I have been trying to write a blog for weeks now. I was all busy writing a diatribe about the hateful people in the most recent election, but then the darn holiday season came around. Now I’m so busy being thankful and happy and delighted with the people around me that when I sit down to write I find that my outrage is all gone. Yes, I have just completely lost my “edge.” I guess I am just going to have to wait to tell you about the people I can’t abide. Don’t worry, though, I am sure that once January rolls around I will be in a bad mood again, and I’ll be able to finish that blog.
For now, though, I just love everyone and everything. I can’t help myself. It’s the Holiday Season, which is a diverse and wonderful time in our household. For one thing, we spend lots of time with our families during this time of year, which is always a good thing. It’s no secret that I love my family. On my “Top Ten Words” I used in my Facebook statuses in 2010, “Family” was Number One. This is a lucky thing, because you don’t actually get to choose your relatives, yet I wouldn’t give any one of them up for anything in the world. This was proved when I kept my ex-husband’s family after the divorce.
So, we always kick off the Holiday Season with Thanksgiving in New Jersey, and, really, where else would you want to spend it? We look forward to this all year. We spend the weekend at my in-laws. We very much enjoy spending time with them, and they always act really happy to have us, too. This year we had my son with us – he spends Thanksgiving with us in “even” years - and that made it even more special. The extended family gathers on Thanksgiving Day, this year hosted by my very gracious brother- and sister-in-law, where we engage in those most important holiday activities – lively conversation and good food. As we usually do, we went into New York City for a show the day after Thanksgiving. This also serves as our anniversary present to ourselves as we were married 7 years ago on the Saturday after Thanksgiving.
This year Hanukkah began just a few days after we returned home after Thanksgiving. I would tell you that Hanukkah falls on different dates on the calendar each year, but that wouldn’t be exactly correct, as many a good Jewish person will point out to their hapless Gentile friends who are trying frantically to explain it, just to have some fun with them. Okay, I’m going to let Judaism 101, a helpful website, explain it to you…
A few years ago, I was in a synagogue, and I overheard one man ask another, "When is Chanukkah this year?" The other man smiled slyly and replied, "Same as always: the 25th of Kislev”…..the date of Jewish holidays does not change from year to year. Holiday are celebrated on the same day of the Jewish calendar every year, but the Jewish year is not the same length as a solar year on the [Gregorian] calendar used by most of the western world, so the date shifts on the [Gregorian] calendar. ( http://www.jewfaq.org/calendar.htm )
All I know is that I check my Gregorian calendar each year to find out when Hanukkah falls, and my Jewish husband checks with me to find out when Hanukkah falls. Whenever it falls, it has become one of my favorite holidays – this “Festival of Lights” that celebrates the resources God gives us to get through the bad times. I love everything about it- its personal significance to me (as my husband proposed during our first Hanukkah together), the lighting of the candles, the presents, and, of course, the homemade latkes and apple sauce.
Our annual Christmas concert with the Pittsburgh Concert Chorale fell smack in the middle of Hanukkah this year. Always a highlight of the season for us, we would go sing our hearts out about the birth of Jesus and then come home and light the candles for Hanukkah. Somehow, it all seemed like the most natural thing in the world to me.
Now we are in the home stretch. Christmas is coming next week. Because I work in the Cranberry area, in the heart of its awe-inspiring business area, I am now able to slip out on my lunch hour to pick up pretty much whatever I need for the holidays. The Target in Cranberry even carries Hanukkah supplies. My Christmas shopping is all done, a week ahead of time. We plan to put up the tree on Monday when my son comes over for Family Night. Nothing like trimming the Christmas tree with family- and Sheldon Cooper and Barney Stinson- to put you in the mood for Christmas, that’s what I always say!
We went grocery shopping and bought three fishes and all the other “fixin’s” for my family’s annual Christmas Eve celebration. This is when we eat fish and pasta, exchange presents, and celebrate the birth of Jesus which is another story of God giving us what we need to get through this life. We are especially excited that we will be having dinner at our house this year, as it is our first holiday season in our new home.
As is our tradition, we will celebrate a Jewish Christmas on Christmas Day with Chinese food and a movie. With “Tangled” as our movie choice at a movie theater that happens to have an all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet restaurant in the same parking lot, and the fact that my father will joining us this year, the day should be very Merry indeed.
Here’s hoping that you all are also enjoying the blessings of this holiday season.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Saturday, October 30, 2010
"Huck Finn" and Me
From the time I was old enough to take a bus by myself, there was nothing I liked to do better during my summer vacation than to take the 61B bus from my hometown of Swissvale to the main branch of the Carnegie Library of Pittsburgh in Oakland, which was one of my favorite places.
As a child I was rarely alone. Wherever I went – home, school, church- there were lots of people there. I didn’t actually think to seek out solitude because it was a concept that was outside my experience. The quiet majesty of the library and the adjacent Carnegie Museum and Scaife Art Gallery filled me with a strange mixture of excitement and complete serenity. I would spend a couple of hours each time I visited, often wandering through the museum or the art gallery before returning to the library, which held more books than I could read in a lifetime.
Each visit I would choose nine books, which was the maximum number you could check out at a time. Finding the books was like a treasure hunt to me. I favored historical fiction and 800-page family sagas that started with two teenage sisters attending the party-of-the-season in turn-of-the-century Austria and ended about a century, two world wars and three generations later in Manhattan. I also liked stories written in the first person, as I liked to experience the story through the eyes of one particular individual, speaking in his or her own voice.
The summer I was 12 I picked up Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as one of my selections. The first thing that appealed to me about the book was not only that it was written in Huck’s voice, but that his voice was so strong and specific. Mark Twain wrote it so beautifully that as I was reading I almost forgot that Huck was a fictional character. It felt as though Huck was telling me his story.
I also immediately identified with Huckleberry Finn. On the surface, aside from the fact that we were roughly the same age, we had little in common. He was a motherless child with a drunken, abusive and mostly absently father living in a rural town in Missouri in the mid-1800’s. He was left on his own to fend for himself most of the time. I was living in a small blue collar town on the edge of Pittsburgh in the 1960’s, the third of four daughters of strict, loving, and oh-so-present parents. I was essentially never left unsupervised.
Huck was the ultimate outsider in his society, and I also always felt a little bit different – like I didn’t really fit in. In the beginning of the book, Huck had been taken in by Widow Douglas and her sister Miss Watson, who were trying to “civilize” him, but he wasn’t responding very well to living among people. I knew what he was going through. I too spent much of my time wondering why people acted the way that they did, and trying to make sense of the rules of my society, some of which I didn’t understand, and others that I just couldn’t believe. As with Huck, the authority figures in my life insisted that I conform or face some pretty dire consequences. The threat of Hell was thrown around with reckless abandon for both of us.
At one point, Huck’s father abducts him and holds him captive. Huck escapes and is presumed dead. He happens upon Jim, Miss Watson’s slave, who has run away because Miss Watson was planning to sell him – a move that would take him away from his wife and children. Jim has a plan to travel to Illinois where he can obtain his freedom. Huck agrees to join him even though he knows, as removed as he is from his society, that running away from your owner is a very serious offense for a slave.
I, on the other hand, was more than eager to accompany Huck and Jim as they set out on that raft down the Mississippi River, which seemed like a wild and fantastic undertaking to me. Remember, my idea of an adventure was taking the bus by myself to Oakland or downtown Pittsburgh. On their travels they encounter a number of colorful characters, some good, some bad, but most of whom in the end either act foolishly, or badly.
The one constant in Huck’s adventures is the presence of Jim, a decent and moral man who cares about and for him, and a rare stable adult influence in his life. Nonetheless, Huck is convinced, because it is what he has been taught, that he is doing something terribly wrong by aiding and abetting a runaway slave. Huck decides to pray to God that Jim is recaptured and returned to Miss Watson. He tries, but he can’t find the words, and finally concludes that “You can’t pray a lie.”
“You can’t pray a lie.” I was awestruck by the essential truth in that statement. Huck couldn’t say a sincere prayer for Jim’s capture because he didn’t believe that Jim should be captured. At his core he wanted Jim to be free because he thought that Jim deserved to be free. Slavery may have been sanctioned by the society in which they lived, but Huck knew Jim as a man, not a slave. He is willing to suffer the consequences, even Hell, rather than betray his friend, and I admired his bravery. I realized then that the mores of any society are not irrefutable, and they can be wrong and immoral. I knew then that we each have a responsibility to be ethical and thoughtful individuals in this life, finding our own truth and moral direction.
In the end of the book, Jim is set free and Huck discovers that the father he was running from is dead. Huck decides to “set out for the territory ahead of the rest” – to make his own way in the world, rather than return to the Widow Douglas and try to fit into society.
I finished the book but Huckleberry Finn and I weren’t done with each other. I bought a paperback edition of the book that I read and reread so many times that I lost track, and I developed a life-long love affair with the works of Mark Twain. I dressed up as Huckleberry Finn for Halloween in the 9th grade (if I wasn’t an outsider before, I sure was after that). Twenty years after I first picked up the book, I chose the character of Huckleberry Finn as the topic of an annotated bibliography that I completed for a Methods of Research class in graduate school. In 2006, I had the privilege of playing the Widow Douglas in a local production of Big River, a musical version of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Basically, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn had a profound effect on me. Since reading it, I have believed wholeheartedly in the equality of all people, and learned to think for myself instead of blindly listening to, well, anyone. And I never again doubted the ability of a book to change a life.
As a child I was rarely alone. Wherever I went – home, school, church- there were lots of people there. I didn’t actually think to seek out solitude because it was a concept that was outside my experience. The quiet majesty of the library and the adjacent Carnegie Museum and Scaife Art Gallery filled me with a strange mixture of excitement and complete serenity. I would spend a couple of hours each time I visited, often wandering through the museum or the art gallery before returning to the library, which held more books than I could read in a lifetime.
Each visit I would choose nine books, which was the maximum number you could check out at a time. Finding the books was like a treasure hunt to me. I favored historical fiction and 800-page family sagas that started with two teenage sisters attending the party-of-the-season in turn-of-the-century Austria and ended about a century, two world wars and three generations later in Manhattan. I also liked stories written in the first person, as I liked to experience the story through the eyes of one particular individual, speaking in his or her own voice.
The summer I was 12 I picked up Adventures of Huckleberry Finn as one of my selections. The first thing that appealed to me about the book was not only that it was written in Huck’s voice, but that his voice was so strong and specific. Mark Twain wrote it so beautifully that as I was reading I almost forgot that Huck was a fictional character. It felt as though Huck was telling me his story.
I also immediately identified with Huckleberry Finn. On the surface, aside from the fact that we were roughly the same age, we had little in common. He was a motherless child with a drunken, abusive and mostly absently father living in a rural town in Missouri in the mid-1800’s. He was left on his own to fend for himself most of the time. I was living in a small blue collar town on the edge of Pittsburgh in the 1960’s, the third of four daughters of strict, loving, and oh-so-present parents. I was essentially never left unsupervised.
Huck was the ultimate outsider in his society, and I also always felt a little bit different – like I didn’t really fit in. In the beginning of the book, Huck had been taken in by Widow Douglas and her sister Miss Watson, who were trying to “civilize” him, but he wasn’t responding very well to living among people. I knew what he was going through. I too spent much of my time wondering why people acted the way that they did, and trying to make sense of the rules of my society, some of which I didn’t understand, and others that I just couldn’t believe. As with Huck, the authority figures in my life insisted that I conform or face some pretty dire consequences. The threat of Hell was thrown around with reckless abandon for both of us.
At one point, Huck’s father abducts him and holds him captive. Huck escapes and is presumed dead. He happens upon Jim, Miss Watson’s slave, who has run away because Miss Watson was planning to sell him – a move that would take him away from his wife and children. Jim has a plan to travel to Illinois where he can obtain his freedom. Huck agrees to join him even though he knows, as removed as he is from his society, that running away from your owner is a very serious offense for a slave.
I, on the other hand, was more than eager to accompany Huck and Jim as they set out on that raft down the Mississippi River, which seemed like a wild and fantastic undertaking to me. Remember, my idea of an adventure was taking the bus by myself to Oakland or downtown Pittsburgh. On their travels they encounter a number of colorful characters, some good, some bad, but most of whom in the end either act foolishly, or badly.
The one constant in Huck’s adventures is the presence of Jim, a decent and moral man who cares about and for him, and a rare stable adult influence in his life. Nonetheless, Huck is convinced, because it is what he has been taught, that he is doing something terribly wrong by aiding and abetting a runaway slave. Huck decides to pray to God that Jim is recaptured and returned to Miss Watson. He tries, but he can’t find the words, and finally concludes that “You can’t pray a lie.”
“You can’t pray a lie.” I was awestruck by the essential truth in that statement. Huck couldn’t say a sincere prayer for Jim’s capture because he didn’t believe that Jim should be captured. At his core he wanted Jim to be free because he thought that Jim deserved to be free. Slavery may have been sanctioned by the society in which they lived, but Huck knew Jim as a man, not a slave. He is willing to suffer the consequences, even Hell, rather than betray his friend, and I admired his bravery. I realized then that the mores of any society are not irrefutable, and they can be wrong and immoral. I knew then that we each have a responsibility to be ethical and thoughtful individuals in this life, finding our own truth and moral direction.
In the end of the book, Jim is set free and Huck discovers that the father he was running from is dead. Huck decides to “set out for the territory ahead of the rest” – to make his own way in the world, rather than return to the Widow Douglas and try to fit into society.
I finished the book but Huckleberry Finn and I weren’t done with each other. I bought a paperback edition of the book that I read and reread so many times that I lost track, and I developed a life-long love affair with the works of Mark Twain. I dressed up as Huckleberry Finn for Halloween in the 9th grade (if I wasn’t an outsider before, I sure was after that). Twenty years after I first picked up the book, I chose the character of Huckleberry Finn as the topic of an annotated bibliography that I completed for a Methods of Research class in graduate school. In 2006, I had the privilege of playing the Widow Douglas in a local production of Big River, a musical version of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
Basically, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn had a profound effect on me. Since reading it, I have believed wholeheartedly in the equality of all people, and learned to think for myself instead of blindly listening to, well, anyone. And I never again doubted the ability of a book to change a life.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
My Husband Makes Dinner
My husband has many, many fine qualities. He is smart, funny, kind, and a very talented performer and teacher. His support and love for me is unwavering, and he is very devoted to his family and friends. I have more fun with him than I do with anyone, and we can have fun whether we are going to Lowe’s to pick up picture-hanging hardware or spending a week in Disney World.
My husband is also trained as a professional chef. He has a degree from the Culinary Institute of America, and worked for many years in the food service field.
I did not know this about my husband for the first year or so that I knew him, when he was just a friendly theater acquaintance of mine. I did know many interesting and sometimes obscure factoids about him. I knew that he was Jewish. I knew that he had a dog, two cats, and three pianos. I knew that he wore a fedora well. I knew that he would insist that any wife of his carry a cell phone. I even knew that he had seen “Lettice and Lovage” on Broadway with Maggie Smith and Margaret Tyzack because he was thoughtful enough to give me his Playbill program from the show after seeing me perform in the Heritage Players’ production of the play in Bethel Park. I thought better than to ask him whether he preferred Margaret (who won a Tony for the role) or me in the role of “Lotte.” No one ever mentioned that he was a chef.
So, it was in complete ignorance and with the purest of intensions that I offered to make him lasagna if he would make practice tapes for me for potential audition songs. I didn’t think it fair to ask him to do this for me without recompense and since he was a single guy who lived alone the Italian mother in me thought it might be nice for him to have a good meal. Oh, did HIS mother laugh when she heard this story!! He graciously agreed to this barter, by the way, without mentioning his culinary background, and held me to my part of the bargain, even after I discovered the truth and was pretty embarrassed to have made the offer.
Just to clarify, my respectable lasagna aside, I am not much of a cook. Cooking stresses me out. I prefer making one-dish meals because I have difficulty timing different dishes to be ready at the same time. I follow recipes religiously, and still things turn out wrong. The first time I attempted to cook a turkey for a family dinner, I called my mother about four times with questions, and still managed to cook the bird with the giblets inside. I figured out long ago that I could purchase some pretty fine baked goods at the supermarket that were far superior to anything I could make. If I lived alone, I would probably exist on cereal and sandwiches.
My husband, on the other hand, is a natural cook. His parents love to tell the story about waking up one Saturday morning to hear my husband, who was three years old at the time, asking his fifteen-month-old brother, “So, how would you like your eggs?” Cooking relaxes him. He loves to make gourmet dinners from start to finish. He sometimes looks up recipes but rarely follows them, using them as a kind of general guideline. He often creates meals from scratch. He’s the kind of person who can walk into a kitchen where there is nothing to eat, and “whip something up.” In these instances, he will call you down 20 minutes later to a delicious chicken parmesan dinner, complete with pasta and a spinach side dish. He bakes his own bread on a regular basis.
Naturally he does the cooking in our family. Really now, why wouldn’t he? It gives him such happiness – why would I take that from the man I love? Once a co-worker asked him if he did most of the cooking at home, and he responded that no, he did ALL the cooking. That isn’t strictly true. I have a few specialties (that I can count on one hand). These include two kinds of lasagna, Waldorf Salad, Strawberry Pretzel Salad, and the appropriately-named Pork Chops, Sweet Potatoes and Apples. I can also usually make a presentable plate of spaghetti but eggs? Well, eggs are trickier.
Even simple stand-bys like mine can become complicated when you are married to a chef. Take my Waldorf Salad, for instance. My mother made this dish at Thanksgiving, and it couldn’t be simpler to assemble. Cut up apples and celery, throw in some seedless grapes and walnuts , toss it all up with some Hellman’s and voila! – a tasty side dish that is sure to please. The first time I planned to make this, my husband was surprised when I mentioned grapes. “You use grapes in your Waldorf Salad?” he said, full of professional curiosity. It seems that, at the Culinary Institute of America, they put raisins in their Waldorf salad, not grapes. Well, I don’t care what those high brow food people do I’m putting grapes in my Waldorf Salad.
I found that any delusions I may have had about my cooking abilities were quickly and summarily dismissed when I married a chef. The first meal my husband made my 18-year-old son and me after we moved in was a very simple chicken dish, made after a long day of moving. My son took one bite, and his face lit up. In clear admiration and astonishment, he declared, “This is the BEST chicken I’ve ever eaten!” Now, I know for a fact that it was boneless chicken breasts baked in barbecue sauce from a jar, and I had made this same dish many times over the years. Maybe it was my husband’s careful basting technique that he explained to me (I just poured the jar of barbeque sauce over the chicken) or perhaps he just used a better barbeque sauce than I did. Oh, who am I kidding? The truth is that the man just has a way with food.
Don’t get me wrong – I am delighted that my husband is a chef. It is a win-win situation, a blessing really. My husband loves to cook and I love to eat. We are the perfect pair.
My husband is also trained as a professional chef. He has a degree from the Culinary Institute of America, and worked for many years in the food service field.
I did not know this about my husband for the first year or so that I knew him, when he was just a friendly theater acquaintance of mine. I did know many interesting and sometimes obscure factoids about him. I knew that he was Jewish. I knew that he had a dog, two cats, and three pianos. I knew that he wore a fedora well. I knew that he would insist that any wife of his carry a cell phone. I even knew that he had seen “Lettice and Lovage” on Broadway with Maggie Smith and Margaret Tyzack because he was thoughtful enough to give me his Playbill program from the show after seeing me perform in the Heritage Players’ production of the play in Bethel Park. I thought better than to ask him whether he preferred Margaret (who won a Tony for the role) or me in the role of “Lotte.” No one ever mentioned that he was a chef.
So, it was in complete ignorance and with the purest of intensions that I offered to make him lasagna if he would make practice tapes for me for potential audition songs. I didn’t think it fair to ask him to do this for me without recompense and since he was a single guy who lived alone the Italian mother in me thought it might be nice for him to have a good meal. Oh, did HIS mother laugh when she heard this story!! He graciously agreed to this barter, by the way, without mentioning his culinary background, and held me to my part of the bargain, even after I discovered the truth and was pretty embarrassed to have made the offer.
Just to clarify, my respectable lasagna aside, I am not much of a cook. Cooking stresses me out. I prefer making one-dish meals because I have difficulty timing different dishes to be ready at the same time. I follow recipes religiously, and still things turn out wrong. The first time I attempted to cook a turkey for a family dinner, I called my mother about four times with questions, and still managed to cook the bird with the giblets inside. I figured out long ago that I could purchase some pretty fine baked goods at the supermarket that were far superior to anything I could make. If I lived alone, I would probably exist on cereal and sandwiches.
My husband, on the other hand, is a natural cook. His parents love to tell the story about waking up one Saturday morning to hear my husband, who was three years old at the time, asking his fifteen-month-old brother, “So, how would you like your eggs?” Cooking relaxes him. He loves to make gourmet dinners from start to finish. He sometimes looks up recipes but rarely follows them, using them as a kind of general guideline. He often creates meals from scratch. He’s the kind of person who can walk into a kitchen where there is nothing to eat, and “whip something up.” In these instances, he will call you down 20 minutes later to a delicious chicken parmesan dinner, complete with pasta and a spinach side dish. He bakes his own bread on a regular basis.
Naturally he does the cooking in our family. Really now, why wouldn’t he? It gives him such happiness – why would I take that from the man I love? Once a co-worker asked him if he did most of the cooking at home, and he responded that no, he did ALL the cooking. That isn’t strictly true. I have a few specialties (that I can count on one hand). These include two kinds of lasagna, Waldorf Salad, Strawberry Pretzel Salad, and the appropriately-named Pork Chops, Sweet Potatoes and Apples. I can also usually make a presentable plate of spaghetti but eggs? Well, eggs are trickier.
Even simple stand-bys like mine can become complicated when you are married to a chef. Take my Waldorf Salad, for instance. My mother made this dish at Thanksgiving, and it couldn’t be simpler to assemble. Cut up apples and celery, throw in some seedless grapes and walnuts , toss it all up with some Hellman’s and voila! – a tasty side dish that is sure to please. The first time I planned to make this, my husband was surprised when I mentioned grapes. “You use grapes in your Waldorf Salad?” he said, full of professional curiosity. It seems that, at the Culinary Institute of America, they put raisins in their Waldorf salad, not grapes. Well, I don’t care what those high brow food people do I’m putting grapes in my Waldorf Salad.
I found that any delusions I may have had about my cooking abilities were quickly and summarily dismissed when I married a chef. The first meal my husband made my 18-year-old son and me after we moved in was a very simple chicken dish, made after a long day of moving. My son took one bite, and his face lit up. In clear admiration and astonishment, he declared, “This is the BEST chicken I’ve ever eaten!” Now, I know for a fact that it was boneless chicken breasts baked in barbecue sauce from a jar, and I had made this same dish many times over the years. Maybe it was my husband’s careful basting technique that he explained to me (I just poured the jar of barbeque sauce over the chicken) or perhaps he just used a better barbeque sauce than I did. Oh, who am I kidding? The truth is that the man just has a way with food.
Don’t get me wrong – I am delighted that my husband is a chef. It is a win-win situation, a blessing really. My husband loves to cook and I love to eat. We are the perfect pair.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Straight Man Dancing (the Great Swayze Debate)
I came across this never-published piece that I wrote circa 1994. Here it is, as I wrote it, when Patrick Swayze was very much alive. I dedicate this to his memory and to Jen, wherever she is.
Deep in the bowels of a Student Union, in an alternative universe known as a college campus, there once was a spot known as the Times Suite. Every Wednesday night about 25 students, largely between the ages of 18 and 25, worked late into the night to put the student newspaper to bed. We were dedicated to the truth, the article, the paper itself, and to satisfying the requirements for our Journalism classes.
Among the typing of articles, the laying out of copy, the developing of photographs, and the all-important making of coffee, was the sharing of minds. Debating the larger, and some of the smaller, issues of the day, we discussed the sexes (and the battles that persist between them), music, politics, school, campus issues, and the MTV Video Music Awards. But the topic that was to shatter our little group, to inspire the hottest controversy among us was…Patrick Swayze.
To this day, I am not sure how he came up. All I know is that the mention of his name provoked an extremely violent physical and emotional reaction in my young friend, Jen.
“EWW,” she shuttered as though she had just heard fingernails on a blackboard. “Patrick Swayze??” I HATE him,” she said with a vehement loathing I had not witnessed in her since we had discussed cheerleaders, homecoming queens, and other girls with big hair.
“Really?” I said, surprised. “”I like him.”
“NO!” Jen stared at me in abject horror as though I had just told her that I admired Adolph Hitler. “You can’t like Patrick Swayze. You really don’t, do you?”
“Well, yes, I really do,” I answered, not seeing why I should deny it. I was pretty sure that I wasn’t the only woman in America who felt this way. Nonetheless I felt compelled to rationalize my fondness for Mr. Swayze to Jen, who was obviously not a fan.
To risk sounding shallow, Patrick Swayze looks really good all the time. This was especially true in Dirty Dancing, a movie I have seen several times and have every intention of seeing again.
Furthermore Patrick really can act- believable enough for me in any role. He displays a certain passion in his roles and takes chances in his choices of roles. He considers himself to be an actor, not a star, and is dedicated to his craft. That sort of purity of purpose is always attractive in a guy.
Finally, Patrick seems like a genuinely nice guy and decent person in real life. He adores his wife openly, calling her his soul mate. He is sensitive and open, even crying in a Barbara Walters interview. But obviously I’m missing some horrible flaw; some big reason I should be repelled by Patrick Swayze.
No one’s mind was changed that night. Jen remained firm in her distaste for Patrick Swayze, and I found myself suddenly in the mood to see Dirty Dancing again. Maybe it was an age thing. I WAS older than the other kids.
The incident left its mark on me. One day at work someone mentioned a Patrick Swayze movie. Like an alcoholic caught in her addiction, I nervously confessed that I liked him and launched into all the reasons why.
My friend Christie listened for a few minutes before she touched my arm and shook her head gently to stop my long-winded explanation. “Sharon,” she said wisely, “he’s a straight man who can dance.”
Doesn’t that just sum it up?! As convincing as he might have been in To Wong Foo, we know he’s straight. And even Jen couldn’t deny that he could dance. Isn’t that what most women are really looking for in a guy? Some nice, sensitive, straight man who can dance, or who would at the very least be willing to fake it at our cousin’s wedding? That’s exactly why I like Patrick Swayze so much. And he can dirty dance for me anytime.
Deep in the bowels of a Student Union, in an alternative universe known as a college campus, there once was a spot known as the Times Suite. Every Wednesday night about 25 students, largely between the ages of 18 and 25, worked late into the night to put the student newspaper to bed. We were dedicated to the truth, the article, the paper itself, and to satisfying the requirements for our Journalism classes.
Among the typing of articles, the laying out of copy, the developing of photographs, and the all-important making of coffee, was the sharing of minds. Debating the larger, and some of the smaller, issues of the day, we discussed the sexes (and the battles that persist between them), music, politics, school, campus issues, and the MTV Video Music Awards. But the topic that was to shatter our little group, to inspire the hottest controversy among us was…Patrick Swayze.
To this day, I am not sure how he came up. All I know is that the mention of his name provoked an extremely violent physical and emotional reaction in my young friend, Jen.
“EWW,” she shuttered as though she had just heard fingernails on a blackboard. “Patrick Swayze??” I HATE him,” she said with a vehement loathing I had not witnessed in her since we had discussed cheerleaders, homecoming queens, and other girls with big hair.
“Really?” I said, surprised. “”I like him.”
“NO!” Jen stared at me in abject horror as though I had just told her that I admired Adolph Hitler. “You can’t like Patrick Swayze. You really don’t, do you?”
“Well, yes, I really do,” I answered, not seeing why I should deny it. I was pretty sure that I wasn’t the only woman in America who felt this way. Nonetheless I felt compelled to rationalize my fondness for Mr. Swayze to Jen, who was obviously not a fan.
To risk sounding shallow, Patrick Swayze looks really good all the time. This was especially true in Dirty Dancing, a movie I have seen several times and have every intention of seeing again.
Furthermore Patrick really can act- believable enough for me in any role. He displays a certain passion in his roles and takes chances in his choices of roles. He considers himself to be an actor, not a star, and is dedicated to his craft. That sort of purity of purpose is always attractive in a guy.
Finally, Patrick seems like a genuinely nice guy and decent person in real life. He adores his wife openly, calling her his soul mate. He is sensitive and open, even crying in a Barbara Walters interview. But obviously I’m missing some horrible flaw; some big reason I should be repelled by Patrick Swayze.
No one’s mind was changed that night. Jen remained firm in her distaste for Patrick Swayze, and I found myself suddenly in the mood to see Dirty Dancing again. Maybe it was an age thing. I WAS older than the other kids.
The incident left its mark on me. One day at work someone mentioned a Patrick Swayze movie. Like an alcoholic caught in her addiction, I nervously confessed that I liked him and launched into all the reasons why.
My friend Christie listened for a few minutes before she touched my arm and shook her head gently to stop my long-winded explanation. “Sharon,” she said wisely, “he’s a straight man who can dance.”
Doesn’t that just sum it up?! As convincing as he might have been in To Wong Foo, we know he’s straight. And even Jen couldn’t deny that he could dance. Isn’t that what most women are really looking for in a guy? Some nice, sensitive, straight man who can dance, or who would at the very least be willing to fake it at our cousin’s wedding? That’s exactly why I like Patrick Swayze so much. And he can dirty dance for me anytime.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Wedding Bell Views
Chelsea Clinton’s decision to keep her wedding private was totally understandable. She never asked to be in the public eye, and has chosen to live a private life. It was certainly her prerogative to refuse to have her wedding videotaped and broadcast live to a worldwide audience.
I must admit that I do like to watch when certain famous people get married. Take the wedding of Princess Diana and Prince Charles, for instance. Now THAT was a wedding! No private, simple affair for those two. I happened to have the day of the wedding off work (complete coincidence, I swear!), and I got up at 5 a.m. to watch the wedding. Armed with lots of coffee and Kleenex, I watched every bit of that coverage. Sadly, that union ended badly, but the wedding was spectacular.
I also like to watch weddings of obscure strangers who happen to get lucky when applying to be on a reality show. I’m the person for whom they created all those wedding shows on cable. The first one I watched, and still my favorite, was “A Wedding Story” which was on TLC. It was very simple. They interviewed the couple who gave their back story, and then the cameras followed them around for a couple of days before the wedding. I absolutely loved it. I don’t think it is still in production, but “Whose Wedding is It Anyway?” (from the viewpoint of the wedding planner), fills my need to watch the wedding plans of total strangers.
I would say that how Chelsea Clinton conducted her wedding was none of my business, but the Clintons and I go way back. I’m practically an old family friend – I once saw Hillary and Bill speak in person in Market Square in Pittsburgh. You know, I did have some small part in contributing to their success. Heck, I’m STILL supporting Hillary for President. Come to think of it, I’m surprised that I didn’t make the guest list for the wedding of their only daughter. But it WAS a small affair – just 400 of Chelsea and Michael’s closest friends- so I was okay with staying home that day, just like Barack and Oprah did.
Nonetheless, if I couldn’t actually watch the ceremony I was still really, really happy to see some photos of Chelsea Clinton’s wedding. Chelsea looked lovely, didn’t she? The dress, her hair, the makeup all looked just perfect on her. I liked the fact that it was an interfaith wedding and that the groom wore a tallis and a yarmulke. And they looked SO happy. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get a better look at Hillary’s dress, but it WAS Chelsea’s day, and given her penchant for privacy, I was just grateful for the glimpse I did get.
For the record, my interest in weddings of political figures and their children is totally bipartisan. I got pretty excited when Jenna Bush announced her engagement- I hadn’t seen a good White House wedding since Tricia Nixon got married so long ago. Imagine my disappointment when Jenna decided on a simple, private affair at the family’s ranch in Texas. Again, I was very happy and satisfied to see their pictures.
The truth is that I just love to look at wedding pictures- anyone’s wedding pictures. The wedding photos themselves are something to see nowadays. The photographers are suddenly doing all kinds of fabulous, creative, artistic photo shoots. Honestly, though, the pictures don’t have to be fancy to please me, and I don’t even have to know the people involved. I just like to see the dresses and the cake and the ceremony and the party, and all the smiling faces.
Seeing all these photos and watching “Say Yes to the Dress” does keep me up on the latest trends in wedding fashions, which interest me a great deal even though they are of no importance in my everyday life. For instance, it seems like nearly every bride must have a strapless gown nowadays. Some people benefit greatly from a well-placed strap, and don’t the brides today want some individuality? I do like that some bridesmaid dresses now are shorter and/or more individualized in style to each individual woman. Let’s face it, the bride’s dearest friends come in all shapes and sizes, and you really CAN wear some of these dresses again.
Personally, I believe that the best weddings are the ones where the couple do it their way and make it their own. And the best pictures are those where the happiness of the couple outshines everything else in the picture. So my advice to those planning their weddings: Wear the burgundy dress with straps and eat the cake made of cookies, if that’s what gives you pleasure. Remember to relax and have fun!
Oh, yes, and please don’t forget to post those pictures in Facebook so that I can see them.
I must admit that I do like to watch when certain famous people get married. Take the wedding of Princess Diana and Prince Charles, for instance. Now THAT was a wedding! No private, simple affair for those two. I happened to have the day of the wedding off work (complete coincidence, I swear!), and I got up at 5 a.m. to watch the wedding. Armed with lots of coffee and Kleenex, I watched every bit of that coverage. Sadly, that union ended badly, but the wedding was spectacular.
I also like to watch weddings of obscure strangers who happen to get lucky when applying to be on a reality show. I’m the person for whom they created all those wedding shows on cable. The first one I watched, and still my favorite, was “A Wedding Story” which was on TLC. It was very simple. They interviewed the couple who gave their back story, and then the cameras followed them around for a couple of days before the wedding. I absolutely loved it. I don’t think it is still in production, but “Whose Wedding is It Anyway?” (from the viewpoint of the wedding planner), fills my need to watch the wedding plans of total strangers.
I would say that how Chelsea Clinton conducted her wedding was none of my business, but the Clintons and I go way back. I’m practically an old family friend – I once saw Hillary and Bill speak in person in Market Square in Pittsburgh. You know, I did have some small part in contributing to their success. Heck, I’m STILL supporting Hillary for President. Come to think of it, I’m surprised that I didn’t make the guest list for the wedding of their only daughter. But it WAS a small affair – just 400 of Chelsea and Michael’s closest friends- so I was okay with staying home that day, just like Barack and Oprah did.
Nonetheless, if I couldn’t actually watch the ceremony I was still really, really happy to see some photos of Chelsea Clinton’s wedding. Chelsea looked lovely, didn’t she? The dress, her hair, the makeup all looked just perfect on her. I liked the fact that it was an interfaith wedding and that the groom wore a tallis and a yarmulke. And they looked SO happy. I was a little disappointed that I didn’t get a better look at Hillary’s dress, but it WAS Chelsea’s day, and given her penchant for privacy, I was just grateful for the glimpse I did get.
For the record, my interest in weddings of political figures and their children is totally bipartisan. I got pretty excited when Jenna Bush announced her engagement- I hadn’t seen a good White House wedding since Tricia Nixon got married so long ago. Imagine my disappointment when Jenna decided on a simple, private affair at the family’s ranch in Texas. Again, I was very happy and satisfied to see their pictures.
The truth is that I just love to look at wedding pictures- anyone’s wedding pictures. The wedding photos themselves are something to see nowadays. The photographers are suddenly doing all kinds of fabulous, creative, artistic photo shoots. Honestly, though, the pictures don’t have to be fancy to please me, and I don’t even have to know the people involved. I just like to see the dresses and the cake and the ceremony and the party, and all the smiling faces.
Seeing all these photos and watching “Say Yes to the Dress” does keep me up on the latest trends in wedding fashions, which interest me a great deal even though they are of no importance in my everyday life. For instance, it seems like nearly every bride must have a strapless gown nowadays. Some people benefit greatly from a well-placed strap, and don’t the brides today want some individuality? I do like that some bridesmaid dresses now are shorter and/or more individualized in style to each individual woman. Let’s face it, the bride’s dearest friends come in all shapes and sizes, and you really CAN wear some of these dresses again.
Personally, I believe that the best weddings are the ones where the couple do it their way and make it their own. And the best pictures are those where the happiness of the couple outshines everything else in the picture. So my advice to those planning their weddings: Wear the burgundy dress with straps and eat the cake made of cookies, if that’s what gives you pleasure. Remember to relax and have fun!
Oh, yes, and please don’t forget to post those pictures in Facebook so that I can see them.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
A Back Breaking Performance, or, The Show Must Go On
It seems that Melissa Gilbert was performing on tour in “Little House on the Prairie- the Musical” with a broken back. Her back had been bothering her, but she put off seeing a doctor, because she knew that the show must go on. When she finally saw the doctor, he said that her back was broken, and had been for months. Now, THAT’s spunk! Melissa obviously thinks she really is that plucky little pioneer girl that she portrayed on “Little House” all those years. Or maybe it’s just that strong work ethic that Michael “Pa Ingalls” Landon instilled in his little protégés on the set. Whatever, she’s a rock star in my book.
Not that she’s the first performer to work hurt. A lot of us who perform, both as amateurs and professionals, take that theatrical expression “Break a leg!” far too literally. In fact, I got into theater as a hobby because of a broken pelvis. I decided to take an acting class to give myself a diversion during what was going to be a long and painful recovery period.
My husband once performed in a musical revue despite having shattered his ankle early during the rehearsal period. One of the first calls he made from the emergency room was to his director. A fellow cast member was nice enough to give him a ride to rehearsals, and the director choreographed the “Smokey Joe’s Café” number so that he was in the center and everyone danced and moved around him. By the time the show went up, he was using a cane, and he was able to use his prop rifle like a cane in the “Les Miz” medley. It’s all about being innovative.
The appropriately named “cast” of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” put on by Stage 62, a community theater in Carnegie, PA, a few years ago took this “show must go on” thing to an extreme. Four of the cast members in a show with 29 performers and a children’s chorus performed with an injury, and those were just the ones we knew about.
I had auditioned for the show and was “cast” as assistant stage manager, an important behind-the-scenes "role," and one I accepted because I knew I would be working under the tutelage of an experienced stage manager. It was a Murphy’s Law kind of show from the start- everything that could go wrong did. The director exercised the patience of Job as we faced one obstacle after another, obviously taking his inspiration from another Biblical story. He became very adept at keeping his head when all about him was losing theirs. First, he had to replace Joseph before the show even began rehearsals, but during the rehearsal process we lost and replaced the music director, the choreographer, and the costumer.
When I returned to rehearsals after a few days off while we determined that we did in fact have the rights to do the show, the director matter-of-factly told me that I had been promoted from assistant stage manager to stage manager. The actor playing Reuben had to drop out, and the stage manager was now Reuben.
Did I panic? Well, as a matter-of-fact, I did, but the promoted stage manager pledged that he would continue to mentor me, and he did. My friend Marilyn, who also had no stage management experience, agreed to help me, mostly because we bonded when we played Pick-a-Little Ladies in “Music Man” a few years earlier and had been show buddies ever since. It was a very young cast, and they started referring to us as the “Stage Moms,” but I am sure there was nothing but affection in the term.
Ah, but I digress. About those injured cast members….
One of our children’s chorus members had broken her thumb prior to the show, and was sporting a colorful cast when she showed up for rehearsal. Luckily, the children’s chorus members were wearing colorful t-shirts, and we just made sure to put her in a shirt that matched her cast.
One of Joseph’s brothers was also working as a camp counselor that summer, and had had an unfortunate freak accident where he cut the area between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand with a knife when opening a large cardboard box full of camp supplies. He was also a pianist, and so it was especially important that he heal completely and properly, and he was fitted with a metal contraption that held his hand together while elevating it. This contraption was decidedly new-age, and definitely would have been out of place in ancient Eqypt, but the young actor just took it off before taking the stage and put it back on when exiting.
During the dress rehearsal, one of Joseph’s brothers' wives sprained her ankle, but went on to perform in the show with some slightly modified dance moves. When I was giving her a ride home that night, she let it slip that Potiphar/Jacob had broken his foot but hadn’t wanted to mention it to the director or me. I asked him about it opening night. He explained that he had gone to the doctor but his options – a cast or surgery- would have meant that he wouldn’t be able to continue in the show, so he was putting them off until after the show was over.
Anyway, the show was just as glorious and joyful a production of “Joseph” as there ever was. I’m sure that the audience never even noticed the cast, or the strangely elevated arm, or the modified dancing. The director didn’t even know about Jacob until months after the show closed. I have seen many amateur and professional productions of “Joseph” since, and it is still my favorite- Donny Osmond’s nephew and company had nothing on this cast. Since I have seen all the productions of “Joseph” that I think I need to see in this lifetime, it will undoubtedly remain my favorite.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I now wish actors “Good show!” instead of a “Break a leg!”
Not that she’s the first performer to work hurt. A lot of us who perform, both as amateurs and professionals, take that theatrical expression “Break a leg!” far too literally. In fact, I got into theater as a hobby because of a broken pelvis. I decided to take an acting class to give myself a diversion during what was going to be a long and painful recovery period.
My husband once performed in a musical revue despite having shattered his ankle early during the rehearsal period. One of the first calls he made from the emergency room was to his director. A fellow cast member was nice enough to give him a ride to rehearsals, and the director choreographed the “Smokey Joe’s Café” number so that he was in the center and everyone danced and moved around him. By the time the show went up, he was using a cane, and he was able to use his prop rifle like a cane in the “Les Miz” medley. It’s all about being innovative.
The appropriately named “cast” of “Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat” put on by Stage 62, a community theater in Carnegie, PA, a few years ago took this “show must go on” thing to an extreme. Four of the cast members in a show with 29 performers and a children’s chorus performed with an injury, and those were just the ones we knew about.
I had auditioned for the show and was “cast” as assistant stage manager, an important behind-the-scenes "role," and one I accepted because I knew I would be working under the tutelage of an experienced stage manager. It was a Murphy’s Law kind of show from the start- everything that could go wrong did. The director exercised the patience of Job as we faced one obstacle after another, obviously taking his inspiration from another Biblical story. He became very adept at keeping his head when all about him was losing theirs. First, he had to replace Joseph before the show even began rehearsals, but during the rehearsal process we lost and replaced the music director, the choreographer, and the costumer.
When I returned to rehearsals after a few days off while we determined that we did in fact have the rights to do the show, the director matter-of-factly told me that I had been promoted from assistant stage manager to stage manager. The actor playing Reuben had to drop out, and the stage manager was now Reuben.
Did I panic? Well, as a matter-of-fact, I did, but the promoted stage manager pledged that he would continue to mentor me, and he did. My friend Marilyn, who also had no stage management experience, agreed to help me, mostly because we bonded when we played Pick-a-Little Ladies in “Music Man” a few years earlier and had been show buddies ever since. It was a very young cast, and they started referring to us as the “Stage Moms,” but I am sure there was nothing but affection in the term.
Ah, but I digress. About those injured cast members….
One of our children’s chorus members had broken her thumb prior to the show, and was sporting a colorful cast when she showed up for rehearsal. Luckily, the children’s chorus members were wearing colorful t-shirts, and we just made sure to put her in a shirt that matched her cast.
One of Joseph’s brothers was also working as a camp counselor that summer, and had had an unfortunate freak accident where he cut the area between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand with a knife when opening a large cardboard box full of camp supplies. He was also a pianist, and so it was especially important that he heal completely and properly, and he was fitted with a metal contraption that held his hand together while elevating it. This contraption was decidedly new-age, and definitely would have been out of place in ancient Eqypt, but the young actor just took it off before taking the stage and put it back on when exiting.
During the dress rehearsal, one of Joseph’s brothers' wives sprained her ankle, but went on to perform in the show with some slightly modified dance moves. When I was giving her a ride home that night, she let it slip that Potiphar/Jacob had broken his foot but hadn’t wanted to mention it to the director or me. I asked him about it opening night. He explained that he had gone to the doctor but his options – a cast or surgery- would have meant that he wouldn’t be able to continue in the show, so he was putting them off until after the show was over.
Anyway, the show was just as glorious and joyful a production of “Joseph” as there ever was. I’m sure that the audience never even noticed the cast, or the strangely elevated arm, or the modified dancing. The director didn’t even know about Jacob until months after the show closed. I have seen many amateur and professional productions of “Joseph” since, and it is still my favorite- Donny Osmond’s nephew and company had nothing on this cast. Since I have seen all the productions of “Joseph” that I think I need to see in this lifetime, it will undoubtedly remain my favorite.
I don’t know about anyone else, but I now wish actors “Good show!” instead of a “Break a leg!”
Friday, June 18, 2010
A Semi-Rural Suburban Area
Buying the house was like being swept up in a huge whirlwind. When we landed we were living in this great house, dazed and happy. And then we opened the door and found ourselves in a brand new bright, shiny land called Oz! Well, actually, it’s Franklin Park. We never specifically set out to live here. It’s just where the house was when we found it. I must say that we couldn’t have accidentally landed in a lovelier spot for happily “ever-aftering” than here, but it was different kind of place than any we had ever lived in before.
While we are now just about 10 or 12 miles north of our former home on the North Side, which was within the city limits, my husband quickly noted that we weren’t in the city anymore. Well, that is certainly true. There isn’t anything even remotely urban about this place. Technically Franklin Park is a suburb, as it was clearly designed with residential living in mind (it is dotted with planned housing communities, including ours) but it doesn’t feel “suburban.” Those wandering through who don’t know better might mistakenly think they are in the country. There are lots of trees and other green areas everywhere, and we are literally within walking distance of two farm markets and within easy driving distance of several others.
But I’ve been to the country, and this definitely isn’t it. The easiest way to tell this is that if you are lost in the country you can go for miles and miles (and sometimes hours) without seeing one landmark or business to help you find your way back out. In the city, on the other hand, even if you are lost in the seediest neighborhood you will shortly come upon a gas station, or a convenience store, or some shady character, or possibly some entirely different neighborhood to help you find your way. In Franklin Park, you can’t drive far without coming across some sort of landmark, although that landmark is more likely to be a church or the sign of a housing community as it is to be a convenience store.
Our welcome packet from Franklin Park arrived in the mail one day and cleared up the confusion. Franklin Park describes itself as a “semi-rural suburban area.” Well, now that’s it – exactly the right description for the area. This place combines the best features of the suburbs and the country, while still being convenient to the city and all its amenities. We are minutes away from the highway, McKnight Road or the Cranberry Township shopping areas, Wexford, and all our old shopping and dining grounds.
There are nearly 12,000 residents and 14 churches in Franklin Park, according to the 2000 Census and Franklin Park’s promotional materials, including a Universalist Unitarian Church. No synagogue, but the nearest one is just 6 miles away in Allison Park. There are lots of activities available to residents, including a monthly ballroom dance and movies in the park. What Franklin Park does not have is a post office of its own; instead residents share a zip code with one of the three neighboring communities of McCandless, Wexford and Sewickley.
While we are close to our former home, we have had a whole new area to explore and discover. And we are delighted with what we’ve found, even within a mile of our new home. There is T-Bones, a tiny grocery store with great prepared foods and pastries, located conveniently off the 79 exit. We like Soergels’s Farm Market and Kaelin’s Farm Market, with their fresh produce and greenhouses. And there’s Bella Frutteto, which has quickly become one of our favorite restaurants. It’s a wonderful little Italian place with good food and interesting décor that is perfect whether you’re having lunch with a friend, or a birthday party for 15 people. Whether or not you live nearby, Bella Frutteto is worth the trip. (http://www.bellafrutteto.com)
Now, I would like to take a moment to give a shout out to the Wexford Giant Eagle, my new favorite supermarket of all time. It’s not just one thing about the place that I like – it’s everything. The people who work there treat their customers with the utmost courtesy and respect. They act as if they are happy to work there and to assist you. No, really! They are concerned that you are finding everything alright. True story- I’m at the deli one day, and I ask the person working there for some ham-off-the-bone. “Very good, ” she said, “and while I am preparing that for you, would you like to try a sample of our pork loin?” When my husband was looking for rye flour, just to discover they didn’t carry it, an assistant manager asked him what brand he liked and said he would look into ordering some. It’s just a very pleasant place to buy food.
Speaking of “finds,” you won’t believe what I found in Cranberry Township, in addition to two Burger Kings, a Perkins Restaurant and a Dress Barn Woman (reason enough to move). A job in my field, just about 5 miles and a 10 minute drive from my new house! This place really is too good to be true.
There’s one big difference between Dorothy in Oz and us in Franklin Park. Dorothy spent all her time in Oz trying to get back to where she came from. We on the other hand aren’t going anywhere.
While we are now just about 10 or 12 miles north of our former home on the North Side, which was within the city limits, my husband quickly noted that we weren’t in the city anymore. Well, that is certainly true. There isn’t anything even remotely urban about this place. Technically Franklin Park is a suburb, as it was clearly designed with residential living in mind (it is dotted with planned housing communities, including ours) but it doesn’t feel “suburban.” Those wandering through who don’t know better might mistakenly think they are in the country. There are lots of trees and other green areas everywhere, and we are literally within walking distance of two farm markets and within easy driving distance of several others.
But I’ve been to the country, and this definitely isn’t it. The easiest way to tell this is that if you are lost in the country you can go for miles and miles (and sometimes hours) without seeing one landmark or business to help you find your way back out. In the city, on the other hand, even if you are lost in the seediest neighborhood you will shortly come upon a gas station, or a convenience store, or some shady character, or possibly some entirely different neighborhood to help you find your way. In Franklin Park, you can’t drive far without coming across some sort of landmark, although that landmark is more likely to be a church or the sign of a housing community as it is to be a convenience store.
Our welcome packet from Franklin Park arrived in the mail one day and cleared up the confusion. Franklin Park describes itself as a “semi-rural suburban area.” Well, now that’s it – exactly the right description for the area. This place combines the best features of the suburbs and the country, while still being convenient to the city and all its amenities. We are minutes away from the highway, McKnight Road or the Cranberry Township shopping areas, Wexford, and all our old shopping and dining grounds.
There are nearly 12,000 residents and 14 churches in Franklin Park, according to the 2000 Census and Franklin Park’s promotional materials, including a Universalist Unitarian Church. No synagogue, but the nearest one is just 6 miles away in Allison Park. There are lots of activities available to residents, including a monthly ballroom dance and movies in the park. What Franklin Park does not have is a post office of its own; instead residents share a zip code with one of the three neighboring communities of McCandless, Wexford and Sewickley.
While we are close to our former home, we have had a whole new area to explore and discover. And we are delighted with what we’ve found, even within a mile of our new home. There is T-Bones, a tiny grocery store with great prepared foods and pastries, located conveniently off the 79 exit. We like Soergels’s Farm Market and Kaelin’s Farm Market, with their fresh produce and greenhouses. And there’s Bella Frutteto, which has quickly become one of our favorite restaurants. It’s a wonderful little Italian place with good food and interesting décor that is perfect whether you’re having lunch with a friend, or a birthday party for 15 people. Whether or not you live nearby, Bella Frutteto is worth the trip. (http://www.bellafrutteto.com)
Now, I would like to take a moment to give a shout out to the Wexford Giant Eagle, my new favorite supermarket of all time. It’s not just one thing about the place that I like – it’s everything. The people who work there treat their customers with the utmost courtesy and respect. They act as if they are happy to work there and to assist you. No, really! They are concerned that you are finding everything alright. True story- I’m at the deli one day, and I ask the person working there for some ham-off-the-bone. “Very good, ” she said, “and while I am preparing that for you, would you like to try a sample of our pork loin?” When my husband was looking for rye flour, just to discover they didn’t carry it, an assistant manager asked him what brand he liked and said he would look into ordering some. It’s just a very pleasant place to buy food.
Speaking of “finds,” you won’t believe what I found in Cranberry Township, in addition to two Burger Kings, a Perkins Restaurant and a Dress Barn Woman (reason enough to move). A job in my field, just about 5 miles and a 10 minute drive from my new house! This place really is too good to be true.
There’s one big difference between Dorothy in Oz and us in Franklin Park. Dorothy spent all her time in Oz trying to get back to where she came from. We on the other hand aren’t going anywhere.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Coming Home
Our house is a very, very, very nice house…life used to be so hard, now everything is easy ‘cause of you. ~Graham Nash
You probably think that I haven’t written lately because I was so busy recuperating from my fantasy birthday party. As exhausting as entertaining people in my mind was, I didn’t really understand exhaustion until we moved into our new house last month.
My husband and I had always had some vague plans to move into a new house, one that we picked out together, “someday.” All we really knew is that we wanted something that provided one-story living. We were also pretty sure that we wanted to stay in the North Hills of Pittsburgh. Occasionally we would window shop online – looking at condos and other suitable properties in the North Hills in our price range, even though we were in no position to buy.
We thought we found THE place when we fell for this funky little modern condo in a converted schoolhouse, but the financing didn’t work out – it turned out to be a little too avant garde for a conventional mortgage. We were crestfallen, and thought that we would never find a place we liked as well. Ah, but you know how infatuations can be. You think you found the perfect one and when it doesn’t work out, you think you’ll never find another one quite as good, but there is invariably something so much more special and perfect for you out there.
Pat, our friend and real estate agent, realized this. She took the liberty of sending us the listings for some properties that fit our admittedly short “wish list.” One of the properties was a duplex condo unit very close to where our choir rehearses. It looked more like a house than a condo in the pictures but the living area was all on one floor, and it was well within our budget, so we thought we would take a look at it.
When we walked in, we found ourselves in an expansive living room with a cathedral ceiling and a beautiful wood-burning fireplace. With a second-story loft off the living room that provided some unique and interesting architectural detail to the room without actually revealing the loft itself, the total effect was, well, kind of breathtaking.
As we went from room to room, we got more and more excited. The kitchen was a decent size with a very functional layout, a pantry, and was open to the dining room. And the dining room opened onto a large wooden deck. For people who didn’t care at all about outdoor space, we got pretty jazzed about that deck. The two bedrooms were large with lots of closet space.
And- are you ready?- there were two full bathrooms AND a coat closet in the little foyer when you walk into the house AND an attached one-car garage large enough that we could actually park the car in it. None of this might excite you, but, trust me, after living in a house with the coat rack in the living room, a garage that was too small for the car, and just one bathroom, I was practically teary-eyed at the thought of these features. Heck, the last time I lived in a house that had a powder room was in 1988, and I don’t ever remember living anywhere with two full bathrooms.
Before we left that day, we were starting to decorate the house in our minds. We’d have to buy a grill for the deck. We chose bathrooms and which side of the closet we would each have, and my husband thought that the spare bedroom would be a great place for the piano.
Anyway, we bought the house. If anything, it has turned out to be more perfect than we ever imagined it would be. The house and we belong together. What has been most amazing is how all our stuff- an eclectic mix of things that my husband and/or I have purchased or inherited along the way- all just have found their places in this new house. Sometimes I just look around and can’t believe it’s ours.
Of course, home isn’t a place or a building. It’s people. It’s family. I am at home whenever I am with my husband, or my son, or our families. But we are grateful to have such a beautiful house in which to make our home together.
You probably think that I haven’t written lately because I was so busy recuperating from my fantasy birthday party. As exhausting as entertaining people in my mind was, I didn’t really understand exhaustion until we moved into our new house last month.
My husband and I had always had some vague plans to move into a new house, one that we picked out together, “someday.” All we really knew is that we wanted something that provided one-story living. We were also pretty sure that we wanted to stay in the North Hills of Pittsburgh. Occasionally we would window shop online – looking at condos and other suitable properties in the North Hills in our price range, even though we were in no position to buy.
We thought we found THE place when we fell for this funky little modern condo in a converted schoolhouse, but the financing didn’t work out – it turned out to be a little too avant garde for a conventional mortgage. We were crestfallen, and thought that we would never find a place we liked as well. Ah, but you know how infatuations can be. You think you found the perfect one and when it doesn’t work out, you think you’ll never find another one quite as good, but there is invariably something so much more special and perfect for you out there.
Pat, our friend and real estate agent, realized this. She took the liberty of sending us the listings for some properties that fit our admittedly short “wish list.” One of the properties was a duplex condo unit very close to where our choir rehearses. It looked more like a house than a condo in the pictures but the living area was all on one floor, and it was well within our budget, so we thought we would take a look at it.
When we walked in, we found ourselves in an expansive living room with a cathedral ceiling and a beautiful wood-burning fireplace. With a second-story loft off the living room that provided some unique and interesting architectural detail to the room without actually revealing the loft itself, the total effect was, well, kind of breathtaking.
As we went from room to room, we got more and more excited. The kitchen was a decent size with a very functional layout, a pantry, and was open to the dining room. And the dining room opened onto a large wooden deck. For people who didn’t care at all about outdoor space, we got pretty jazzed about that deck. The two bedrooms were large with lots of closet space.
And- are you ready?- there were two full bathrooms AND a coat closet in the little foyer when you walk into the house AND an attached one-car garage large enough that we could actually park the car in it. None of this might excite you, but, trust me, after living in a house with the coat rack in the living room, a garage that was too small for the car, and just one bathroom, I was practically teary-eyed at the thought of these features. Heck, the last time I lived in a house that had a powder room was in 1988, and I don’t ever remember living anywhere with two full bathrooms.
Before we left that day, we were starting to decorate the house in our minds. We’d have to buy a grill for the deck. We chose bathrooms and which side of the closet we would each have, and my husband thought that the spare bedroom would be a great place for the piano.
Anyway, we bought the house. If anything, it has turned out to be more perfect than we ever imagined it would be. The house and we belong together. What has been most amazing is how all our stuff- an eclectic mix of things that my husband and/or I have purchased or inherited along the way- all just have found their places in this new house. Sometimes I just look around and can’t believe it’s ours.
Of course, home isn’t a place or a building. It’s people. It’s family. I am at home whenever I am with my husband, or my son, or our families. But we are grateful to have such a beautiful house in which to make our home together.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Great March 25 Birthday Dinner Party
They say it's your birthday
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
-Lennon and McCartney
I have always been intrigued by the famous (and sometimes infamous) people who share my birthday of March 25th. Sir Elton John, rock royalty. Gloria Steinem, feminist icon. Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul. Anita Bryant, right winger and anti-gay activist. Howard Cosell, legendary sportscaster. Sarah Jessica Parker, Sex in the City. Marcia Cross and Brenda Strong, Desperate Housewives.
An eclectic bunch, to be sure, but they’re not as dissimilar as they might initially seem. They are all people with strong personalities who like to express themselves. They march to the beat of a different drummer. They are originals who do things that millions of others have done- e.g. singing and acting- in a completely unique way. They are extreme and loud, and often controversial. They evoke strong, and not always positive, reactions. But, like them or not, it is hard not to notice them.
I am unspeakably proud to share a birthday with this gang, but I often wonder what might happen if they were all together in one room. It’s a long-time fantasy of mine to invite them all over for a nice birthday dinner. The Great March 25th Birthday Dinner Party.
Yes, I know some of them are dead, but that won’t matter. This is a fantasy, folks, and it is MY fantasy. In it, I drop them all a nice little handwritten note, explaining that we all share a birthday and I think it might be nice if we got together to celebrate. And they all come, some returning from the dead to do so. This won’t seem so unusual to Brenda, who plays Mary Alice on Desperate Housewives. Mary Alice died in the pilot but now narrates the happenings of Wisteria Lane from the Great Beyond.
Naturally everything has to be just perfect for this soiree. The woman who plays Bree Van de Kamp will be attendance. Marcia may not be anything like Bree in real life, but they sure do look a lot alike.
“An Aries born on March 25 is naturally shy, even though they possess the ability to shine at any gathering,” according to Jill M. Phillips, astrologer. (http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/march-25-birthday-astrology.htm ) Well, I fully expect this get-together to be so shiny with personality that one will barely be able to stand the brightness. I am guessing that there will be lively and spirited conversation. It may even get a little too lively and spirited. Maybe we could just kick off the evening with Aretha singing about “R-E-S-P-E-C-T" to set the tone.
I'll make up a seating chart. Frankly, I’m worried about Anita. Will she annoy the rest of the guests? Will anyone want to sit next to her? Should I seat Elton and her at opposite ends of the table, or near one another to keep things interesting? Howard always seemed like an amenable guy, maybe if I put him between them he could mediate. I know that I can put Sarah Jessica anywhere – she seems to have pretty good social skills.
That brings us to the menu. Of course, Gloria is a vegetarian. I’ve got it! Lasagna. My one and only culinary specialty. I have a great recipe for white vegetarian lasagna made with broccoli, spinach and zucchini, or we could offer traditional meatless lasagna. Add a nice salad, and some fresh Italian bread, and you can’t go wrong. I’ll ask Bree, I mean Marcia, to bring the wine- I wouldn’t want to make a misstep there.
I don’t suppose I have to worry about what to wear and I can be as colorful and outlandish as I want. This group is known for their interesting, bold fashion choices. Think about Sarah Jessica’s outfit at the Oscars, or Aretha’s hat at Obama’s inauguration, or everything and anything that Elton wore in the 70’s.
We could wrap up the evening with a nice sing-a-long at my husband’s upright piano. I just hope that everyone isn’t intimidated by Elton and Aretha. I, for one, would love to hear Howard’s version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” or hear Gloria belt out “I Am Woman.”
At the end of the evening, everyone will reluctantly leave, but not before we all embrace, exchange contact information, and agree to become Facebook Friends so that we can keep in touch and like each other’s statuses.
It's my birthday too, yeah
They say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
-Lennon and McCartney
I have always been intrigued by the famous (and sometimes infamous) people who share my birthday of March 25th. Sir Elton John, rock royalty. Gloria Steinem, feminist icon. Aretha Franklin, Queen of Soul. Anita Bryant, right winger and anti-gay activist. Howard Cosell, legendary sportscaster. Sarah Jessica Parker, Sex in the City. Marcia Cross and Brenda Strong, Desperate Housewives.
An eclectic bunch, to be sure, but they’re not as dissimilar as they might initially seem. They are all people with strong personalities who like to express themselves. They march to the beat of a different drummer. They are originals who do things that millions of others have done- e.g. singing and acting- in a completely unique way. They are extreme and loud, and often controversial. They evoke strong, and not always positive, reactions. But, like them or not, it is hard not to notice them.
I am unspeakably proud to share a birthday with this gang, but I often wonder what might happen if they were all together in one room. It’s a long-time fantasy of mine to invite them all over for a nice birthday dinner. The Great March 25th Birthday Dinner Party.
Yes, I know some of them are dead, but that won’t matter. This is a fantasy, folks, and it is MY fantasy. In it, I drop them all a nice little handwritten note, explaining that we all share a birthday and I think it might be nice if we got together to celebrate. And they all come, some returning from the dead to do so. This won’t seem so unusual to Brenda, who plays Mary Alice on Desperate Housewives. Mary Alice died in the pilot but now narrates the happenings of Wisteria Lane from the Great Beyond.
Naturally everything has to be just perfect for this soiree. The woman who plays Bree Van de Kamp will be attendance. Marcia may not be anything like Bree in real life, but they sure do look a lot alike.
“An Aries born on March 25 is naturally shy, even though they possess the ability to shine at any gathering,” according to Jill M. Phillips, astrologer. (http://entertainment.howstuffworks.com/march-25-birthday-astrology.htm ) Well, I fully expect this get-together to be so shiny with personality that one will barely be able to stand the brightness. I am guessing that there will be lively and spirited conversation. It may even get a little too lively and spirited. Maybe we could just kick off the evening with Aretha singing about “R-E-S-P-E-C-T" to set the tone.
I'll make up a seating chart. Frankly, I’m worried about Anita. Will she annoy the rest of the guests? Will anyone want to sit next to her? Should I seat Elton and her at opposite ends of the table, or near one another to keep things interesting? Howard always seemed like an amenable guy, maybe if I put him between them he could mediate. I know that I can put Sarah Jessica anywhere – she seems to have pretty good social skills.
That brings us to the menu. Of course, Gloria is a vegetarian. I’ve got it! Lasagna. My one and only culinary specialty. I have a great recipe for white vegetarian lasagna made with broccoli, spinach and zucchini, or we could offer traditional meatless lasagna. Add a nice salad, and some fresh Italian bread, and you can’t go wrong. I’ll ask Bree, I mean Marcia, to bring the wine- I wouldn’t want to make a misstep there.
I don’t suppose I have to worry about what to wear and I can be as colorful and outlandish as I want. This group is known for their interesting, bold fashion choices. Think about Sarah Jessica’s outfit at the Oscars, or Aretha’s hat at Obama’s inauguration, or everything and anything that Elton wore in the 70’s.
We could wrap up the evening with a nice sing-a-long at my husband’s upright piano. I just hope that everyone isn’t intimidated by Elton and Aretha. I, for one, would love to hear Howard’s version of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” or hear Gloria belt out “I Am Woman.”
At the end of the evening, everyone will reluctantly leave, but not before we all embrace, exchange contact information, and agree to become Facebook Friends so that we can keep in touch and like each other’s statuses.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
The Story of Zero
As you know if you read my last blog my son was born one snowy February day, but he wasn’t the first treasured family member to come to us in the dead of winter.
One bitterly cold January night, friends of ours saw a black object ahead of them on the country road they were driving. After watching a van drive over it, they stopped and discovered that the object was actually a small black dog, frozen solid and unable to move. They took him home. As he started to thaw, he went into convulsions, but with the advice of one caring local vet who took their call at 11 p.m., they were able to help him to survive until morning. Because it was 17 below zero that night, they named him Zero. When he thawed, they realized that he also had a broken leg.
Zero came to live with us about a week and a half later. He was still very traumatized and withdrawn when we took him in. He never barked and walked with difficulty. We had to carry him up and down the back steps when we took him out, because he couldn’t manage steps with his broken leg. Mostly he just liked to be on the couch with us, either on a lap, or snuggled next to us.
When we took him to the vet, we found out that he was a Terrier “mutt” and that he was probably about 7 months old, still a puppy. The doctor said that his broken leg was partially healed and the only way to fix it would be to re-break it and set it again. He said that this wouldn’t be necessary unless we wanted to show him. Show him? Where, we wondered. At the Terrier Mutt Show?
In a month or so, Zero was fully healed, with a vengeance. In fact, he blossomed into one of the most tenacious, incorrigible little terrier mutts you’ll ever know. Not only was he walking, he was running - he was, in fact, a perpetual ball of energy. His favorite toy was a bandanna with a knot tied in it, and when he held it in his mouth he was so strong that you could hold him in the air by the bandanna. It was his best and only trick. And barking? He had one of those shrill yippy barks that terriers have and he could bark without a break for hours, if he was so inclined.
Zero wasn’t exactly what most would consider a handsome dog. One friend said that he looked like a Brillo Pad with legs. He was covered in wiry, black hair and he was about 12 pounds, sopping wet. The vet was concerned that he was underweight, but actually he was the only one in the family with a high metabolism. At the vet’s recommendation, we tried putting fatty acid supplement on his dog food, but then he wouldn’t touch the stuff at all, defeating the purpose entirely. He was the only dog I ever knew who ate and loved broccoli.
He loved to run free, and lived to sneak out of the house. This wasn’t too much of a challenge, as he was much faster than the sluggish people he lived with, and could slip through the tiniest open crack in a door. Attempts to catch him were futile. He would terrorize the neighborhood- ripping up flower beds and bothering other neighborhood pets, returning when he was good and ready. The full extent of his infamy became apparent when I was voting one day, and one of the poll workers asked where I lived on Fern Street. When I described the house, her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Wait a minute! Do you have a little black dog?” I didn’t think quickly enough to deny it.
He was a ferocious little watchdog- territorial and absolutely loyal to and protective of us. He didn’t seem to know that he was very small. He would attack visitors unless we held him until they were in and seated, but would run after them, biting their ankles, if they presumed to move around the house.
This fierce protectiveness led four well-meaning doting grandparents-to-be to practically stage an intervention with my husband and me when I was pregnant. We were having a baby now, they explained, and they were very concerned that Zero might try to hurt the baby. While we couldn’t positively guarantee that Zero would not try to harm the baby, we couldn’t possibly think of getting rid of him, either. He was a member of the family, and we loved him. Besides, who in their right mind would take him? After a few frantic days of circling and sniffing when the baby was born, Zero decided that the baby could stay and became just as protective and territorial of him as he was of us. He actually put up with more from the kid than he did from anyone else.
Well, Zero did bite the child once, but it was only because my son, who was three at the time, playfully and happily jumped onto the dog when he was sound asleep. Yes, that’s right; he did not let a sleeping dog lie (that’s a proverb for a reason). Zero woke up and bit – and it just so happened that my son’s lip was there. It was a superficial bite, and my son was initially upset but essentially unharmed. Zero on the other hand was despondent. He slunk around after me the rest of the day, dejected and apologetic, which was impressive mostly because it was unlike Zero to show remorse of any kind for his misdeeds.
The night he was found by our friends was not the last time that Zero would defy death. He ran free on busy streets, and he once ate more than half of a chocolate Sarris candy bar without incident, despite the fact that chocolate can be dangerous for dogs. We would joke that he was part cat, because in addition to having nine lives, he could walk along the back of the couch, and whine like a cat if unhappy.
As Zero aged, he also mellowed. He played less and slept more and even let people enter the house without much of a fuss. One night when he got loose he didn’t come back, which was not like him. We found him a few streets away. While we couldn’t know for sure, we think he passed away from natural causes. He was 18 years old. We buried him in the backyard, and mourned him. We really did love that cantankerous little dog.
I understand that at least one author has written a best-selling book about his bad dog that was made into a hit movie starring Jennifer Aniston. There was never a better bad dog than Zero – the least I could do was pay tribute to him in this blog.
One bitterly cold January night, friends of ours saw a black object ahead of them on the country road they were driving. After watching a van drive over it, they stopped and discovered that the object was actually a small black dog, frozen solid and unable to move. They took him home. As he started to thaw, he went into convulsions, but with the advice of one caring local vet who took their call at 11 p.m., they were able to help him to survive until morning. Because it was 17 below zero that night, they named him Zero. When he thawed, they realized that he also had a broken leg.
Zero came to live with us about a week and a half later. He was still very traumatized and withdrawn when we took him in. He never barked and walked with difficulty. We had to carry him up and down the back steps when we took him out, because he couldn’t manage steps with his broken leg. Mostly he just liked to be on the couch with us, either on a lap, or snuggled next to us.
When we took him to the vet, we found out that he was a Terrier “mutt” and that he was probably about 7 months old, still a puppy. The doctor said that his broken leg was partially healed and the only way to fix it would be to re-break it and set it again. He said that this wouldn’t be necessary unless we wanted to show him. Show him? Where, we wondered. At the Terrier Mutt Show?
In a month or so, Zero was fully healed, with a vengeance. In fact, he blossomed into one of the most tenacious, incorrigible little terrier mutts you’ll ever know. Not only was he walking, he was running - he was, in fact, a perpetual ball of energy. His favorite toy was a bandanna with a knot tied in it, and when he held it in his mouth he was so strong that you could hold him in the air by the bandanna. It was his best and only trick. And barking? He had one of those shrill yippy barks that terriers have and he could bark without a break for hours, if he was so inclined.
Zero wasn’t exactly what most would consider a handsome dog. One friend said that he looked like a Brillo Pad with legs. He was covered in wiry, black hair and he was about 12 pounds, sopping wet. The vet was concerned that he was underweight, but actually he was the only one in the family with a high metabolism. At the vet’s recommendation, we tried putting fatty acid supplement on his dog food, but then he wouldn’t touch the stuff at all, defeating the purpose entirely. He was the only dog I ever knew who ate and loved broccoli.
He loved to run free, and lived to sneak out of the house. This wasn’t too much of a challenge, as he was much faster than the sluggish people he lived with, and could slip through the tiniest open crack in a door. Attempts to catch him were futile. He would terrorize the neighborhood- ripping up flower beds and bothering other neighborhood pets, returning when he was good and ready. The full extent of his infamy became apparent when I was voting one day, and one of the poll workers asked where I lived on Fern Street. When I described the house, her eyes narrowed and she asked, “Wait a minute! Do you have a little black dog?” I didn’t think quickly enough to deny it.
He was a ferocious little watchdog- territorial and absolutely loyal to and protective of us. He didn’t seem to know that he was very small. He would attack visitors unless we held him until they were in and seated, but would run after them, biting their ankles, if they presumed to move around the house.
This fierce protectiveness led four well-meaning doting grandparents-to-be to practically stage an intervention with my husband and me when I was pregnant. We were having a baby now, they explained, and they were very concerned that Zero might try to hurt the baby. While we couldn’t positively guarantee that Zero would not try to harm the baby, we couldn’t possibly think of getting rid of him, either. He was a member of the family, and we loved him. Besides, who in their right mind would take him? After a few frantic days of circling and sniffing when the baby was born, Zero decided that the baby could stay and became just as protective and territorial of him as he was of us. He actually put up with more from the kid than he did from anyone else.
Well, Zero did bite the child once, but it was only because my son, who was three at the time, playfully and happily jumped onto the dog when he was sound asleep. Yes, that’s right; he did not let a sleeping dog lie (that’s a proverb for a reason). Zero woke up and bit – and it just so happened that my son’s lip was there. It was a superficial bite, and my son was initially upset but essentially unharmed. Zero on the other hand was despondent. He slunk around after me the rest of the day, dejected and apologetic, which was impressive mostly because it was unlike Zero to show remorse of any kind for his misdeeds.
The night he was found by our friends was not the last time that Zero would defy death. He ran free on busy streets, and he once ate more than half of a chocolate Sarris candy bar without incident, despite the fact that chocolate can be dangerous for dogs. We would joke that he was part cat, because in addition to having nine lives, he could walk along the back of the couch, and whine like a cat if unhappy.
As Zero aged, he also mellowed. He played less and slept more and even let people enter the house without much of a fuss. One night when he got loose he didn’t come back, which was not like him. We found him a few streets away. While we couldn’t know for sure, we think he passed away from natural causes. He was 18 years old. We buried him in the backyard, and mourned him. We really did love that cantankerous little dog.
I understand that at least one author has written a best-selling book about his bad dog that was made into a hit movie starring Jennifer Aniston. There was never a better bad dog than Zero – the least I could do was pay tribute to him in this blog.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
On This Day My Child Was Born
It was February 13th. I was about 8 ½ months pregnant and I was returning to work after my weekly appointment at my gynecologist.
According to my doctor, everything looked fine. He also thought I may come a little earlier than my due date of February 28. That would be okay with me, I told him. I had had enough of the whole pregnancy thing- the tremendous weight gain, the sharp pain in my abdomen they called “heartburn;” the inability to sit, stand or sleep comfortably. I really did Ache All Over. I was more than ready to have my baby.
The snow was beginning to fall as I headed back to work, but I wasn’t worried. The roads weren’t bad yet, and my workplace was just four miles from my house. Nonetheless, I was pretty happy when I got to work without incident, just in time for lunch with my co-worker and friend Joan.
When I stood up after lunch to return to my work area, I felt an unfamiliar sensation. I realized with a shock that my water was beginning to break. I calmly called the doctor’s office, and they advised me to return to the hospital immediately. I wasn’t able to reach my husband, who was making deliveries for his family’s business in a time before cell phones. I left the message with his mother that I would go home and pack my bag and he could just meet me at the house.
I let my boss and Joan know what was going on and left. I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start. It seems that I had turned the headlights on when I was on my way back to work in the snowstorm and left them on. My car battery was dead.
Okay, so now I was beginning to panic.
I found Paul, my co-worker with jumper cables. Paul was flabbergasted, as he did not think that a woman in labor should be driving herself anywhere especially in the snow. He initially refused to jump my car. I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and I probably wasn’t even technically in labor. Paul didn’t care. He offered to drive me anywhere I needed to go. I explained to him that this was my only car, and I could not leave it, dead, in the parking lot at work, especially if I actually had the baby. Paul was adamant. We argued for several minutes. I was getting desperate. I begged. I cajoled. I cannot swear that I didn’t at one point grab Paul by the lapels and yell “Jump the damn car, Paul!” Finally, Joan, who was pretty skilled at the power of persuasion, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.
I drove home and packed my suitcase but my husband was not yet back from making his deliveries. I called the doctor’s office. “WHAT??!!!,” the nurse said, “You mean you haven’t even LEFT yet?” The last professional I saw get this excited was the whitewater rafting guide after I fell into the Youghigheny River. I decided against sharing the story of the dead car battery. She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital. It was about 30 minutes when it wasn’t snowing, I told her. “Oh honey,” she said, “You need to get here RIGHT NOW!”
I called my mother-in-law back to tell her that I was leaving for the hospital and to tell my husband to meet me there. She offered to come pick me up, but after my conversation with the nurse, I didn’t think I should wait.
My mother also offered to come to pick me up, which was very sweet but not really feasible. My mother was terrified of driving in the snow, and lived in Swissvale, which was just about an hour away from my home in Washington, PA. I estimated that it would take my Mom 2 hours or more to pick me up and take me to the hospital in the snow, and I was certain that Mom would not want to drive in the snow and deliver her grandchild herself, at least not on the same day.
It was snowing a lot harder when I was driving to the hospital. When I finally arrived, I told the doctor that aside from the fact that my water had broken and I had just driven about 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine. He examined me and informed me that I was having contractions and I was “officially” in labor. Perhaps I was in shock as I drove to the hospital in the snow, and therefore numb to the contractions, or perhaps I had instinctively, unknowingly been employing those breathing exercises they taught us in Lamaze class.
Meanwhile my husband had arrived back at the shop, and was so upset at the news, that his parents did not trust him to drive himself to the hospital. His family accompanied him, and his father drove. He burst into the birthing room about an hour after I got there, in quite a state, I might add.
I will not share with you with all the minute details of the labor and delivery, because I hate when women do that. However, I will tell you that I had to have a Caesarian section because the baby was large, and my birth canal was small. I only mention this because I want everyone to know that there is actually a body part of mine that is too small, ironically located inside my body where nobody can see it.
At 10:15 p.m. on February 13, 1985, my beautiful, brown-haired, brown-eyed baby boy was born, 8 pounds and 9 ounces despite coming 15 days early. When they put him into my arms, I was smitten- crazy about the kid from the start. Every bit of the pregnancy and that day had been worth it.
That baby turns 25 today. One word always comes to mind when I think of him- proud. I am so very proud of the fine young man he has grown up to be. Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday, and hoping that the weather today is better than on the day he was born.
Friday, February 5, 2010
If the Glove Fits, Buy It
I love those little knit “magic gloves” that you can buy two for $1.50 at the local CVS. They are warm enough when I am driving and walking the two blocks to my office in almost any temperature, and fit nicely into the pocket of any coat. The gloves fit on either hand. My purse is large enough that I have actually misplaced a pair in there. If you misplace one pair or it begins to unravel (which often happens – hey, for 75 cents, what do you expect?) you always have a spare.
Unfortunately we’re having a Bad Winter. On one bitterly cold day during the 10 consecutive days of snowfall we had last month my husband and I were trying to shovel snow off the front steps and sidewalk. It turns out that my seemingly ideal little gloves are completely insufficient when shoveling snow when it is 2 degrees and windy outside.
I grudgingly decided that I would break down and buy myself a new pair of heavy, water-proof gloves. I headed up to Macy’s on my lunch hour the next day to buy a pair of “real” gloves. That should have been simple enough, right?
The first obstacle I faced was the Hat Department, which was positioned directly between the entrance and the Glove Department. Wow, there were so many really dashing, fashionable, cute winter hats there, all on displays with huge SALE signs on them. I’m not really a hat person, and I wasn’t in the market for a hat, but I am a serious fan of SALE signs. Well, I thought, it might be fun to try a few on… and so like a moth to the flame I headed for the shiny, red SALE signs.
Without going into all the painful details, none of the hats I tried on fit me. It seems that hat manufacturers had suddenly decided that one size hat fits all heads, but those of us who have heads know this just isn’t true. And if the hat manufacturers used their heads, they’d know it, too. Well, don’t get me started. Admittedly, I have a freakishly large head. I didn’t want any of their damn hats anyway, and they probably wouldn’t even have kept my ears warm.
I finally reached the gloves, my actual destination. Did you know that they have now started making fitted gloves that are “one size fits all”, too? Come on, people! Get a grip! One size of non-knit fitted gloves does NOT and never will fit every hand. They are called “fitted” for a reason. Don’t they know that that is what makes the magic gloves magic? That they start out real small, but then stretch to fit most hands? Unlike REGULAR gloves! I do NOT have abnormally large hands, and yet I tried on dozens of fitted gloves without success. Rack after rack of gloves. Some I could barely fit on, some I couldn’t get on at all. In the gloves that came in sizes, the old fashioned way, they didn’t have the larger sizes in stock.
Finally, I found one single pair of “extra large” red micro-suede, water-resistant gloves that fit, that would not only be good for shoveling snow in single digit weather, but were presentable enough to wear in regular weather and which matched most of my other winter accessories. They were too expensive even with a 25% discount, but I grabbed them and bought them before they could get away. Of course, once I bought these gloves, the snow immediately stopped and it warmed up. I thought perhaps by purchasing these gloves I had single handedly guaranteed an end to the snow, and temperate weather for the rest of the winter. That really would have been worth the investment. No such luck. Although we did enjoy two weeks of snowless, comparatively warmer days, we are at the beginning of a "snow event" right now. Seems the power of these gloves to prevent snow and cold is limited, but they never claimed to be magic.
Unfortunately we’re having a Bad Winter. On one bitterly cold day during the 10 consecutive days of snowfall we had last month my husband and I were trying to shovel snow off the front steps and sidewalk. It turns out that my seemingly ideal little gloves are completely insufficient when shoveling snow when it is 2 degrees and windy outside.
I grudgingly decided that I would break down and buy myself a new pair of heavy, water-proof gloves. I headed up to Macy’s on my lunch hour the next day to buy a pair of “real” gloves. That should have been simple enough, right?
The first obstacle I faced was the Hat Department, which was positioned directly between the entrance and the Glove Department. Wow, there were so many really dashing, fashionable, cute winter hats there, all on displays with huge SALE signs on them. I’m not really a hat person, and I wasn’t in the market for a hat, but I am a serious fan of SALE signs. Well, I thought, it might be fun to try a few on… and so like a moth to the flame I headed for the shiny, red SALE signs.
Without going into all the painful details, none of the hats I tried on fit me. It seems that hat manufacturers had suddenly decided that one size hat fits all heads, but those of us who have heads know this just isn’t true. And if the hat manufacturers used their heads, they’d know it, too. Well, don’t get me started. Admittedly, I have a freakishly large head. I didn’t want any of their damn hats anyway, and they probably wouldn’t even have kept my ears warm.
I finally reached the gloves, my actual destination. Did you know that they have now started making fitted gloves that are “one size fits all”, too? Come on, people! Get a grip! One size of non-knit fitted gloves does NOT and never will fit every hand. They are called “fitted” for a reason. Don’t they know that that is what makes the magic gloves magic? That they start out real small, but then stretch to fit most hands? Unlike REGULAR gloves! I do NOT have abnormally large hands, and yet I tried on dozens of fitted gloves without success. Rack after rack of gloves. Some I could barely fit on, some I couldn’t get on at all. In the gloves that came in sizes, the old fashioned way, they didn’t have the larger sizes in stock.
Finally, I found one single pair of “extra large” red micro-suede, water-resistant gloves that fit, that would not only be good for shoveling snow in single digit weather, but were presentable enough to wear in regular weather and which matched most of my other winter accessories. They were too expensive even with a 25% discount, but I grabbed them and bought them before they could get away. Of course, once I bought these gloves, the snow immediately stopped and it warmed up. I thought perhaps by purchasing these gloves I had single handedly guaranteed an end to the snow, and temperate weather for the rest of the winter. That really would have been worth the investment. No such luck. Although we did enjoy two weeks of snowless, comparatively warmer days, we are at the beginning of a "snow event" right now. Seems the power of these gloves to prevent snow and cold is limited, but they never claimed to be magic.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Mothers-in-Love
Mothers-in-law get a bad rap. Comedians make jokes about them. They are portrayed as meddlesome and interfering. I’ve never quite understood it. Why should the person who gave birth to and raised someone you love enough to marry automatically be a nemesis? Maybe it’s just that I have been twice blessed in that department.
Remember, I met my husband’s parents and family when I attended my very first Bar Mitzvah, but they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. And I did. They are family to me now, just as surely as the family into which I was born. My in-laws also “adopted” my son, and they treat him like another grandson. Each year, my mother-in-law and father-in-law host the entire extended family (sometimes as many as 23 people) for Thanksgiving. And every year I think of how appropriate it is, because I am so very thankful to be a part of their family.
My mother-in-law is a warm and caring woman who treats me like family – she is proud of my accomplishments and hurts when I hurt. She is honest and has a great sense of humor, traits she passed onto her son, who is the love of my life and best friend. Of course, we share one major interest – the happiness of her son- but it goes beyond that. I really like my mother-in-law. She is someone I would want as a friend, even if we were not tied by marriage.
I had also been very close to my ex-husband’s family. It’s a funny thing when a marriage ends – in a way you are breaking up with your soon-to-be ex’s family as well. These are the people who you shared life’s milestones with, in my case for 20 years. No matter how right it was for my ex and me to part ways I didn’t really want to lose his family. As it turns out this would not be necessary.
My former mother-in-law also was caring and loving person. She was someone who routinely cared for others- her family, the members of her church’s congregation, her friends, and all the stray dogs in the area. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when she essentially refused to give me up after the divorce. As she put it, she didn’t divorce me. She stayed in touch, and was genuinely happy for me when I found such happiness with my husband. Despite being a devout born-again Christian, she also loved my husband, who is Jewish. She always remembered our anniversary. When my former sister-in-law got married in an intimate ceremony with just the most immediate family present, we were invited and we attended. So, for the past six years, I have been fortunate enough to have two wonderful mothers-in-law in my life.
On Thursday, my ex-husband called me to tell me that his mother had passed away. It was not unexpected – she had been battling cancer for the past few months. She was able to come home and spend the last few months of her life in her home with her family around her. My husband and I were able to visit her about a week before her death, and although she was very weak, she recognized us and was so very happy that we came. We had the chance to hold her hand and embrace her one more time. She had such a strong faith that I know that she is resting peacefully with the Lord right now.
Her memory will certainly live on in all our hearts.
Remember, I met my husband’s parents and family when I attended my very first Bar Mitzvah, but they went out of their way to make me feel welcome. And I did. They are family to me now, just as surely as the family into which I was born. My in-laws also “adopted” my son, and they treat him like another grandson. Each year, my mother-in-law and father-in-law host the entire extended family (sometimes as many as 23 people) for Thanksgiving. And every year I think of how appropriate it is, because I am so very thankful to be a part of their family.
My mother-in-law is a warm and caring woman who treats me like family – she is proud of my accomplishments and hurts when I hurt. She is honest and has a great sense of humor, traits she passed onto her son, who is the love of my life and best friend. Of course, we share one major interest – the happiness of her son- but it goes beyond that. I really like my mother-in-law. She is someone I would want as a friend, even if we were not tied by marriage.
I had also been very close to my ex-husband’s family. It’s a funny thing when a marriage ends – in a way you are breaking up with your soon-to-be ex’s family as well. These are the people who you shared life’s milestones with, in my case for 20 years. No matter how right it was for my ex and me to part ways I didn’t really want to lose his family. As it turns out this would not be necessary.
My former mother-in-law also was caring and loving person. She was someone who routinely cared for others- her family, the members of her church’s congregation, her friends, and all the stray dogs in the area. So I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when she essentially refused to give me up after the divorce. As she put it, she didn’t divorce me. She stayed in touch, and was genuinely happy for me when I found such happiness with my husband. Despite being a devout born-again Christian, she also loved my husband, who is Jewish. She always remembered our anniversary. When my former sister-in-law got married in an intimate ceremony with just the most immediate family present, we were invited and we attended. So, for the past six years, I have been fortunate enough to have two wonderful mothers-in-law in my life.
On Thursday, my ex-husband called me to tell me that his mother had passed away. It was not unexpected – she had been battling cancer for the past few months. She was able to come home and spend the last few months of her life in her home with her family around her. My husband and I were able to visit her about a week before her death, and although she was very weak, she recognized us and was so very happy that we came. We had the chance to hold her hand and embrace her one more time. She had such a strong faith that I know that she is resting peacefully with the Lord right now.
Her memory will certainly live on in all our hearts.
Friday, January 8, 2010
"Nine" Lives (The Critics Must Be Crazy)
I won’t go to see just any movie on Christmas Day. Essentially, it has to be what I refer to as a feel-good movie: something upbeat or positive or happy or maybe even inspirational. My ideal is a big, splashy musical (like Dreamgirls) which actually opens on Christmas Day. I do not want to see anything that is too dark or depressing or disturbing.
Last year, the musical opening on Christmas was Sweeney Todd, Tim Burton’s dark interpretation (as though the source material needed to be any darker) of the misadventures of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Although this was the movie adaptation of one of my husband’s favorite stage musicals of all time, it was unfortunately not Christmas movie material even though it was a musical. Another movie of interest in the theaters at the time was Doubt, a psychological drama about a fierce, unyielding nun who accuses a priest of misconduct. I’ve known a few fierce, unyielding nuns in my day, and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with any of them.
We ended up seeing Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler, a fun, lightweight fantasy good for the whole family. Mr. Sandler was as charming as usual, and the movie included a little of everything- clever fantasy premise, romance, adventure, special effects, cute kids, and even a computer-generated hamster sidekick. Perfectly sweet movie for Christmas, and one that probably never would have made it into our Netflix queue (as Sweeney Todd and Doubt both did).
This time it was easier. Nine, Rob Marshall’s movie version of the stage musical based on Fellini’s 8 ½ , was opening on Christmas Day. We had seen the Conservatory Theater Company of Point Park University’s very good stage production a few years ago, and the promos for the movie proclaimed, “if you liked Chicago, you’ll like Nine!” As a matter of fact, we did like Chicago- we liked Chicago a lot.
Nine turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable, visually interesting, superbly acted musical which completely lived up to the promo. Daniel Day-Lewis is believable and charismatic as the conflicted director, Guido Contini, who is weathering a creative slump by examining his relationships with the women in his life.
Guido’s women are played by some of the most fabulous women to ever grace the screen. Marion Cotillard is absolutely luminous and breathtakingly beautiful as Guido’s long suffering wife, while Penelope Cruz oozes messy sexuality as his mistress. Judi Dench competently plays his costumer and confidant, and shows her song-and-dance chops in her own production number. Kate Hudson plays an American journalist and was made up to look exactly like her mother, Goldie Hawn, did in her “Laugh-In” days. Fergie, the lead singer of the Black Eyed Peas, is amazing as an Italian prostitute in “Be Italian,” arguably the show’s best musical number. Sophia Loren plays his mother and Nicole Kidman is his actress muse.
Was it perfect? Not exactly, but then what is? In the stage version, the story took place entirely in Guido’s head, and I wished it would have stayed there in the movie. Instead, they decided to open it up, it took place in real time, and they introduced men into the story. Guido’s producer, the Judi Dench character on stage, was now a man, and there was one scene where Guido has a meaningful meeting with a Cardinal. Neither of these characters was necessary nor did they add anything to the story. But then I would rewrite or edit the books of many musicals that I basically enjoy. Nine’s fabulous musical numbers could carry the movie all by themselves without any pesky story at all, if need be.
Shockingly, many critics loathed Nine. In fact, only 28% of the critics listed on RottenTomatoes.com recommended it. To give it a qualified thumbs up, or to take issue with some parts of it I could understand, but to completely trash it? I was, simply, baffled.
The most puzzling critique I came across in my cursory review of the representative comments provided by Rotten Tomatoes came from Sean O’Connell of the South Charlotte Weekly, who wrote that Marshall “hires eye candy over proven entertainers” in the movie. Really? Well, I’m sure that Judi Dench is used to that criticism- she probably hears it all the time. Let’s see, Day-Lewis, Dench, Loren, Cruz, Cotillard, and Kidman are all Oscar winners in acting categories, and Hudson has been nominated for her work in the past. What do they have to do, exactly, to prove themselves as entertainers to Mr. O’Connell?
It’s not just the critics who get it wrong, though. Sometimes I stand by, incredulous, as “America” chooses the wrong Idol, or helplessly watch two favorite new TV shows, Pushing Daisies and Eli Stone, perish because they didn’t find an audience despite being a favorite of the critics.
Sometimes I just want my voice to be heard. I want to talk some sense into the critics or “America.” So let me shout it from the blogosphere! Nine was fine and dandy, just like a hard candy Christmas. Don’t listen to the crazy critics, people. Listen to me. If you like Daniel Day-Lewis or the type of big, beautiful musical production numbers that Rob Marshall does so well, you should like Nine. Actually, the promos were accurate in this case. If you liked Chicago, you most probably will like Nine.
Last year, the musical opening on Christmas was Sweeney Todd, Tim Burton’s dark interpretation (as though the source material needed to be any darker) of the misadventures of the Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Although this was the movie adaptation of one of my husband’s favorite stage musicals of all time, it was unfortunately not Christmas movie material even though it was a musical. Another movie of interest in the theaters at the time was Doubt, a psychological drama about a fierce, unyielding nun who accuses a priest of misconduct. I’ve known a few fierce, unyielding nuns in my day, and I wouldn’t have wanted to spend Christmas with any of them.
We ended up seeing Bedtime Stories with Adam Sandler, a fun, lightweight fantasy good for the whole family. Mr. Sandler was as charming as usual, and the movie included a little of everything- clever fantasy premise, romance, adventure, special effects, cute kids, and even a computer-generated hamster sidekick. Perfectly sweet movie for Christmas, and one that probably never would have made it into our Netflix queue (as Sweeney Todd and Doubt both did).
This time it was easier. Nine, Rob Marshall’s movie version of the stage musical based on Fellini’s 8 ½ , was opening on Christmas Day. We had seen the Conservatory Theater Company of Point Park University’s very good stage production a few years ago, and the promos for the movie proclaimed, “if you liked Chicago, you’ll like Nine!” As a matter of fact, we did like Chicago- we liked Chicago a lot.
Nine turned out to be a thoroughly enjoyable, visually interesting, superbly acted musical which completely lived up to the promo. Daniel Day-Lewis is believable and charismatic as the conflicted director, Guido Contini, who is weathering a creative slump by examining his relationships with the women in his life.
Guido’s women are played by some of the most fabulous women to ever grace the screen. Marion Cotillard is absolutely luminous and breathtakingly beautiful as Guido’s long suffering wife, while Penelope Cruz oozes messy sexuality as his mistress. Judi Dench competently plays his costumer and confidant, and shows her song-and-dance chops in her own production number. Kate Hudson plays an American journalist and was made up to look exactly like her mother, Goldie Hawn, did in her “Laugh-In” days. Fergie, the lead singer of the Black Eyed Peas, is amazing as an Italian prostitute in “Be Italian,” arguably the show’s best musical number. Sophia Loren plays his mother and Nicole Kidman is his actress muse.
Was it perfect? Not exactly, but then what is? In the stage version, the story took place entirely in Guido’s head, and I wished it would have stayed there in the movie. Instead, they decided to open it up, it took place in real time, and they introduced men into the story. Guido’s producer, the Judi Dench character on stage, was now a man, and there was one scene where Guido has a meaningful meeting with a Cardinal. Neither of these characters was necessary nor did they add anything to the story. But then I would rewrite or edit the books of many musicals that I basically enjoy. Nine’s fabulous musical numbers could carry the movie all by themselves without any pesky story at all, if need be.
Shockingly, many critics loathed Nine. In fact, only 28% of the critics listed on RottenTomatoes.com recommended it. To give it a qualified thumbs up, or to take issue with some parts of it I could understand, but to completely trash it? I was, simply, baffled.
The most puzzling critique I came across in my cursory review of the representative comments provided by Rotten Tomatoes came from Sean O’Connell of the South Charlotte Weekly, who wrote that Marshall “hires eye candy over proven entertainers” in the movie. Really? Well, I’m sure that Judi Dench is used to that criticism- she probably hears it all the time. Let’s see, Day-Lewis, Dench, Loren, Cruz, Cotillard, and Kidman are all Oscar winners in acting categories, and Hudson has been nominated for her work in the past. What do they have to do, exactly, to prove themselves as entertainers to Mr. O’Connell?
It’s not just the critics who get it wrong, though. Sometimes I stand by, incredulous, as “America” chooses the wrong Idol, or helplessly watch two favorite new TV shows, Pushing Daisies and Eli Stone, perish because they didn’t find an audience despite being a favorite of the critics.
Sometimes I just want my voice to be heard. I want to talk some sense into the critics or “America.” So let me shout it from the blogosphere! Nine was fine and dandy, just like a hard candy Christmas. Don’t listen to the crazy critics, people. Listen to me. If you like Daniel Day-Lewis or the type of big, beautiful musical production numbers that Rob Marshall does so well, you should like Nine. Actually, the promos were accurate in this case. If you liked Chicago, you most probably will like Nine.
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