in a lonely parking lot to go whitewater rafting down the Youghigheny River, with one of those groups that arrange outdoor adventure trips for city folks like us.

Not only was I not the outsdoorsy type myself, I was practically a card-carrying klutz. Just to add to the fun, I couldn’t swim, and was terrified of the water. Nonetheless, I willingly agreed to pay money to spend one very long weekend day riding the rapids with my work friends.

After a subdued van drive, we arrived at the river. The eerie morning silence was broken only by the powerful sound of rushing water, nature’s Muzak. The beauty of the river and the surrounding forest was obscured by the overcast sky, which made the normally vibrant colors of the water and the trees fade into shades of gray and muddy brown. It was surreal and ominous in a neurotic sort of way, like a nature scene from a Woody Allen film.

Our guide Kathy was one of those naturally petite women who combined perkiness with a no-nonsense toughness, a combination that lent itself well to being a head cheerleader, a drill sergeant or a whitewater rafting guide. “O.K., we will be riding four to a raft,” she shouted, “We will ride 16 separate rapids on our way down the river. Before we take each rapid I will explain what to expect and any special instructions. The trip should take about five hours. Any questions?”

I mentioned the fact that I could not swim, and that I once almost drowned at my local swimming pool. No problem! We’d be wearing life jackets, she told me. She carefully explained what to do in case I fell in, a possibility I dismissed as too gruesome to actually consider.

Keep my body straight. Point my feet downstream. Put my chin down. Cross my arms and hold the bottom of my life jacket tightly with both hands. Following these simple rules, I would ride the rapids like a human raft. It would be Fun, said Kathy.

The trip began. Kathy was in my raft, which I found reassuring. I was assigned the front left seat in the raft which made me the person with the least responsibility for keeping the raft going in the right direction. I just had to row, preferably in time with the others. Riding the first few rapids made one thing perfectly clear. I was definitely the weak link on my team. Keeping up with the rowing and staying in the raft became my goals.

Kathy turned serious when we came to the rapids that someone named “Dimples” in a fit of whimsy. Dimples was so named because there were two huge rocks on either side of the rapid. In order to navigate the rapid and live, we had to negotiate the turns through the rocks quite precisely. Once past the first rock, we had to change direction quickly in order to pass the rock safely. Our turn had to be sharp, but not too sharp, and clean, or there was a very real possibility that my co-worker and raftmate Jim could go crashing into the rock on his right, resulting in his death or serious injury.

I liked Jim. He was an extremely nice and gentle man who administrated early intervention programs for children with disabilities. I did not want him to die.

We readied ourselves to go through Dimples. I fought the urge to close my eyes. We entered the rapid, passed the rock on the right and masterfully made the quick turn around the rock on the left. Perfect! We had done Dimples. We were positively giddy. Dimples was our Everest. A new pride filled us.

We resumed our journey down the river. The afternoon was progressing nicely when the time came to navigate Double Hydraulics, the rapid made up of two adjacent whirlpools. Getting through the Hydraulics would be no sweat, Kathy assured us. We had done Dimples, and this one was nothing next to Dimples.

Into Double Hydraulics we went. Then it happened. With raging force the water rose above me and the whirlpool sucked me into the river. Although encompassed by a panic so great that it was positively suffocating, I tried to keep my head and follow Kathy’s earlier instructions.

Body straight. It was a whirlpool, my body wouldn’t stay straight. Feet downstream. There was no downstream – I was going in circles. Chin down. O.K. my chin was down in a natural attempt to get into a fetal position, but I didn’t see how this was helping me. Arms crossed. Hold bottom of the life jacket tightly with both hands. I was literally holding on for dear life, but to no avail.

The whirlpool was bigger than me. It was sucking me in and spitting me out, sucking me in and spitting me out. Although I took deep breaths of air each time I was spit out, I was swallowing a lot of water each time I was sucked back in. I prayed fervently, but in the power struggle between the whirlpool and me, the whirlpool clearly was winning.

My life flashed before my eyes. It didn’t take long. I was 23 at the time. My life had been short and rather pitiful. I had had no life, and now it was over. I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to die.

I wasn’t the only one who thought I was in trouble. In my moments of being spit out, I could see Kathy, until now the very picture of calm coolness, jumping up and down in the raft, frantically screaming, “OOH! OOH! GET HER! GET HER! OH MY GOD, GET HER!!”

Then I saw a hand. A big hand. An enormous hand. A hand bigger than life itself, well, certainly bigger than my life. It was reaching for me. Was I hallucinating? Was it God?

The hand grabbed me and pulled me back into the raft, and I could see that… it was Jim! “You had a really funny look on your face, and I thought I had better help you.” I was reminded it was always a good idea to have a guy named Jim with you if you were going to be rafting down a river.

Kathy asked me if I was O.K. Sure, I was fine. I was soaking wet, I had narrowly escaped an encounter with Death, and I was physically and psychologically chilled to the bone. But why complain?

Since then, I have made a point of staying out of large bodies of water. Many years later, however, I would have an ill-fated encounter with a horse. But that’s another blog.

Reunited, and It Feels So Good

The 40th reunion of the Union Avenue Elementary School in Irvington, New Jersey had been in the works for months. My husband and his former classmate, Ruth, were chatting on Facebook one day about their last reunion 10 years ago, and she said that she wished that someone would organize another. My husband, who has a knack for suggesting just the right course of action to other people, said, “Why don’t you organize it?”

Ruth decided that she would do just that, and immediately became a sort of Reunion Planner Extraordinaire. She tracked down former classmates, near and far, using Facebook and any other means possible. She asked other classmates to help her, not just to find folks but to talk them into attending. She booked a party room in Long Branch, right on the ocean, and reserved a group of rooms at a reduced group rate at a nearby hotel, for those coming from out of town. She started a blog about the reunion, so that she could keep everyone updated without contacting everyone individually, and generally generate interest and excitement.

When the time came for the reunion, more than 30 of about 50 classmates were planning to attend, a pretty extraordinary response. My husband was really looking forward to seeing and spending time with his old schoolmates, many of whom he had already been reconnecting with on Facebook.

We arrived the day before the reunion because we had tickets to a show the night before at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn. The hotel was lovely and our balcony overlooked the ocean. The reuniting began when we had a really nice lunch with six of my husband’s classmates at a little restaurant on the boardwalk.

The reunion that evening was one great party. There was lots of good food and drink, and even a deejay playing music so loud that those in attendance had to shout to be heard (ah, just like the old days!). The classmates fell in together like they were in grade school again, laughing and talking and catching up. They talked about their teachers and their classes and their memories, and what they have been doing in the 40 years since grade school. One classmate brought a whole display of photos from their childhood, with copies made and ready to share.

I met my husband’s first “wife” – they were “married” in the third grade. She said that he would fall on the floor every time he saw her. He doesn’t that do that when he sees me. You know, he’s older now and getting back up off the floor is a lot harder than it would have been in the third grade. A couple of his classmates made a point of telling me what a great guy my husband was, and that I should treat him well. They were preaching to the choir – I am my husband’s greatest fan. There were lots of great stories about the old neighborhood and the school. My favorite was the reminiscing about the old bagel shop in Irvington, which I already knew had the best bagels in the world, even though I’ve never been to Irvington. They went on to lament the fact that they just can’t find bagels like that elsewhere.

It wasn’t surprising that the classmates fell in together so easily. That’s what people who were friends as children do. Ruth was right that despite the passage of time and lives lived in the interim that they were essentially the same people that they had been in grade school.

What was surprising was how comfortable I immediately felt with all of them. Maybe it was because they were just so friendly and nice. Maybe it was because I have always had an affinity for people from New Jersey. Maybe it was because Irvington, where my husband grew up, and Swissvale, PA, where I grew up, were very similar places. They may have not been talking about my teachers and my memories, but they could have been.

Because I still live in the area where I grew up, I keep in touch with many of my childhood friends. Two of my best friends today I’ve known since I was five. I keep in touch with several more, and very recently reconnected with a whole group of schoolmates via e-mail and Facebook. Jeanne,who is our Ruth,has been talking about a class reunion. I can hardly wait.

"Little House" in New Jersey

When I first read in Playbill that there was a musical stage version of Little House on the Prairie playing to sold out houses at the Guthrie Theatre in Minnesota, I was excited. When I read on to discover that Melissa Gilbert, who played Laura “Half Pint” Ingalls in the TV series was playing “Ma” on stage, I actually got chills.

While I never read the books, I was a huge fan of the television show. Little House on the Prairie was damn near perfect. It had heart and warmth and humor and drama, and it featured interesting characters played by some pretty fine actors. I feel happy inside just thinking about that show. And I am a sucker for a good stage musical.

Of course, I wanted to see the musical version of Little House featuring Melissa Gilbert as “Ma.” It was going on tour after its run in Minnesota was complete, and it turned out that it would be playing at the Paper Mill Playhouse in Millburn, New Jersey the same weekend that we were attending my husband’s eighth grade reunion in nearby Long Branch. We bought two tickets for the Friday night performance the day the tickets went on sale to the public.

I read a review or two of the Paper Mill production before seeing it, and they were mildly positive but qualified. I wondered if these were pretentious critics who just couldn’t bring themselves to flat out admit to liking the show, or (heaven help us!) television actress Melissa Gilbert in the part. Mind you, it didn’t matter to me if the show was the greatest musical ever or if Melissa Gilbert could sing (I mean, really, who cares – she’s Melissa Gilbert). If it was true to the source material and spirit of the TV show, I would have a great time.

I knew I wasn’t the only one who felt this way. I can’t tell you the number of women, upon hearing that Little House was being made into a musical, shared their stories of loving Little House with me. They were either devoted to the books, the television show or both, and more than one of them had daughters named Laura, after the author or the character.

We arrived at the theater to see the show. After settling into our seats, the gentleman next to me struck up a conversation. It seems that his wife and he had seen the production in Minnesota, and really enjoyed it there. Hmm. This couple was even more “mature” than I am, and I wondered why they were seeing the show a second time in the second city in which it played. Were they “Bonnetheads” following the show around from city to city in a van? The man thought I would never ask. Actually, their son was playing Almanzo in the show.

I was sitting next to Almanzo’s father!!?? This was getting better and better. He proceeded to tell me how his son and the actress playing Laura had fallen in love not only on stage, but off stage as well. She was a very sweet person, and his wife and he were just crazy about her. Unfortunately, she had laryngitis, and would be replaced by her understudy this evening. What about Melissa Gilbert? I asked, alarmed. Oh, no, she was fine, she hadn’t missed a performance yet. Whew! We talked some more about his son’s career. It turns out that we saw him perform in the Deaf West production of Big River when the tour came to Pittsburgh. Almanzo’s dad and I agreed that it was a small world, and then it was time for the show.

All sentiment aside, I really loved the show. More tellingly, my husband, who is far more critical when it comes to musical theater and has no sentimental connection to the material, also thought the show was very good. Truly, the show couldn’t have been more delightful - it really did an exceptional job of bringing the compelling story of Laura Ingalls Wilder to the stage, from portraying the struggles of pioneer life to showing Laura coming of age. The score was beautiful and interesting, and the production values were top notch.

The actors, including Steve Blanchard as Pa, Megan Campanile as Laura (filling in for Kara Lindsay) and the proudly-parented Kevin Massey as Almanzo, did a great job of bringing the characters to life for us. Melissa Gilbert was terrific in her role, independent of her history with the material. She held her own in her dancing and her singing, and brought me to tears with her solo ballad “Wild Child” in the second act. As someone who loved her so much in the role of Laura, seeing her interpretation of Ma was especially interesting – I could see how the Laura I knew could have been the child of this Ma, and not just because they were played by the same person.

Almanzo’s dad told me during intermission that the show had been revised since the version he saw in Minnesota, that there were plans for a cast album, and that the producers hoped to take it to Broadway. This would be a perfect Broadway show. They have a built-in audience - generations of women who love Little House, and children of all ages (and their parents). It is absolutely critic-proof, and it is an exceptional piece of musical theater.

The show was over, we bid farewell to Almanzo’s parents, and headed back to the hotel. I felt a little let down. What now, I wondered, now that Little House was done? I perked up. The first season of thirtysomething was back at home just waiting to be watched.

A Member of the Household

The first time I met my future husband’s family was at his nephew’s Bar Mitzvah. This was pretty terrifying for a couple of reasons. First, I would be meeting his entire extended family at the same time. I’m a pretty outgoing person, but when meeting a whole group of new people for the first time, I like to hang back a little and observe. Not happening here. I was the “new girlfriend” of one of their own, and therefore the subject of intense curiosity. Also, this would be my first Bar Mitzvah.

I was raised Catholic – VERY Catholic. I attended St. Anselm School for 13 years. Our next door neighbors were Methodist, and I knew a few Protestant girls in my Girl Scout troop, but I was under the impression that most people were Catholic. I knew Jewish people existed, of course. They lived in Squirrel Hill, just a few miles down the road from my hometown of Swissvale. We were taught that they believed in the Old Testament, but did not realize that the New Testament was gospel (okay, that pun was intended, but I just couldn’t help myself). I never actually met a Jewish person until I was 17.

As an adult, I developed a very strong and personal spirituality. I believe in God, and believe that it is my responsibility to treat people with kindness and to conduct myself in a moral and ethical way. I believe that organized religion provides a framework within which people can worship God, and that each and every religion is equally valid.

I also wholeheartedly believe in miracles and was blessed with one when I met my husband. After we started dating, my husband invited me to attend synagogue with him, assuring me that his was a very progressive and liberal synagogue. I was curious about Judaism, and wanted to learn more about something that was so important to him, so I agreed. Well, I fell in love again – this time with my husband’s wonderful synagogue. It is full of warm and caring people who welcome everyone, whether or not we have any business being there in the first place, including rewriting their prayer book so that it is more accessible to Jews and non-Jews alike. I have found a spiritual home and community there.

Religious beliefs aside, the biggest difference I have found between the Catholics and the Jews is their approach to questioning their beliefs. Questions were not encouraged in my Catholic school. We were taught that one should have blind faith in the teachings of the Church, and to question them was a sin that would put you at risk of going to Hell. That seemed harsh for just asking a question.

According to my husband, for every two Jewish people there are three opinions. The Jewish people I know welcome questions about their religion and traditions, and freely admit when they don’t know the answers. They will sometimes espouse theories about why they do what they do (nothing set in stone, mind you). They also embrace discourse and argument. I find this unbelievably refreshing, even when it meant having to consult three people to find out why I was doing what I was doing during the Sabbath Prayer number in “Fiddler on the Roof.”

All of this has led me to question my own religious identify. What am I, exactly? My personal spirituality allows me to worship anywhere – or nowhere- but to officially affiliate with any particular religion would not be consistent with my beliefs.

I am no longer a practicing Catholic by choice, but I couldn’t be even if I wanted to be. I’m divorced, and I think that the Catholic Church still excommunicates you for that particular digression. Yet I will always be culturally Catholic - that little Catholic girl still lives inside me. There are some things about being Catholic that I am not willing to give up, like my good relationship with St. Anthony. He helps you to find things, and he’s very good at it. The truth is you can kick the girl out of the Catholic Church, but you can’t take the Catholic school out of the girl.

Converting to Judaism, which I am not interesting in doing, is a far cry from attending a synagogue, especially one as non-traditional as ours. Yet I am beginning to understand and appreciate Judaism, and understand a little of what it is like to relate to the world as a Jewish person. So now the question for me was: where did I fit into the Jewish community, or did I?

My answer came one day when I was gathering demographic information for a project at work. I am one of 12,000 non-Jewish people in Allegheny County living in household with family members who self identify as being Jewish, or children being raised Jewish. I am a “member of a Jewish household.” (Source: “The 2002 Pittsburgh Jewish Community Study Final Report,” sponsored by the United Jewish Federation of Greater Pittsburgh in partnership with the Jewish Healthcare Foundation, Ukeles Associates, Inc., December 2002. http://www.ujfpittsburgh.org/local_includes/downloads/3864.pdf).

I am gratified to know that I am accounted for by the Jewish community. Mostly, though, it is just nice to have an answer to a question about religion.

Manners for Motorists

Now that the G-20 has wrapped up and we are all flocking back to the city, I am reminded what unhappy and sullen people commuters can be. I have come to the conclusion that the things that annoy drivers could be minimized and even eliminated if only we could all be, well, nicer.

Surely the commuter trail could benefit from the exercise of a few manners. With a few simple rules to follow, the whole process could be so much more civilized, not to mention safer. So I thought I would put together a few tips for those of us who forge our way into the city each morning.

Do not have an accident or breakdown in, or leading up to or away from, a tunnel or bridge.

People who engage in this sort of behavior probably have some repressed control issues, but I just know that we can’t condone it. It holds the rest of us up and accelerates the aging process. You’re probably thinking that you can’t help it, but just remember what Freud said – “There are no accidents.” Surely you can will that car out of that tunnel and off the side of the road before you break down. As for those disturbed individuals who sometimes hop out of their cars and walk through the tunnels for no reason, we have to question the fact that they have a license to begin with.

Maintain your speed when it rains.

Take my word for it- it really isn’t obligatory to slow down in a gentle drizzle or even in a nice steady rain. The rainy situations in which reduced speeds are necessary will be apparent if you just allow common sense to guide you. If you are blinded by the blowing, driving storm, or fear hydroplaning, by all means slow down.

Do slow down in the snow, sleet, ice or hail.

Treacherous winter weather will bring out the most macho tendencies in those same people who slow to a snail’s crawl in light rain. Do not tear impatiently and rudely past your fellow motorist during a blizzard. Remember the tortoise and the hare- slow and easy wins that race. Believe me, your frazzled nerves when you finally reach home safely are nothing compared with the angst overturning your car will cause you.

Practice courtesy in allowing your friend in the next car into your lane.

We all know that merging is a “catch as catch can” situation, but if we just take turns and let one car into our lane at a time it would make it much easier. Certainly if someone is already partially in your lane and is inching his or her way in front of you, to speed up to cut them off is just plain rude.

Thank people who do let you into a lane.

This isn’t really expected, but it is this kind of little extra that really makes a civilization, don’t you think? Just a simple wave of the hand may make someone smile in these adverse conditions, or at the very least, make them feel a little sheepish for the bad thoughts they were thinking about you.

Avoid hitting another car in order to prevent hitting a pothole.

Instinct will tell you to “SWERVE!” when you see that pothole up ahead. Nonetheless, you must take a second to assess the rest of your surroundings before acting. In either case, you might wreck your car, but it would be considerate of you not to involve the guy next to you. If these unselfish motivations do not speak to you, just think about your insurance rates.

Never, EVER shoot anyone in one of the other cars.

Although all commuters occasionally feel overwhelmed with the need to vent their frustration and anger, it is always in bad form to pull a gun on anyone. Shouting profanities and using obscene hand gestures are certainly on the edge of being considered bad manners, but can be considered acceptable especially if you are in a fairly soundproof car with the windows rolled up. It is certainly preferable to shooting someone. After all, as they are cuffing you, you will almost certainly see your response as an overreaction to whatever your victim did to provoke you in the first place.

Manners aside, our goal here is to come out of it all alive.

The All-the-Bacon-You-Can-Eat Diet

If you have formed the habit of checking on every new diet that comes along, you will find that, mercifully, they all blur together, leaving you with only one definite piece of information: french-fried potatoes are out.
-Jean Kerr

When I was in my twenties, I decided I needed to lose some weight, and so I joined Weight Watchers, which prescribes a healthy eating plan consisting of a balance of different foods, with reinforcement from weekly weigh-ins and meetings. If you follow the plan, it really works. I reached my goal weight in a little over a year and I learned some things about food that I never forgot – e.g. corn and potatoes are nutritionally the equivalent of bread, and bacon is a fat exchange. Stuff like that.

Several diets and many pounds lost and gained later, I just relaxed into being who I was at the weight that I was, and largely forgot about the fact that I was bigger than average and that it was supposed to interfere with every aspect of my existence. I gave up on weight loss diets entirely.

Even when I was no longer concerned about my weight, I remained interested in my health. I would, on and off, try to make healthier eating choices and exercise on a regular basis. None of this had any measurable effect on my only “real” health issues, my high blood pressure and elevated cholesterol levels, both conditions that run in my family. I can eat healthier, drastically reduce sodium, exercise regularly, and even lose weight without a positive effect on my blood pressure. The only thing that controls my blood pressure is daily medication.

Nonetheless, cockeyed optimist that I am, when my blood tests at the doctor’s revealed that I had very slightly elevated blood sugar and hemoglobin A 1 c levels, I decided to be proactive. I was going to try to avoid developing full-blown type 2 diabetes (another condition that runs in the family) by - you guessed it- going on a diet.

Okay, this time it would mean a low carbohydrate diet, a whole new dietary adventure for me. See, it’s not just about sugar. It also involves limiting all starches, which turn into sugar in your body. So, you have to limit sugar, potatoes, bread, and fruit. I decided to follow the American Diabetic Association’s recommendations for the number of carbs to consume in a day.

This diet hasn’t been that hard to follow. I am just limiting carbs, not eliminating them. I can have the sandwich or the fries, just not both. I can even have my cake (and eat it too!), if I skip the sandwich and the fries, choosing an entrée with a salad or vegetable instead. This has made me a little like Sally in “When Harry Met Sally” when ordering in a restaurant. “I’d like the omelette, but I don’t want any potatoes, and I’d like an English muffin in place of the toast.”

Limiting carbs has meant increasing my protein - I mean you have to eat something, right? I find myself choosing the eggs over the pastries for breakfast. If I crave a nosh and I can’t have a carb, I’ll have a piece of string cheese.

One day it dawned on me - I was eating bacon. I could, in fact, have all the bacon I wanted. Bacon was no longer just a strip of fat to be severely limited in my diet. It was now NOT A CARB! I can stock bacon to munch on as a snack, right next to the string cheese, if I so choose. I can also eat ham, and steak, and eggs. And, amazingly and remarkably, despite my increased bacon consumption, I was losing weight. Bacon and weight loss? Maybe I was onto something here.

I worried that there would be a down side. Would my cholesterol skyrocket? I mean, I was eating eggs and cheese and bacon in ways I hadn’t in years.

I returned to the doctor for my six month checkup. I had lost 15 pounds. My blood pressure had dropped lower than I ever remember it being at the doctor’s office (in 18 years). My overall cholesterol had decreased, my bad cholesterol was down and my good cholesterol up. How was my blood sugar, and my hemoglobin levels, you ask? The reason I did all this to begin with? My blood sugar had gone down a few points, but was still borderline high, and my hemoglobin was essentially the same.

Well, you can’t have everything. Pass the bacon, please and hold the toast!

The Bridges of Washington County

Everyone was all a-buzz was about “The Bridges of Madison County.” I was curious to see what all the fuss was about, so I decided to check it out of my local library, which was a tiny, one-room library serving two small communities in Washington County, PA, where I was living at the time. There was a 22-person waiting list. “Oh, we don’t have any copies of that on the shelf right now,” the clerk told me, “and we won’t for a long time.”

There was a copy of the book not two feet from me on a return cart, but I assumed out loud that it would be going to the next person on the list. The clerk suddenly became very serious. “Oh, you don’t want that one,” she said, with a clear disdain as though the book were contaminated in some way, “that’s a rental copy.”

Rental copy? This was a new one to me. I asked her about the rental rate. “Ten cents a day,” she said, shaking her head. I looked at the book. It was a very small book- not too much thicker than a dime itself. It was Friday, I had the whole weekend ahead of me, and I was a pretty fast reader. How long could it take? I decided to splurge, and checked out the book.

I took the book home and settled down with it after dinner. I read it in one sitting, finishing it in a couple of hours. I returned it to the library the next morning, paid my dime, and went on my way. Let me tell you, the book and I were both worth it. It was a perfect little romance novel.

SPOILER ALERT – do not read further if you’ve not read the book and don’t want to know how it turns out. I should tell you that actually reading the book shouldn’t take much longer than reading the rest of this blog.

You see, Robert Kincaid, a loner photographer for National Geographic is on assignment to photograph the covered bridges of Madison County, Iowa, when he gets lost, and happens upon Francesca, a lonely Italian housewife, lounging on the porch of her farmhouse. She is bored because her husband and children happen to be away at the State Fair for the weekend. Robert stops to ask directions, and, well, one thing leads to another, and they end up having a deep, meaningful affair and a lot of sex for the rest of the weekend. Ultimately Francesca knows that she cannot betray and destroy her family and sadly bids farewell to Robert, who moves on. How romantic, how sad, how noble!

My sister had also read the book, and she and I were talking one day about the plausibility of the story. Forget the moral considerations of their love affair. They are fictional characters in a romance novel – certainly we can’t hold them to the same standards as real people. However, what were the chances that Robert would happen upon Francesca in the first place?

I insisted that it could happen in real life – heck, it could happen to anyone. You know, some photographer could get lost while trying to find the 21 covered bridges in Washington County- this was before all those computerized mapping services and GPS. I had been lost in Washington County a few times myself since moving there some years earlier. While you’d never catch my family showing their livestock at the State Fair (we didn’t have any livestock, unless you counted our little terrier mutt, Zero) they could have been away for the weekend at a Yes concert or something. Maybe I wasn’t a housewife but I was of Italian descent. I was interrupted by my sister’s laughter. “You would never be hanging out on your front porch – you never spend anytime outside,” she said. Okay, she had me there.

We weren’t done with Robert and Francesca yet. We set about casting the movie. She suggested Isabella Rossellini as Francesca, and I knew that Kris Kristofferson would be a great Robert Kincaid. Perfect- ideal casting!! When the time came, obviously Isabella and Kris weren’t available because they cast Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood instead. I did see the movie when it was broadcast on network TV. From 8 pm to 11 pm one Sunday night. Three hours?? Even with commercials added, that was a stretch. Not that much happened in the book, really. It felt like they were playing Robert and Francesca’s love affair out in real time. I thought it would never end. It actually took me longer to watch the movie than it had taken me to read the book.

In case this whetted your appetite for covered bridges, the 39th Annual Covered Bridge Festival in Washington and Greene Counties will be held September 19 and 20, 2009. For more information and maybe even directions, check out the website, http://visitwashingtoncountypa.com/outdoor.php?select=washbridgefest.

Gee! 20 Reasons to Avoid the G-20 Summit

Pittsburgh is a fine city – a great place to live and work. Most of us who grew up in Pittsburgh or have chosen it as our home realize this. We are also pretty sure that no one else knows how special it is here- that no one appreciates us, as it were. We swell with pride when some magazine deems our city a nice place to live, and celebrate our native sons and daughters who make it big. When some actress filming a movie here says something bad about Pittsburgh, we are outraged and defensive, perhaps wondering why we have to prove ourselves yet again.

So, I can imagine the excitement of our city officials when approached about hosting the G-20 Summit this September. They must have been over the moon at the thought of the President and leaders from around the world coming here- finally, the world would see how great Pittsburgh is! “Pittsburgh Welcomes the World!” is the Summit slogan being touted by the local news media.

My first thought was that this would be a great opportunity for the city. My second thought was- wait a minute, they’re going to be meeting downtown, at the Convention Center? Like any jaded Downtown worker, I dread all events that take place downtown on a weekday. It doesn’t it really matter what it is. A Steeler or Penguin victory parade, Light Up Night, a movie being filmed in Market Square, a Pirate game. They all just tie up traffic, make finding a parking spot more difficult, and add to the daily aggravation.

Still, I thought, this was something special. It would be exciting and kind of fun, like when “Kill Point” was filming a couple of blocks away from my office. Even I showed up when Hillary Clinton and her husband Bill spoke at Market Square during the primaries- I usually hole up in my office when there’s too much excitement going on in the streets. I appreciated that we average worker bees would not be able to get anywhere near the dignitaries. It would still be nice to part of the excitement.

Little did I know the extent of the security being put into place for the G-20 Summit. Pittsburgh may be welcoming the world, but in the process they are shunning those of us who live and work here. The details are sketchy and sporadic, presumably because the Secret Service likes to keep their plans, you know, secret.

We’ve heard all kinds of things, but the information can and does change at any time. First we heard that several blocks around the convention center would be shut off to both vehicular and foot traffic, but now they say it will be a smaller area and only vehicles will be prohibited. Pedestrians will be allowed in but will have to pass through security checkpoints, and no one will be allowed to bring weapons or explosives into the restricted area. This is certainly an excellent idea, one I applaud. However, does this mean they will be able to carry their weapons or explosives back into the rest of the city? Could they at least confiscate the explosives? Just a thought.

Even if you don’t need to go to the immediate area around the convention center, getting to and from work will still be problematic. There are already several streets Downtown closed for construction. Reportedly the T will not be coming into town, nor will most of the buses. Oh, and the Pittsburgh Parking Authority will allegedly be closing its garages downtown. So, essentially if you can park across a bridge and walk into town, you might be okay. Mail delivery in the city will be restricted for the duration of the event, and no packages will be delivered during that time.

The protesters are a lot harder to control, unfortunately. They’re coming from all over the place, and demanding their rights to assemble, and they want to pitch tents in Point State Park. There are rumors that some of these protesters have “targeted” some local companies. As we just passed the 8th anniversary of 9/11, one can only ponder what that could possibly mean.

All these factors are succeeding in scaring everyday Pittsburgh citizens away from our workplaces in the city. Many of us are staying home for two or three days while the Summit inhabits the city. We are working from home, or taking vacation time, and some have decided that this might just be the perfect time to leave town.

I feel like a parent being forced to leave town for the weekend while the teenagers are home alone. You just hold your breath and hope that if the party gets too wild that they clean up after themselves and you find the place in one piece when you get back.

And the Bride Wore Burgundy

It was all decided. We were just a couple of middle-aged kids in love, and we were getting married. The courtship wasn’t your typical affair- oh, it was an affair alright, there just wasn’t anything typical about it- and we knew early on the wedding was going to be, shall we say, non-traditional. From the self-written interfaith ceremony, to my 18-year-old son acting as Man of Honor, to the chocolate-on-chocolate wedding cake, everything about our wedding was wonderfully unique and special and totally “us.”

My personal contribution to the uniqueness of our wedding was my choice of attire. One day it occurred to me. I knew what I wanted in a wedding dress. I turned to my fiancé, and said with clear conviction, “I want the dress to be red.”

“Okay,” responded my fiancé, as casually as though I had said I wanted chicken for dinner. Of course, this was the guy who loved me for who I was and was determined to make all my dreams come true, even if it meant painting the bedroom red (which he had already done, before I moved in).

Nonetheless, I expected resistance from the masses (i.e. family and friends), but no one seemed to care what I wore to my wedding. Boy, this was a lot different than my first wedding, when I was in my 20’s, and everyone had all kinds of opinions about everything.

Then I embarked upon the mind bogglingly difficult task of finding my wedding dress. Granted, I had some issues, beyond the fact that the dress had to be red (or maroon, or burgundy or wine – something in the red family). I wanted something somewhat formal. I wanted sleeves on my dress, considering that we were getting married in November. To complicate things further I was a plus size woman in my 40’s, and I was on a tight budget.

I know for a fact that plus size people marry and are in weddings all the time, but you wouldn’t know it when you enter the formidable portals of a bridal shop, where I found myself looking at mother-of-the-bride and bridesmaid dresses. Rhiannon, a young saleslady at one local wedding retailer, was actually very helpful. She produced a really pretty, interesting long fitted suit that came in a Cranberry color that… was not made in my size. Why, I wondered? Did the creators of the dress conclude that no large woman should or would choose to wear a fitted dress?

I saw a beautiful bridesmaid's gown that was satin, a-line and trimmed in fur, but in red with white fur I was afraid I would evoke images of Mrs. Santa Claus. I would have felt better if I could have tried it on but, as Rhiannon expected, no store stocked in my size. That's the other thing. Because they rarely carried samples in my size, I was expected to take it on faith that I might look okay in a dress and just order it. Are you kidding me? My wedding dress? I don’t think so.

I was beginning to despair. My fiancé assured me that I would look wonderful to him in anything, even a gunny sack, but I didn’t really want to wear a gunny sack to my wedding, even if it were red, fitted and had long sleeves.

A co-worker knew of a bridal place that carried a nice selection of discounted plus size bridal dresses, but she couldn’t remember the name of the store and wasn’t sure if it was in Steubenville (Ohio) or Wheeling (West Virginia). And there was another place she knew of in Sharon, PA that carried plus size discounted merchandise and that specialized in evening wear. Well, if a field trip is what it took…but I thought it ironic that I lived in Pittsburgh, the biggest metropolitan area in western Pennsylvania, and I might have to travel to Sharon or out of state to get a formal red dress to wear at my wedding.

I decided to go downtown to try the department stores – Kaufman’s and Lord and Taylor’s. And Saks?, asked my fiancé. Well, I just laughed at the thought of Saks. Did I mention we were on a tight budget? I doubted that Saks would have plus sizes, and was sure that anything I did find there would be far too expensive. My trips to other department stores failed to produce a dress. Oh, there was a quite stunning red evening dress at L & T that might have been appropriate if the evening in question was being spent at, say, the Moulin Rouge, but I certainly didn’t want to wear it to my wedding. My fiancé told me to humor him, and we headed for Saks.

When we entered “Salon Z,” (yes, there WAS a plus size section of the store), we turned to the left and there it was. An entire wall of what was my ultimately perfect wedding dress. It was exactly what I had in mind. It was a floor-length burgundy satin dress with a fitted waist, sleeves, and a V-shaped neckline. Better yet, the first dress I tried on, in my standard size, was a little too big, so I had to go down a size. When I walked out of the dressing room, my fiancé teared up at the sight of me. The piéce de resistence? It was on sale. The price of the dress was about a 60% markdown from the original price, but an additional “surprise” discount at the register brought the price to about one-third the original price, affordable for even the tightest budget.

I married my wonderful husband wearing my beautiful burgundy wedding gown on November 29, 2003, almost six years ago. In the end, it turned out that finding the right dress was like finding the right man – it took a long time and some heartache along the way, but when I did they were both the perfect fit for me.

All A-Twitter About Being Linked In to Facebook

Let just lay it on the line. I don’t really understand Twitter, I think Linked In is a fine professional networking tool, but I ♥ Facebook. The Friends. The posts. The quizzes. The birthday reminders. The ongoing Scrabble game I play with my husband. I love it all.

It began innocently enough. I accepted my husband’s invitation to join Facebook to “keep in touch” with my son, who had recently graduated college and was living in a different town while looking for a job. Despite the fact that he was practically an adult, I was still keenly interested in knowing that my son was a) alive and b) okay. Seeing the status that he posted at 3:30 a.m. could help me to do that without having to call him every day.

Strangely, my son didn’t initially see the inherent value of having his mother as a Facebook friend. When I saw my best-friend-and-roommate from college on his Friend list, it was time for some tough love. I just explained to him that if he accepted “Aunt Barb” as his Friend, he had damn well better accept me as his Friend. He grudgingly agreed, but warned me that he was not censoring himself, and that I would just have to accept what I saw on his Facebook page. It was a tough negotiation, but we’ve been Friends ever since.

Facebook’s most endearing feature is that it is a most wonderful way to keep in touch with people. You don’t have to be close friends with someone to befriend them on Facebook. Anyone can be your Facebook Friend. Passing acquaintances, people you knew once, current or former colleagues or classmates, anyone you were ever in a show with. My family members on Facebook include members of my biological family, my husband’s family, and my ex-husband’s family. I have a Friend who I met once or twice at auditions, and even a few Friends that I never met, whom I accepted before I realized you don't have to accept people if you really don't know them. If you have a name that is even a little common, people may think that you are someone else. My news feed will keep me updated on everything my Friends are doing, at least as much as they choose to share with Facebook. Want to share those vacation photos? Post them on Facebook.

Facebook can help you find and reconnect with people you think you have lost forever. I had lost contact with my one of my dearest friends from high school many years ago. On a whim one day, I did a search in Facebook, and there she was. I sent her a message, and we got together for a two-hour “catch-up” breakfast, and we are back in touch after 23 years. Recently, I contacted a “long-lost” cousin who I last saw 7 years ago at my mother’s funeral. This cousin and her siblings were the children of my mother’s brother, and we were close when we were kids – they were my friends in addition to being my cousins- but we lost touch as adults. When we talked, we exchanged e-mails and discovered we were both on Facebook. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to be back in touch with my friend and my cousins.

Facebook teaches you new things about people you thought you knew well, and not just through those “How well do you know me” quizzes. My sister, whom I’ve literally known forever, recently joined Facebook, which was a surprise in and of itself. However, you can’t even begin to imagine my astonishment when I discovered that she liked to chat through the live chat feature. I never would have guessed.

But the joys of Facebook are not all so deep and meaningful. There are also quizzes and fun games. I have always been a sucker for quizzes, from my days of reading “Cosmopolitan.” From trivia games (How Well Do You Know “The Gilmore Girls?”) to self awareness (What Color Crayon are You?) it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll take almost any quiz, play almost any game. My husband and have an ongoing Scrabble game going through Facebook. We’re very competitive – sure, he wins two of every three games, but we both TRY to win every game.

Groups and fan pages can also be useful and interesting. Facebook will prompt you to invite people to join the group you are joining. Some people indiscriminately send these invitations to their entire Facebook Friend List. I have received many an invitation for groups with names like “Six Degrees of Jewish Separation” and “Gay Men on Facebook Unite!” Now, it is entirely understandable that someone might forget that I’m not actually Jewish. My husband is Jewish,
we belong to a progressive synagogue, and I occasionally use colorful Yiddish words in everyday conversation. However, it is harder to imagine- and you will just have to trust me on this- that anyone would mistake me for a gay man.

My son still occasionally laments the invasion of the “old folks” into Facebook, once the bastion of college kids and teenagers. Well, kids, get used to it. Like immigrants to great places throughout history, we came, we liked what we saw, we conquered, and I am afraid that we are here to stay.

Resurrecting Rip

I had this crazy idea. After working on the campus newspaper as a part of a Journalism III course in graduate school, I decided that I would like to write a weekly column in the paper for the fall semester. It would be my last semester in the graduate program at California University of Pennsylvania, and I had lots to say.

My professor liked the idea, but suggested that we set it up as Independent Study Article Writing class. Not only would I write my column, I would earn college credit for doing so. This seemed too good to be true. I jumped at the chance before he had time to think it over and change his mind.

I was a non-traditional student who had returned to school after a few years, and the experience had been liberating and awakening for me. You know, a little like Rip Van Winkle waking up after all those years? So ‘Rip Wakes Up” was born. Boy, did Rip wake up! For 12 glorious, blissful weeks, I wrote my column. I wrote about the graduate program in which I was enrolled, what it was like to be a non-traditional student on campus, and pretty much anything else that was on my mind. And the response? Well, people may not have always liked me, but they responded to me, they REALLY responded to me.

My most controversiaI column, strangely enough, was “Library Madness” which was meant to be a loving tribute to libraries. So maybe I complained about the student periodical clerks in the campus library who were either unhelpful or totally incompetent. Well, I wasn’t lying or anything, and I never said they were ALL incompetent. Nonetheless, the periodical clerks were pretty upset. There was some talk of sending hate mail to my home, but no one would give them my address. If they had only put that sort of energy into assisting me in the library, I wouldn’t have written about them in my column in the first place.

After graduating, I continued to do some freelance writing on assignment and even some write personal essays, a couple of which were published and three of which were recognized in national competitions. However, I never again had a column of my own. Once in a job interview, the interviewer asked, “If you could do absolutely anything , anything at all, what would you be?” Without even thinking about it, I heard myself say, “I’d be a nationally syndicated humor columnist.”

More than a few years have passed, and that national syndicate hasn’t come calling yet. However, I have recently entered the brave new world of social networking. In a Facebook quiz when I challenged my Friends to reveal how well they knew me, one of the questions addressed my dream job. After taking the quiz, my husband suggested that I write a blog.

What would a blog be but my very own on-line column over which I could have total controI? If I learned anything over the years, it was that it was never too late to do, well, anything you want to do. It didn’t take me very long (maybe 15 seconds) to decide that I would start my very own blog. It was time to resurrect Rip.

The second coming of Rip needed a name. As I reminisced fondly about that semester of my column at Cal U, I remembered the take-off of my column my friend Jeff wrote for the parody edition of the newspaper entitled “Rip Aches All Over.” Hey, that was it! The name of my blog! The parody had become reality. After all, I was older and more tired than in my Cal U days. If the truth be told, I was already aching a little when Rip woke up the first t ime.

So, I hope you enjoy the column, I mean, blog. I’d love to hear your responses and thoughts about what I’ve written. Just don’t send hate mail to the house.