A Photo from the Past (on Facebook)

My first thought when my friend posted this 25-year-old photo of my son and me on Facebook was, Oh!  Look at my sweet little baby boy.  Wasn’t he just the cutest toddler ever?  I remember those days so well, when I could still hold him in my arms.

And look how stylin’ he was, with his adorable little red, white and blue short set, with matching blue shoes and red and white socks!  I probably didn’t actually purchase these items, as he was routinely showered with clothes from all his doting grandmothers and aunts, but I was certainly responsible for putting this outfit together that morning.

So who dressed me, I wonder?  After carefully coordinating that rockin’ ensemble for the two-year-old, I obviously just threw on any old boring schmata before leaving the house.  I must have been running late.  Otherwise, it might mean that everything revolved around the baby…oh, wait…  

Oh, well, when you’re as thin as I was then, I guess you can wear anything.  I can’t believe I was ever that thin.  Could I ever be that thin again?   Just so you know that hairstyle was very “in” in those days, although it doesn’t look as though I took the time to fix my hair that particular day.

By the way, that’s my original, natural hair color.  My husband asked me once about that, and I couldn’t really remember – it had been so long.  Frankly, I never thought it was that flattering with my skin tone, which is why I jumped at the chance to change my hair color at the first gray hair sighting, which sadly took place just a few years after this photo was taken.

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So here we are again, just a few months ago.  We both look a lot different now, but it’s not all bad..  He grew up, and I grew, well, out.  I can’t hold him in my arms anymore. 

Sure I am older and heavier, but I am losing weight, so who knows what next year’s Christmas Eve photo might look like? 

That sweet baby boy has grown up to be a fine young man.  He is dressing himself these days, and so I have a little more time to put myself together. 

My hair (both the cut and the color) definitely looks better now than it did then, thanks to my extraordinary hairdresser (and friend) Cara.  I wear glasses now, and in yet another example of how eccentric I am, I actually prefer the way I look in glasses. 

Some things don’t change though. We are still posing in front of trees for pictures.  And my son is still pretty cute.

The Lonely Life of the Anchovy Lover

Long ago, as a tiny child, I was a picky eater, a veritable anomaly in my Italian family.  Even then, I ate anchovies with enthusiastic, wild abandon.  To me, those salty little fish were a savory delicacy, a taste treat that Mom put on her homemade thick-sliced pizza and mixed with angel hair pasta for Christmas Eve.  I didn’t realize then that there were people out there who didn’t like anchovies.

I grew up and ventured out into the world where the anchovy haters were waiting for me.  While I had also grown to be a largely indiscriminate eater I retained a healthy loathing for mushrooms. 

Let’s face it.  To function in society on even the most fundamental level, sometimes you just have to eat pizza with other people.  This is the one constant in life.  My affinity for anchovies coupled with my hatred of mushrooms complicated this bonding ritual for me.

I learned quickly that other people also feel very strongly about anchovies and mushrooms, but not in the same way that I do.  When eating pizza with someone else for the first time, I would always dread the inevitable inquiry:  “What do you like on your pizza?” I have learned not to even mention the anchovies.  “Oh, anything but mushrooms or olives,” I answer cheerfully.
  

I take the anti-anchovy tirades and the pro-mushroom arguments with a grain of salt, the same way I like my anchovies.  I live and let live – continuing to thoroughly enjoy my anchovies (when I can) and avoiding mushrooms, but not begrudging others their preferences. 

But then the haters went a little too far. My husband shared an article from the online magazine Slate with me entitled, “Why Do Pizzerias Offer Anchovies? Almost no one likes them,” by Brian Palmer. Palmer explains that his article is in response to this random question from a reader, “Why does virtually every pizzeria offer anchovies, even though no one ever orders them?”

Palmer offered a very interesting historical explanation of how anchovies came to be served on pizza, and said that they continued to be offered not due to their popularity, quoting a New York area pizza seller that sells about 18,000 pizzas a week, only 50 of which have anchovies on them [math is not my forte, but I think that’s 2600 pies a year]. However, they are cheap and keep well in storage. http://www.slate.com/articles/life/explainer/2012/03/why_do_pizzerias_offer_anchovies_.htm

Seriously, random Slate reader, are you actually starting a campaign against allowing the availability of anchovies to other people at pizzerias? Why does it bother you so much if I like my pizza with anchovies? I'm not hurting anyone, and I'm not forcing you to eat anchovies.  Is this a police state where the majority gets to tell the minority what to eat?

I am mad as hell and I am not going to take it anymore! I am not “no one” and I will eat anchovies on my pizza, and in Caesar salads, and in pasta and sometimes straight out of the jar, if I so choose. While I am at it, I just want to say to any of you misguided mushroom eaters out there that you can stop trying to trick me into eating mushrooms, presuming that I only think that I don't like mushrooms.  I KNOW that I don't like mushrooms, and...portobello mushrooms do NOT taste like steak – they taste like big, huge, disgusting mushrooms.

You know, I hate to be so militant, but sometimes you have to stand up for your rights. God bless America… and anchovies.

March of the Rach-Monologues

It is almost never too late to accomplish new and challenging things.  I say “almost” because there are some activities whose ship sailed long ago for me.  For instance, I will never be a competitive figure skater.  I console myself with the fact that I really never could have been a competitive skater, no matter how early they strapped on those skates.   Heck, as a kid I couldn’t even make it around the Monroeville Mall Ice Skating Rink one time without falling.

However, March is turning out to be a month of interesting firsts for this ole’ girl.  How many times do you get to sing Russian liturgical music and talk about vaginas on stage in the same month?

First, I sang Sergei Rachmaninoff’s Vespers (All Night Vigil), Op. 37 with the Pittsburgh Concert Chorale.  What a majestic work!  A 15-movement a cappella choral piece written entirely in Russian!  What in the world was Rachmaninoff thinking?  Well, it all makes sense because it was a liturgical piece written for Orthodox religious services where the playing of instruments was strictly forbidden, and it was written in Russian because Rachmaninoff was, well, Russian.  So there you have it.

Anyway, when I heard we were going to be performing this piece for our classical concert, I felt good that our director had such faith in us.   The Pittsburgh Concert Chorale is a talented choral group, and we’ve mastered some very challenging music in the past.  With measured optimism, I actually purchased my copy of Vespers.  I figured it could take its place next to my coveted copy of Handel’s Messiah, which comes out annually around the holidays, whenever my husband and I jump at the chance to participate in whatever Sing-a-Long we can find.

 

Then we set about learning and rehearsing the piece which, at 15 movements, only seems like it lasts all night.  Good heavens, there was so much to think about.  There were the notes, the Russian (not my first language), the fact that we were singing without accompaniment to guide us, and then we were supposed to watch the director while we sang.

I like a vocal challenge as much as the next person, but there are limits.  Did our director overestimate us?  A lot of us were struggling.  There were extra rehearsals and sectionals, and lots of listening and practicing, and agonizing and wondering if we would ever, ever get it right.

When the day of the performance arrived, it all came together.  Singing the Vespers well in front of an audience was paramount to a religious experience, as is befitting a liturgical piece.  It was beautiful, and I cannot be more grateful to have been a part of this musical experience.

Next I’m off to perform a very different type of masterpiece.  On March 17^th, I am going to be participating in The Vagina Monologues, the Robert Morris University Colonial Theater V-Day production of Eve Ensler’s work gleaned from hundreds of interviews with women.  It is my privilege to be reading The Flood, a monologue by an older woman talking about her “down there” for the very first time.  It is at once funny and tragic, and all the more poignant because it is a real woman’s story.  I also get to speak the words of a transwoman, a nice departure from my usual roles of nuns and mothers.

In the meantime, Rachmaninoff has taken his place on the shelf in our music room.  My husband says we will be ready the next time someone schedules an impromptu Vespers sing-a-long, which I can’t imagine will happen outside of Russia. 

I don’t know when your next chance to hear Vespers will be, but if you live in the Pittsburgh area you can still enjoy The Vagina Monologues at Robert Morris University’s Massey Hall, on March 17^th at 8 p.m.  There is a suggested donation of $10, and all proceeds will benefit a local woman’s shelter.

Then I Saw His Face, and Rip's a Believer

There it was, in black and white, on my husband’s Facebook status.   “RIP Davy Jones. I’m a Believer.”

My heart dropped a little.  I’m not one to get too upset over the death of celebrities – people I do not actually know.  But this was different.  This was Davy Jones of The Monkees.  You see, when I was 10 I was deeply in love with Davy Jones. 

That was when The Monkees – a sitcom featuring the misadventures of a zany rock band named (what else?) The Monkees – hit the airwaves.  The four members of the band – Michael Nesmith, Peter Tork, Mickey Dolenz and Davy Jones- were cast for the show and did not know each other before that happened.  Nonetheless, there were songs and albums, including the show’s title song, which said it all.

Hey, hey, we’re the Monkees,
and people say we monkey around
but we’re too busy singing,
to put anybody down.

My fifth-grade class would never be the same.  We were enthralled.  We watched the show faithfully every Monday night.  We bought the 45’s and the albums, and Teen Beat and 16 magazines which featured photos and articles about the band members, and bubble gum with trading cards of the guys.

And, for the first time, I was in love – with Davy Jones, who was THE heartthrob of the band.  Davy was VERY cute – about 5’3” tall and slight, with a very pretty face.  He was British, and had appeared on Broadway, nominated for a Tony for his role as the Artful Dodger in Oliver!  He was, in a word, dreamy. I fantasized that I would meet him and he would realize that he loved me too, and we would live happily ever after.

While everyone our age was just wild about The Monkees, Casey and I were the undisputed No. 1 Monkee Lovers in our class.  Casey and I had gone to school together since kindergarten, and I always thought of her as my friend, but it was our mutual love of The Monkees that solidified our true friendship.  I loved Davy and she loved Mickey, and we celebrated and fully embraced our fandom.

Casey’s mom took the two of us to see The Monkees in concert at the Civic Arena, our very first concert.  The Arena was filled to the gills with screaming preteens and we were in the first balcony, a couple of miles from the stage.  Despite the distance, I was convinced that for one brief shining moment Davy Jones looked right at me and made eye contact.

After two seasons The Monkees was cancelled, and the band’s popularity waned.  Davy Jones and I were forced to go our separate ways but you never forget your first big crush.  Casey is still one of my best friends today, all these years later.  Casey confessed to me just a couple of years ago that she probably would have liked Davy, too, but chose to like Mickey instead and leave Davy for me.  Now, that's a true friend.

I never did meet Davy Jones, but I did see The Monkees one more time in concert as an adult, at the Star Lake Amphitheatre, when they were there with their 35^th Anniversary Tour.  This time I was in the fifth row, and Davy really did look at me in the audience. 

So when I heard that Davy Jones died of a heart attack this week at the age of 66, I was especially sad.  An important part of my childhood had died with him.