A Red-Nosed Christmas

I have long been a sucker for a good quiz, so when Facebook came along I was delighted to jump on that Facebook quiz "bandwagon."  It was all for fun of course, and I never put much stock in the results.

Then I took three different quizzes -- What Character from 'Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer' are You?, What Christmas Movie is Your Favorite? and Which of Santa's Reindeer Are You? - which all revealed that I am Rudolph.

Okay, this made me click my heels three times and chant "I do believe in Facebook Quizzes! I do believe in Facebook Quizzes!"  You see, I really AM Rudolph!  Zimbio "gets" me.  It thinks I'm cute.

As a tiny misfit child, the song "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" really spoke to me.  I felt for the poor little reindeer who was rejected by his peers just because he was different.  I knew how Rudolph felt, being excluded from all those reindeer games.  But then one foggy Christmas Eve Santa needed Rudolph to guide his sleigh because of his shiny bright nose, which (if you saw it) you might even say it glowed. 

NOW, all the reindeer loved him!  I was so happy for Rudolph!  But the best part was that the very thing that made him different also made him special.  Rudolph gave me hope that that could happen to me someday too.

Then in 1964 the Rankin and Bass version of "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer" hit our small screens -a musical re-telling of Rudolph's story and adventures complete with Burl Ives voicing the Narrator Snowman and cutting-edge slow-motion animation using claymation puppets.

If there was one thing I have always loved even more than a little quiz it was any story where the underdog prevailed.  The "Rudolph" television special did not disappoint.  Rudolph has a love interest named Clarice, a pretty little doe with impossibly long eyelashes who likes Rudolph even though he has a red nose, and who sings a lovely song entitled, There's Always Tomorrow (for dreams to come true).

He teams up with Hermie, an elf who wants to be a dentist, "just a couple of misfits" running off to escape their realities, and embarking on a number of adventures with the help of a prospector Yukon Cornelius.  Eventually they visit the Island of Misfit Toys, where toys that are different and not wanted by any boys and girls live.

In the end, Rudolph gets the gig saving Christmas and the girl, Hermie gets to practice dentistry without a license, Santa helps the misfit toys find children who will love them and we got an enduring Christmas classic that celebrated its 50th anniversary this year.

Now I estimate that I have watched this television special about 40 times, but when I was viewing my 50th Anniversary Collector's Edition (a gift from Mr. Rip) it still hadn't gotten old for me. When I posted my photo on Facebook of the Ultimate Rudolph Figurine Collection that I picked up , it received 45 Likes (and counting).

Talk about an underdog prevailing.

The Long and Endless Road

Dear Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission,

As someone who routinely travels nearly the entire span of the Pennsylvania Turnpike at least twice a year I understand that running such a road is not without its challenges.

I have lived with the endless construction projects, the lane closures, the uneven pavement, the potholes, and the fee increases.  To say I did so “cheerfully” might be an overstatement, but anyone who knows me will attest that I endured all of this with a resigned contentment.  All in all, I have been a darn good sport about it.

Dare I say that I have even gone so far as defending you publicly, saying for all to hear that the Turnpike is a good enough way to get to your destination. With all your faults, it certainly beats air travel as a transportation option.  There are many reasons for this but primarily it is because no one on the Turnpike ever requires you to remove your shoes.

I am actually a big fan of your rest stops.  Like everything in life they aren't perfect, but they are convenient, and provide the only thing I have every really asked of you: a place to go the bathroom when the need arises.  

Now I know that you are fully aware that Thanksgiving weekend is your heaviest travel weekend of the year.  Your very own Travel Advisory issued prior to the weekend warned us of possible delays and stated:  "Traffic volumes will be heaviest [over Thanksgiving] Wednesday from 3 p.m. until 8 p.m. and Sunday from noon until 8 p.m."*

So surely you might have anticipated that one of these possible traffic delays could have taken place on the 77-mile stretch of road without any available restroom options that perhaps hundreds of thousands of us would be traveling on the Sunday after Thanksgiving while traveling east on the Turnpike.

   

While I intellectually appreciate that the Midway Rest Stop was closed for renovations due to your fervor to improve the rest stops, I have long been of the opinion that a substandard rest stop is better than none at all.  I have never been surer of this than I am after my experience that Sunday after Thanksgiving.

Your sign warning “Last Rest Stop for 77 Miles” was insufficient given the gridlock traffic we encountered shortly after passing that sign and given the fact that there was NOT EVEN ONE Exit along that long and seemingly endless 77 miles.

Suffice it to say that I really REALLY needed to go to the bathroom by the time I reached the Somerset rest stop.  I found that I was not alone in my need when I arrived there and got in a line of at least 50 women waiting to get into the Ladies room.

 

You had one job, Turnpike Commission, and you failed me.  What could you have done in this instance, you ask?  The answer is so simple that I am surprised it didn't occur to you.  RENT SOME PORTA-POTTIES for the emergency pull-over areas in the 77-mile stretch of road without any other rest room options on one of the busiest travel days of the year.

   

Honestly, Mr. John would be happy to set you up with some temporary bathroom solutions. PM me and I’ll give you their number.

Love,

Rip

 * http://www.paturnpike.com/press/2014/20141125112018.htm)

An Eccentric Raconteur

“I’m sorry you had to wait so long,” said the nurse at the doctor’s office when she was taking me back to the exam room 40 minutes after my appointment time, “but that first patient just couldn't stop talking.”

 “I do apologize for the delay,” the doctor explained with a bemused smile when he joined me, “but our first patient was quite the raconteur.”

Beside the fact that he actually is a competent physician who I trust with my medical care, this is why I like this doctor so much.  I personally appreciate anyone who uses the word “raconteur” in everyday conversation.  Beyond just demonstrating his highly developed vocabulary, isn't calling the talkative patient a raconteur rather than someone just couldn't stop talking just a more genteel way to communicate the very same idea?   It makes the patient before me sound rakish, like a “bon vivant” instead of just a troublemaker.

I've decided that I too want to be a raconteur, instead of a “blabbermouth,” or a “chatterbox,” or “that lady who talks too damn much.”  Because words really do matter.  Sometimes it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it. What a lovely, civilized place the world might be if we all just learned to call each other nicer names.

For instance, Mr. Rip and I know that we are a couple of odd ducks.  Really though, we much prefer the term “eccentric” to “weird” or “strange.” Mr. Rip wondered if eccentricity was reserved for rich people rather than every-day folks like us, but I assured him that I have known many colorful eccentrics from all walks of life.

Over the years, many have accused various family members of mine of being stubborn (I can’t imagine why).  My father handily rejects this notion, saying “I prefer to think of it as having the courage of my convictions.”  You know I think Dad is onto something here.  It is far preferable to come from a family that has the courage of its convictions, rather than one that is full of people who are as stubborn as mules.

My furniture is a fascinating mix of styles and periods, all different ages and in varying conditions.  Some I brought into the marriage, some were Mr. Rip’s and some were “inherited” from family members or received as gifts from friends.  Anyway, none of it goes together, and yet we like to delude ourselves that it all somehow blends into a whole that is more than just its parts.  It probably doesn't.  My point is that you can call my furniture mismatched, but isn’t eclectic a better way to describe it?

Of course, I don’t necessarily want to be eclectic.  I’d give anything to have just one room full of furniture that matches.

Sweet "Murder for Two"

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of attending Murder for Two, the latest offering at the CLO Cabaret. Watching this very funny, fast-paced musical parody of an Agatha Christie whodunit was just the way I wanted to spend my Sunday afternoon.  There were two energetic actors in the show playing all the roles.  One played the officer investigating the murder while the other played ALL the suspects, all the while accompanying themselves and each other on the piano. Whodunit?  Who cares?!  It was just tremendous fun, and a great way to leave the worries of the world behind you for 90 minutes.

 

While watching this lighthearted escapist fare I was reminded of the time long ago when some of my friends decided to cheer me up by taking me to a Tennessee Williams play.

It all started with a particularly virulent case of strep throat in my first semester as a freshman in college. I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t swallow, I couldn’t think and every inch of my body was in such intense pain that it hurt to be awake.  The doctors ordered me to stay in bed for five days, and I couldn't have ignored them even if I wanted.

When I got out of bed and went back to class, I was weak, sick, emotional, vulnerable and WAY behind in my schoolwork.  So, when I got a D on an English Composition assignment (always my best subject) from a Graduate Assistant who couldn’t or wouldn’t tell me what was wrong with my paper, it was a breaking point.

It occurred to me that perhaps college was too much for me. I decided that I was going to quit school, go home and become an Assistant Manager at Winky’s Drive-In Restaurant, where they appreciated me. I was crying hysterically and packing my suitcase when my roommate Nancy and our friend Donna found me.

Donna and Nancy instantly slipped into their best Supportive Friend modes.  They calmed me down, assured me that everything would be alright and that it all seemed worse than it actually was because I was still sick.

As they unpacked my suitcase, they informed that I needed to relax, forget about everything, and just have some fun.  They were sure that a good night of theater was just the thing to take my mind off my troubles, so they cheerfully escorted me to the campus production of Tennessee William’s Sweet Bird of Youth.

Have any of you ever seen Sweet Bird of Youth?  Jeff Stafford called it “one of Tennessee Williams' most corrosive and disturbing plays,” (http://www.tcm.com/this-month/article/18568%7C0/Sweet-Bird-of-Youth.html) which is really saying something since Williams specialized in corrosive and disturbing plays.  Stafford was not wrong – next to Sweet Bird of Youth, Glass Menagerie looks like a light romantic comedy.

Without going into all the sordid details, let’s just say that the play’s message of hopelessness and not being able to escape your past coupled with its horrific ending was not exactly the play I needed to see that particular evening.  I went in ready to quit college, and I left totally despondent and bereft about life itself.

 

After I thought it over, strep throat and a bad grade on one paper didn't seem so bad compared with the sheer misery of the tortured existences of the characters in the play.  While there was nothing actually sweet about the play (despite the name) I did have some very sweet friends who would drop everything they were doing to look after me and help me through a tough time.  So in the end I stayed in school, got a B+ in that Composition class, and went on to become a professional writer.

Nonetheless, I still wish that the campus theater department was doing something like Murder for Two that night. This show cheered me up and I was in a pretty good mood going in.  

Say It Ain't So, Joe Mama's!

I just heard that Joe Mama’s, a unique little Italian eatery in Oakland, has been sold and it is going to reopen as… some other restaurant.

I am not usually sentimental about places, but this is different. Joe Mama’s is special. It may (or may not) have been the site of my first date with Mr. Rip.

Why don’t I know when our first date was, you ask?  Because we don’t know exactly when we started dating, of course! Isn’t that the way it is with every couple?

Maybe our first date was the time we went to see Chicago at the Byham. I had two free tickets to the show, and asked my friend (the future Mr. Rip) if he wanted the second one.  Just two friends going to a show together, but it was the first time we actually went somewhere together on purpose and we did have dinner at the Lemon Grass Café before the show.  Most significantly it was the night he told me that I was a nice lady (yes, yes, I fell for that old line).

Maybe it was the time he invited me to go to Hallie’s birthday party at Olive or Twist with him.  That sort of felt date-like, even though we were still clearly just friends.

Or maybe it was the time he took me to Joe Mama’s because he thought I would like the food. I was game.  He had me at “giant meatballs.”

I remember distinctly where we sat.  It was a corner booth that was kind of set apart from the rest of the tables.  Very romantic, actually, and I remember the waitress (who obviously thought we were on a date) saying “Here’s a nice cozy booth for the two of you.”  Mr. Rip also distinctly remembers that we were seated at a table in the middle of the room on some other floor.  Ah, yes, we remember it well.

The important thing is that we both remember that we had a wonderful time at dinner that night, even though we were sitting at different tables. When it came time for dessert, Mr. Rip highly recommended the tiramisu, but I ordered the bread pudding.  Mr. Rip asked me if I would at least like a taste of his tiramisu.

When that spoonful of tiramisu hit my mouth, it was a transformative culinary experience.  It was not only THE best tiramisu in all the world, it was one of the most delicious things I had ever eaten.  When Mr. Rip saw my reaction to that bite of tiramisu, he wordlessly pushed his tiramisu in front of me, and took my bread pudding.  He traded his dessert with me.

Mr. Rip says that was the moment that he knew how he actually felt about me, because he never gave away his food like that.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, at that moment we knew that he liked me, he REALLY liked me.  A couple of weeks later we were definitely dating.

And so now in a few short weeks Joe Mama’s will be no more.  The new owners plan to change the name, the décor, and the menu.  If they have any sense, they will get the recipe for that magical tiramisu before the old owners go.

Seasons for Love

But I can weather the storm
What do I care how much it may storm?
I’ve got my love to keep me warm.
                                                                                                                - Irving Berlin

The wedding day of my son J.J. and his lovely fiancee had finally arrived.  

The ceremony and reception were being held at The Hayloft, a refurbished barn in Rockwood, PA., located in the Laurel Highlands near Seven Springs. 

The couple put a lot of love and effort into the planning and were fervently hoping that everything would go off just as they had envisioned.  Of course, we all cautioned that something or another would invariably not go off exactly as planned, that it would not matter, and that at the end of the day the only thing that really mattered was that they were married. 

The forecast for the wedding day was unseasonably cold – highs in the low 50’s, lows in the 30’s with the chance of an occasional shower.  Perhaps not the best forecast for a wedding with an outdoor ceremony and a reception in an unheated barn, but unless it was pouring down rain the ceremony would be held outside as planned.

When we woke up on Saturday it was pouring down rain.  I stepped onto the balcony of our room at Seven Springs Lodge to review the situation.  Even in the cold streaming rain, it was one of the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen.  I grabbed the camera to get a picture. Rain or shine, they really could not have chosen a more spectacularly beautiful setting for their big day. Later, the rain cleared and it looked like it might be a sunny day for the wedding after all.

We arrived at The Hayloft about an hour before the wedding.  About a half an hour before the event the rain started and in the next 30 minutes we saw every type of precipitation that exists.  Rain, sleet, hail, and yes, (some folks on the second shuttle to the barn told me although I did not witness it myself) even big fat snowflakes.  I began to assure my son that it would be fine if they married inside The Hayloft, which was absolutely lovely.  He gave me that dubious look I remember from his childhood when I was trying to console him and he didn’t believe me.

Meanwhile, J.J. was just one of several graduates of the esteemed, nationally recognized Meteorology program at Penn State in attendance at the wedding.  These guys did not shy away from severe weather.  Come to think of it, they sometimes went out in the rain on purpose.  In fact, at least two of them had once traveled through seven states together chasing tornados (and aging at least one of their mothers in the process).  These meteorologists were excitedly monitoring the situation from the patio.

Moments, and I do mean moments, before the ceremony was to begin the rain (and sleet and hail) stopped.  We all proceeded to the field, where the couple would be married under a wooden labyrinth, with their loved ones literally encircling them.

From the second that the beautiful bride in her one-of-a-kind embroidered dress came down the aisle on the arm of her emotional mother to join her equally emotional groom, the skies started to clear.  As the bride and groom exchanged their personal and heartfelt vows (which included all the more meaningful “weathering the storm” references) the sun was peaking through the clouds.  By the end, when the couple were saying “I do,” exchanging rings, and sharing a kiss, the sun was shining brightly. It was like the sky cleared to shine down a blessing on the union of the wonderful couple we were all there to celebrate.

The wedding reception was simply a fantastic party filled to the rafters with love and family and friends and good food and fun and dancing.

And so it was a perfectly appropriate start for the marriage of my son and his wife, who are exceptional, both as individuals and as a perfectly-matched couple.  In marriage, like in life, they will face their troubles.  With their strong love and devotion and determination they will in fact weather the storms that come their way and in the end they will enjoy a perfectly blessed and happy life together.

Everything's Coming Up Roosevelts

With our typical devil-may-care television-watching verve, Mr. Rip and I agreed that we might want to catch "The Roosevelts: an Intimate History." We both always found the Roosevelts to be a particularly fascinating and plucky American family, so why wouldn't we want to watch an in-depth documentary covering that great triumvirate of Roosevelts- Teddy, Franklin, and Eleanor (oh, my!) -brought to us by that documentary wunderkind himself Ken Burns.

“You know this is a two-hour commitment,” Mr. Rip warned me, remote control in hand.

No problem, I assured him.  We often watched two-hour programs and while it’s true we didn’t make it through them all awake, we simply caught what we missed later.

Partway through the hour-long preview show it really sunk in that what we were really committing to was 7 nights of 2-hour installments – we were going to be watching 14 hours of this documentary.  It would be like watching the story of the Roosevelts in real time.

We were learning a lot just watching the preview.  We learned that the voice of Teddy would be played by Paul Giamatti.  Oh, okay, he was great as John Adams.  They were thrilled when Edward Herrmann signed on to voice FDR.  Of course, he is the go-to actor to play that part. And none other than the one-and-only Meryl Streep would be Eleanor.  What, Mr. Rip asked, Jane Alexander wasn’t available? Oh, and Ken Burns has a really bad haircut – it’s pretty much an early-Beatles mop top.

So, we were in and there was no turning back.  Well now these first two hours of the documentary were very, very interesting in a historical sort of way.  Franklin and Eleanor were very young in this installment, suffering through difficult childhoods, but Teddy was U.S. President by the end of the show.  Burns was really quite thorough – not one little detail was missed.  Seriously, he included everything.

When it was over, Mr. Rip went into the kitchen for a minute, and I saw that there was still 30 minutes of the Miss America Pageant left to air.  Mr. Rip doesn’t like the Miss America Pageant but I thought it wouldn’t hurt anything to watch it until he came back into the room.

As luck would have it, I turned it on in the middle of the Talent Competition.  Mr. Rip wandered back into the room just as Miss Ohio was starting her ventriloquist act, where her dummy and she sang Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

“A ventriloquist?  What is this?”  Mr. Rip asked, “The Ed Sullivan Show?”   But even he had to admit that Miss Ohio was pretty good.

There was a classical pianist, two interpretive dancers, and a singer singing Ben E. King.  It really was like The Ed Sullivan Show.

Then Miss New York sang Pharrell William’s Happy while sitting cross-legged on the floor accompanying herself by playing percussion with a plastic red cup on the floor.  Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Miss New York played that red cup all the way to the crown – she was later crowned Miss America.  Whatever. I was rooting for the ventriloquist.

I don’t why Mr. Rip never wants to watch these shows.  There were more laughs in 15 minutes of the Miss America Pageant Talent Competition than there were in three hours of the Roosevelts.

You Can Leave Your Clothes On

Have you heard the latest brouhaha about the nude photos of all the young starlets that have been posted on various websites?  If I understand it all correctly, these were photos that these starlets – DOZENS of these starlets- snapped with their cell phones.

There was all kinds of uproar that these photos were hacked and posted on the websites.  There were articles about how these young women had their rights violated and that they were victims of a sex crime.  There was finger-pointing at Apple because of the suspicion that the hackers were getting the photos from the Cloud. People seemed most upset that one of the exposed starlets happened to be Jennifer Lawrence, and one of my FB Friends supposed this was because she was America’s Sweetheart, so people were more upset when it happened to her.

Okay, I have a question. Why are all these young famous people taking nude pictures of themselves on their cell phones?  Is this a “thing” now? Shouldn't famous young people realize that nefarious and immoral sorts have been out to find compromising photos of celebrities since dinosaurs roamed the earth, or so I've heard (I wasn't actually there). Aren't they the ones who are harassed relentlessly by the paparazzi who will go to any extraordinary lengths to get photos of them even with their clothes on?  Why are they surprised that people are trolling the Internet just looking for photos of them?

This is not the Cloud’s fault.  Back in the day when the Cloud was just a fluffy white collection of moisture in the sky, people were stealing other people's pictures from the Internet.  Before there was an Internet, people were stealing people's “hard copy” photos.

So, I have some helpful advice for any young starlet reading this.  If you don't want anyone to steal and post nude photos of you, don’t take nude photos of yourself on your cell phones.  See how simple that is?  

Frankly, I'm surprised you haven't figured this out for yourselves. If I understand that once something is “out there” in Cyberspace that there is no getting it back, surely a young savvy 24-year-old with an estimated net worth of $53 million like you should understand it too. Actually, anyone with more sense than God gave a goose should understand it.

Oh, and while I'm at it… you regular everyday obscure 24-year-olds, with a net worth of about 53 dollars and seemingly endless student loan debt looming ahead of you? You should keep your clothes on while taking pictures on your cell phone, too. You are every bit as important as Jennifer Lawrence and besides, prospective employers have the Internet too.

Thank You, I Think

At Olive Garden the other day, the waitress came to our table with a huge bottle of wine in her hands and asked (as they are instructed), “Would you like to sample our wine this morning?”

“No, thank you,” I replied, pleasantly, “I would however like to sample your water.”

The waitress laughed at my remark, and when she left our table she said, “That is the best answer I've ever gotten to that question.”

Really?  Mine was the very best come-back to her company’s wine-related suggestive selling this fine young woman had ever heard? Well, this just made my day.  She laughed at my joke and paid me a compliment, all over the same remark.

I’ll tell you, there is nothing that puts me in a better mood than a good compliment.  It is so gratifying to feel appreciated, and I always remember kind words bestowed upon me by friends and strangers alike.  On the other hand, I never forget the slights and insults thrown my way either.  So to those of you who said mean things to me in the fifth grade– and you know who you are – I haven’t forgotten.

Trickier though are those remarks that sound like they might be compliments but upon deeper analysis might not really be as positive as they first seem to be.  You know the kind of backhanded compliments I’m talking about:

1)       “It sure was quiet around here without you.” 

Surely when your parents say this just a couple of hours after you get home from college for a weekend visit, it’s a good thing right?  But you can’t help remembering how they were always telling you to lower your voice when you were growing up.  Hmm, maybe they like it quiet.

2)       “You have an interesting face.”

What the hell does that mean?  “Interesting?”  Is that the only thing you can think of when trying to come up with an adjective to describe my visage?  Next thing you know you’ll be calling me a “handsome” woman.

3)       “That was a great role for you.”

If someone says this to me after seeing me perform in a play, they had better follow it up with “and you were absolutely fabulous in it!” or I am going to think that they just can’t think of anything nice to say about my performance.

4)       “Not just anyone can wear that color…”

“…and neither can you!”  That’s what they’re not saying.

5)      “You’re just like my wife!”

This one definitely was not a compliment when delivered by my colleague with whom I was in a serious disagreement, but I chose to take it that way.  His wife was a lovely women, not to mention patient and saintly for putting up with him all those years.

Actually that is my general philosophy when on the receiving end of these questionable statements and even some remarks clearly not meant as flattery.  I just assume that they are, in fact, compliments.  I mean, maybe when someone says my butt looks big in those pants it is a good thing.  After all, that approach works for Jennifer Lopez, doesn’t it?

Last of the Red Hot Mayors

I understand that Visit Pittsburgh has embarked upon a national "Pittsburgh is Beautiful" ad campaign to entice visitors and tourists to the region.  Well, it's about time the world learns what we Pittsburghers and the Furries have long known -Pittsburgh is a great place to visit.   

Somehow I think that it is particularly fitting that this ad campaign kicked off just as the city was celebrating and remembering Sophie Masloff, the quintessential Pittsburgher, who passed away at the age of 96 last week. 

Sophie Masloff was a wife, mother and long-time civil servant in Pittsburgh. She took a job with Allegheny County when she was 18 and a recent high school graduate, and worked there until she was elected to the Pittsburgh City Council in 1976. She remained on the Council until 1988, when she was named Council President.

That same year, when then Pittsburgh Mayor Richard Caliguiri died in office, Sophie became Mayor of the City of Pittsburgh.  She was the first woman to hold the office, the city's first Jewish mayor, and at the age of 71 the oldest person to hold the office.  She was reelected for a second term in 1989.

I try not to speak in absolutes, but I think you would be hard pressed to find anyone in these parts who wasn't crazy about Sophie.  She was an unassuming, down-to-earth grandmotherly type with a great sense of humor and was given to spouting charming malapropisms. Nonetheless, she was smart as a whip and a kick-ass Council Member and Mayor.  She cleaned things up and got things done, and she was widely respected by her fellow politicians who looked to her for advice and guidance long after she retired from office in 1993. 

Many local folks have their stories of colorful Sophie encounters.  I have two.

I was working for the Salvation Army in Pittsburgh when Sophie was Mayor, and she was very involved in collaborating with the Army's efforts to help some of the city's neediest residents. Every year the Army gave an award to a local individual who exhibited extraordinary humanitarianism and one year Sophie was the gracious, appreciative and humble recipient of this award.  The award was given at a huge well-attended luncheon.  When Sophie ascended the podium to accept her award, she started off her acceptance speech with "In the Torah it says..."

You see, one of the city's most Christian organizations had just given its highest award to the city's most prominent Jewish resident.  By starting her acceptance speech with a quote from the Torah, she was recognizing that and making a point about religion and interfaith cooperation and collaboration.

My second encounter was on the Parkway East when I was driving out to Swissvale to visit my parents.  I saw a Lincoln Town Car in the right hand lane with a vanity plate saying "Sophie" on it. Could it be, I wondered?  She was a resident of Squirrel Hill.  Nah, I thought.  The recently retired Mayor of Pittsburgh wouldn't advertise that a car was hers so blatantly, would she?  As I passed the town car on the left, there she was behind the wheel of her car. 

She caught me looking and gave me a little smile and wave as I passed.

Age Before Beauty

I'm getting older every minute and I couldn't be happier about it.  First of all, I'm having the time of my life right now, and really, it beats the alternative.

Sure I have my aches and pains but honestly most of those started when I was in my mid-thirties.  One conclusion I have come to over time is that I don't enjoy pain, and I will actually go out of my way to minimize or avoid it.

One of the great advantages of aging for me is that I no longer care if my appearance pleases  the universe. Which means I will no longer totally sacrifice my comfort in order to look good.  It's not that I don't try to present myself in a positive light.  It's just that now I try to be reasonable about it.

Let's start at the top- with my hair.  With the help of my wonderful hairdresser, I have a haircut that I believe flatters my face in a color (which coincidentally doesn't happen to be gray) that complements my skin tone.....but I keep it short because I don't want anything that takes more than 5 or 10 minutes to fix in the morning. 

I had to gently explain to my eye doctor and stylists who help me choose my frames that I wear eyeglasses in order to bring focus and clarity to my life; without them my world is just one big blurry Impressionist painting.  While I certainly want glasses that are stylish and attractive, it is even more important that they have a large enough lens to accommodate my trifocal prescription with a large enough middle vision that I can use my computer for an 8 hour workday without headaches or blurred vision.  I want to wear the same pair of glasses everywhere, and that means everywhere, including the big fancy dinner dance or my son's upcoming wedding.  I want to be able to see my son get married.

I wear makeup everywhere, so of course I'll wear it to the wedding, but I'm thinking that some waterproof products might be in order because I am already starting to tear up with happy emotion at the thought of it.  

Which brings me to my shoes.  I am a clumsy woman with two bad knees and size 7 WW feet featuring a wide instep but narrow heel. I do not wear sneakers everywhere, but all my shoes are what one might refer to as "sensible"- i.e. comfortable and basically flat.  I do NOT wear heels, ever, anywhere.  For my son's wedding I bought a pair of dressy ballet flats that are shiny and have a little "bling" on them that feel like I'm wearing slippers when I have them on.

Rest assured that when you see me fully dressed on the street that I will be wearing underwear, however I want to be able to forget that I have it on. I want a bra that is supportive AND comfortable and pantyhose that does NOT control my top.

One thing I've learned over the years is that you don't have to have perfect teeth to have a beautiful smile that emanates warmth and happiness, but comfortable underwear sure helps. 

Christopher and Deirdre and Marilu and Spike

Mr. Rip and I didn't initially think we were interested in seeing Vanya and Sonia and Masha and Spike the show that was playing at the Bucks County Playhouse while we were in New Hope, PA this past weekend.  We really loved the show when we saw it at the City Theatre in Pittsburgh but that was within the past year.

Then we heard Christopher Durang was appearing in the show and we were intrigued to see the playwright perform in his own work.  Therefore it was bit ironic that he turned out to be the weakest player on stage, primarily because he struggled to remember his lines, including a climactic and pivotal monologue that absolutely screams for an effortless delivery. In fairness, his stammering line delivery actually worked for the character, except during the monologue.

We tried to rationalize. He is not really an actor, we told ourselves, but actually he has acted before.  Rumor has it that he wrote the role with himself in mind. It was an awfully long monologue, but Durang wrote the thing. These were his own words he was having such trouble remembering.  Ironic, don't you think?

Just to add to the irony, one of Durang’s co-stars was Marilu Henner (of Taxi fame) one of only twelve people documented with HSAM (Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory) which means she can remember absolutely everything that ever happens to her in her life.  Which is puzzling as she clearly forgets to eat, as the first thing you notice when she walks on stage is that she is impossibly thin.  Mr. Rip and I just wanted to give her a sandwich.  She was especially fine in the role of Masha, the movie star sibling who returns home to visit her less flashy siblings.  You can bet she remembered her lines, and I am guessing she knew Durang’s lines as well.

I do have to take a moment here to give a shout out to Deirdre Madigan, who was absolute perfection in the role of Sonia.  I don’t know that she delivered every line as written, but I know I believed every line she spoke.   

I could not be happier that we decided to see this production.  We got to see the playwright in his own work in a theater in the town where the story is set. It was an especially enjoyable evening at the theater, and I would highly recommend this play to anyone. 

Best of all, perhaps, is the fact that this production was rife with incidents of actual irony so that I can continue my life’s work to educate the world on this topic (and to undo the damage Alanis Morissette has wreaked upon us).

Trick Questions

"I'd like a single-scoop chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream cone on a cake cone, please,"

I was confident that this was all the information needed to fill my order, but the sweet young girl at the Bruster's ordering window required clarification.

"When you say 'single scoop' do you actually want a ’single scoop' or do you really want a  'double scoop?'"

Was this a trick question, I wondered.  Sensing my confusion, she offered some additional explanation.

"See, some people say 'single scoop' when they actually mean they want a small cone, and our small cone actually has two scoops on it."

As I walked away with my ice cream cone, I had some questions of my own.  

Why doesn't Bruster's just call a single scoop a single scoop?  That's what they did at Isaly's in the dark ages when I was growing up (and the single scoops only cost a nickel).  Does anything still cost a nickel?  

And I wondered what Bruster's called the girl behind the counter (who really couldn't have been sweeter about it).  Was she a counter worker or a waitress or a scooper or an ice cream Barrista? You have to be careful nowadays, which I found out when I casually referred to the person taking our order at a Max and Erma's as our "server." "I prefer 'facilitator'," he informed me haughtily.

But the question that was harder to answer came from my father, who  despite being  90 years old and sharp as a tack mentally sometimes can't find the exact word he wants to use.  Hence the following conversation during lunch at the Cheesecake Factory:

Dad:                                  Sharon, what's that other name for grass? 

Me (Drawing a blank).       Um, a lawn?

Dad:                                  No, not that kind of grass!

Me (Totally confused now) Well, I don't know what other kind of grass there is.

Dad:                                  You know,  the stuff you put in a pipe and smoke.

Me (the light dawning)        Are you talking about marijuana, Dad?

Dad:                                  That's it!  That's the other name for grass!

Which led me to few questions of my own for Dad, who was in a particularly good mood that day even by his own relentlessly cheerful standards.  What had him thinking about marijuana and its pseudonyms?  Had he figured out how to use the internet on that new smartphone of his?  Exactly what were they doing over there at the senior living apartment building?

He explained that his new trivia book had a list of other names for marijuana.  He knew that I would know about marijuana.

It was Mr. Rip who asked the next obvious question.  "Why did you think Sharon would know about that particular subject Joe?"  

"Well, she's an intelligent person.  She knows things,"  answered my Dad without hesitation.

He always did have all the right answers.

Once a Catholic

A few months ago I attended a very fine production of "Doubt," John Patrick Shanley's Pulitzer Prize winning play about a nun and a priest caught in a conflict over events that may or not have happened.

While it was certainly thought-provoking, for me it was also a nostalgic period piece that provoked a flood of childhood memories. It was set in a Catholic school in the 60's, which is exactly where I spent my childhood.  The sisters in the play were Sisters of Charity, the same order who taught at St. Anselm's which I attended from kindergarten through 12th grade, so I recognized their bonnets.  And Sister Aloysius, the tough-as-nails, unyielding, humorless school principal?  I think I had her in the fifth grade.

But more telling was that every time the priest finished one of his on-stage sermons, I immediately felt the need to cross myself.  It was automatic.

The truth is that no matter how my faith or beliefs have evolved over the years, the fact that I attended a Catholic school has stayed with me in some very specific ways.  

I not only fight the urge to automatically cross myself after fictional sermons, I randomly cross myself in tough situations when I feel some divine intervention might be helpful.

I still say "Good morning, Sister" or "Good Afternoon, Father" when crossing the path of a priest or a nun on the street.

I still follow instructions to the letter due to the lessons of obedience taught me in school, which has served me well as an adult writing grant proposals in the workplace.

Whenever I have committed a misdeed, no matter how minor, I have this pressing need to confess it to someone before I can lose the crushing guilt that accompanies it.

Also, I have a pervasive aversion to uniforms, which I hated wearing in school.  I felt even then that my school uniform robbed me of my self expression and have avoided any profession requiring me to wear one as an adult. 

So I left the play with few conclusions about what took place in the play.  Was the priest guilty of misconduct?  I didn't think so but I couldn't be sure.  Was the nun on a witch hunt with no real proof to go on?  I thought so but I couldn't be certain.

However, there was one thing that was clear.  You can take the girl out of the Catholic school but you can't take the Catholic school out of the girl.  There's no Doubt about that.

Peace, Love and Catholic School

When I was a child I thought occasionally about what I wanted to be or do when I grew up.  I considered a lot of different possibilities, but didn’t get too serious about anything, because I was…a child.  You don’t have to make any hard and fast life decisions at the age of 12.

The only thing I knew for sure is that I desperately wanted to be a hippie someday.  I was a child of the 60's, and I was fascinated by the whole hippie lifestyle. It was all so romantic.  Peace, love, flowers and tie-dyed t-shirts, not to mention the anti-war folk music.

  

My hopelessly old-fashioned parents strictly forbid me from getting anywhere near the “scene” even when I became a teenager.  They wouldn't even let me walk the streets of Swissvale after dark or go to Frick Park with my friends, so it wasn't really surprising that they frowned on my attending two-day rock concerts in upstate New York, or even peaceful demonstrations in Point State Park.  They really weren't very groovy.

And they weren't the only ones holding me back.  When I was fighting for the rights of the migrant farm workers, my bosses at Winky's wouldn't let me wear my “Boycott Lettuce” button at work. When I wanted to wear my embroidered bell bottoms to school, the administrators at St. Anselm’s insisted that I wear a –shudder- navy blue uniform jumper.  Talk about squelching my creative expression!

What’s a wannabe radical flower child to do?  I dabbled as best I could under these restrictive conditions.  I listened to the Hair soundtrack until I practically had it memorized, and when I saw the show actually hung out with the Tribe, chatting with Joe Mantegna for a couple of minutes when they invited audience members on stage.  I immersed myself in folk music and protest music– Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and Peter, Paul and Mary, were my favorites- as well as the other music of the day. I passionately supported the rights of all people everywhere, and was especially fond of the concept of world peace.  I was overjoyed when Godspell came out.  I joined the Folk Mass Group at church (we sang a rockin' version of “Our Father”).

And I bided my time.  I had big plans for college.  This would be my chance to embrace the lifestyle.  I envisioned philosophical discussions with my peers, and peaceful demonstrations and a sit-in or two on the lawn of the Dean.  I would be free to be a hippie and convene with like-minded folks.

Alas, a funny thing happened on my way to college.  By the time I got there, the original hippies were now young adults – they were doing things like getting married, having children, and realizing they had to figure out some way to make a living.  The war in Vietnam was over, and Nixon had left office.  And my peers?  No one seemed to want to discuss the bigger issues of the day while at the frat party.  Again, not surprising.  I don't think any of them ever listened to Woody Guthrie.

So, sadly, I saw my dream of being a hippie slip away.  The closest I got was when I attended Grateful Dead concerts as an adult, spending a few hours once a year seeing how it could have been and realizing that the things you regret most in life are those things that you don’t do, not the things you do.

Oh, and I still have those embroidered bell-bottoms.

You'll Never Sing Alone

Mr. Rip and I had what we consider the perfect plans for the Fourth of July.

We were staying home. Out of the hustle and bustle of the crowds and the parades and the fireworks.   We were having homemade pork goulash and spaetzle for dinner.  You know, typical Fourth of July fare.

The day started out with Mr. Rip fondly reminiscing about playing Benjamin Franklin in 1776 at Robert Morris University’s Colonial Theatre a few years back.  He was the best Benjamin Franklin ever. He posted his pictures from the show on Facebook, where they joined photos and remembrances of many of his fellow 1776 castmates.

I was a little envious that I didn't have photos from a patriotic show to post, but then I remembered that I sang in Salute! a musical revue celebrating our nation's military put on by RMU's Summer Colonial Theatre.  In a masterful argument to our ever-patient and flexible director Barbara, I made a case for including “You’ll Never Walk Alone” as a fitting tribute to our service men and women, and I proposed that I be the one to sing it.  Barbara saw the wisdom of my suggestion, or maybe she humored me.  Whatever, I have a photo of me wearing my favorite red dress while singing the song standing on a red, white and blue platform.  Perfect for a Fourth of July FB profile picture!

The evening brought our favorite part of celebrating the Fourth – watching the broadcast of A Capitol Fourth, the big concert at the Capitol, hosted by Tom Bergeron and culminating in a fireworks display.  We could join in the holiday fun from the comfort of our couch, moving only to refresh our drinks.

Tom kicked off the concert by introducing John Williams who was going to premiere his new cutting-edge arrangement of The Star Spangled Banner.  Uh, oh, I thought, I hope this isn't as badly received as Jimi Hendrix’s stunning instrumental guitar version that still give me chills every time I hear it.  I needn't have worried because it just sounded like The Star Spangled Banner.

 

I was relieved to see Kelli O’Hara seeming so healthy and happy as she shone singing a medley of patriotic songs in her glorious legit soprano voice.  See, I read this article that said she was absolutely devastated and disheartened that her show The Bridges of Madison County closed.  They said that Kelli would have done better if she had been born in another time, and lamented that the she had never won a Tony.  All I've got to say is “Cry me a river.”  She is a busy working actress and singer with five Tony nominations and she is only in her 30’s.  She’s already got her next show lined up.  I think she’ll be okay.

There was a parade of diverse, eclectic performers who mostly sang their own songs.  What, these professionals couldn't learn a nice version of “Yankee Doodle Dandy” to sing for the occasion? When Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons came out and belted out Grease is the Word,  You’re Just Too Good to be True (*SIGH*) and Just Hang On, I forgave him the non-patriotic songs because he is a National Treasure who has still got every bit of his vocal quality and charisma at the age of 70. 

Then came the tribute to the veterans who were wounded in the war.  Out trots American Idol Jordan Sparks in a red dress to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” to those who were in the audience.  Wait one little minute here!  That sounds pretty familiar, doesn't it?  Who did it first?  Was she in the audience at Massey Theatre when I performed it during Salute?  I’m not being judgmental or anything but she went flat on a couple of notes.  Mr. Rip assured me that I sang it better, but then added “of course a cat if you stepped on its tail would sound better than that,” so I wasn't too flattered. 

  

Patti LaBelle entertained us for a lot of reasons when she came out to sing Over the Rainbow looking more like the Witch than Dorothy.  She was dressed all in black with an enormous overcoat that she tripped over as she took the stage to sing a very different version of “Over the Rainbow” that I don’t know if I liked.  It was full of what Mr. Rip describes as melisma (the act of singing one syllable of text sung over several notes).  I am not one of these people that think that there can never be a successful reinterpretation of an iconic song, but Patti was no Israel “Iz” Kamakawiwo’ole (the Hawaiian guy who did it with the ukulele).

Throughout the evening the Choral Arts Society of America Chorus was rocking it– singing back up to the stars, clapping and swaying, but they still didn't sound as good as the Pittsburgh Concert Chorale when we sing The Star Spangled Banner at a Pirates game.

LOTS of Room on The View

Did you hear the news?  Both Sherri Shepard and Jenny McCarthy are leaving The View.

Shepard has been on the show for seven years, and her naiveté was alright when she was surrounded by intelligent women like Whoopi Goldberg, Joy Behar, Barbara Walters and yes, even Elizabeth Hasselbeck (who was definitely not stupid).  Sherri’s clueless bubble-headed uninformed opinions provided a refreshing counterpoint to the heavy discourse taking place all around her.

It all went to hell in a hand basket when the producers chose Jenny McCarthy to replace both Joy Behar and Elizabeth Hasselbeck when they left the show last year.  Why they thought this was a good idea was beyond me.  I knew it was a bad idea.  I could have told them it was a bad idea.  Come to think of it, I DID tell them it was a bad idea. (http://ripachesallover.blogspot.com/2013/07/jenny-who-on-view.html).  

What were they thinking, I wondered.  I tried to help them.  I even selflessly offered to become a panelist myself (http://ripachesallover.blogspot.com/2013/06/room-on-view.html), and trust me I would have been better than Jenny McCarthy.  

I tried to watch after Jenny joined the panel, but it was useless.  Jenny and Sherri fed each other’s senselessness, and Whoopi was now the lone voice of reason in this sea of inane banter.  Sadly, after many years of faithful Viewing, I tuned out.  I realized that no one cared if I watched, because my buying power means absolutely nothing to advertisers because of my age. I was bitter.

Sherri announced her departure first, saying she was choosing to leave but still being gracious about her time on the show. Then Jenny tweeted " If Sherri goes I go too. #sisters..." AS IF she was leaving in some sort of female solidarity with her BFF Sherri.  Sorry, but I don’t buy that leaving the show was Jenny’s idea.  #jennyisoutoftouchwithreality

Oh, powers-that-be at The View, this is your chance to redeem yourselves. Do not resort to bringing back Rosie O'Donnell, the least successful panelist before Jenny, as it is rumored you may.  There are so many interesting, intelligent, thoughtful, funny women who can talk about anything from politics to fashion out there who would be spirited but not divisive additions to the panel.  See if Alli Wentworth is still available and go from there.

Meanwhile, Whoopi is the last woman standing on The View, and as fabulous as she is, she can’t do the show by herself…..or can she?  Whoopi came to fame in an original one-woman show on Broadway, in which she brilliantly played five characters, including Fontaine, Surfer Chick, The Cripple, Little Girl and Jamaican Woman.  All she would have to do is slip into her different characters and argue Hot Topics with herself.  Now, I’d tune in again to see that.  After, any one of the characters would have to be better than Jenny.

Don't Drink the Water

The other day my friend Carl asked his theater friends on Facebook to share the favorite props they’ve ever used in a show.

Ah, props.  My relationship with stage props is, well, complicated. All is copacetic when they are where they need to be and they work the way they are supposed to work.

 

My favorite props are ones that actually gave me something logical to do with my hands onstage. 
The tray I used as the Waitress in Working and my peacock feather fans that I used as Reverend Mother in Nunsense actually assisted this quintessential klutz (me) in performing big song-and dance numbers.  I was also extraordinarily fond of the teddy bear that I held on my lap the entire time I was playing Mrs. Savage in The Curious Savage- you have no idea how comforting it is to hold a teddy bear when you’re out there in front of all those people.  I wish all my characters could have had teddy bears.

In The Music Man, my character of Mrs. Paroo was supposed to knit.  I couldn’t knit.  While I had already taught myself to passably fake a thick Irish brogue for the part, it seemed unlikely that I could teach myself to knit.  Enter The Talented Mr. Rip who does knit and crochet (like a pro), and taught me a couple of stitches to use in the show to give Mrs. Paroo something to do while Marian sang.

Imaginary props can pose their own challenges, as I found out when I was cast as Mrs. Webb in Our Town, where the women pantomime cooking meals and tending to their families using invisible equipment with which I was unfamiliar.  “Mrs. Gibbs” and I took a field trip to the Heinz History Center to look at the kitchens of the time period of the play, and our ever-patient, saintly director gave us a tutorial on how to pretend to snap beans.

Sometimes, though, props can go horribly wrong.  I will never forget the moment in my VERY FIRST play when the phone I was supposed to answer did not ring.  I waited for a moment until I heard the stage manager off stage frantically whispering “RING, RING!!…RING, RING!!”  Brightly, I pronounced “Oh, there’s the phone!” and then proceeded to answer the silent phone.

By far, my worst prop mishap was when the character I played in an interesting, seldom-produced farce called Cheating Cheaters was a closet drinker who hid her booze in places like vases and watering cans and took swigs from them when no one else was around.  On the first performance of the second weekend of the show I grabbed the watering can at the appropriate time and took a huge swig of water that was…actually fermented.  The stage manager/theater director had not changed the water from the week before so the water I just drank had been sitting there in the hot barn for seven days.

Now it was my turn for some quick thinking because I had to drink from the same watering can later in the show.  I carried the can offstage with me when I exited, cleaned it out and filled it with some fresh water, all the while listening to the stage manager kvetch about how it was my own damn fault for not checking my props.  For the record, I did check that the watering can was where it needed to be.  I had not thought to check the water because I had trusted the stage manager to have freshened it as she had between every performance the prior weekend.  And people wonder why I have trust issues.

My plan was to put the can back on stage during intermission.  I was pretty smug and self-satisfied with my own presence of mind until I was back on stage and I realized that I would need the watering can before intermission and also before my character left the stage again.

I was thinking hard in between remembering my lines on stage, which was exhausting, but then inspiration hit.  I was going to have my character remember that she left her watering can in the “kitchen” just offstage, rush off to get it and bring it back onstage and take a big swig.  I did just that and it got a huge laugh from the audience.

It was one of my finest onstage “saves,” but I sure could have used that teddy bear to hold for the rest of that play.

Everybody Wants to Be From Pittsburgh

I was aware that Pittsburgh enjoys celebrating the accomplishments of its sons and daughters so much that it eagerly seeks out their most tenuous connection to the Pittsburgh area.  However, it was only after publishing my blog on the subject (http://ripachesallover.blogspot.com/2014/06/six-degrees-of-pittsburgh-connection.html) last week that I realized how many people want to claim some “Burger Cred” (as my friend Ron calls it) for themselves.

Of course I already know how popular Pittsburgh can be as a weekend destination.  I happened to have a haircut appointment in downtown Pittsburgh this past Saturday, a sunny, breezy day with temperatures in the 70’s when the Three Rivers Arts Festival and a Pirates home game were happening at the same time.  The Pirates Game was a sell-out and LITERALLY thousands of people woke up that morning and said, “Hey, it's such a nice day – let’s go to the Three Rivers Arts Festival!”  I don’t know the actual statistics but I do know that I've been in smaller crowds in Times Square on the day after Thanksgiving.

A number of Friends expressed their Pittsburgh Pride at being first degree Pittsburghers (i.e. born and raised), even those who are now living in far-flung places like Florida and the Philippines . Yes, no matter how far you roam, Ron and Mary, you can still call Pittsburgh home.

It was still a surprise that some of the people who read my blog very much wanted a connection to Pittsburgh.  My friend Barry asked if living in Morgantown or other northern points in West Virginia counted as having a Pittsburgh connection.  Sadly, I had to break it to him that no one in West Virginia can claim to be from Pittsburgh.  In fact, most West Virginians I've known do not seek nor would accept such a designation.  Even Pittsburgh reporters don’t claim West Virginians for Pittsburgh.

My friend Dan feels that any fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers should get to be an honorary Pittsburgher, but I am afraid we really have to draw the line there.  Choosing to root for a city’s football team does not a citizen make, and besides there is more to Pittsburgh than just the Steelers.  Right?  The Pirates or Penguins, you say?  What about our non-sports related accomplishments, people?  Pittsburgh boasts ground-breaking accomplishments in the fields of robotics and transplantation, the largest museum devoted to a single artist and the most bridges of any city in the nation, and a thriving cultural scene, to name just a few.  And no, if you visit the city to enjoy any of these, it does not make you a Pittsburgher (unless of course you move here).

Six Degrees of Pittsburgh Connection

It is comforting to be a Pittsburgher because Pittsburgh is like a proud and partial parent.  They will celebrate you and all your accomplishments as if they were their own and herald your connection to Pittsburgh to the world at even the slightest provocation.

In fact, Pittsburgh and its reporters are ever vigilant in finding that Pittsburgh connection of celebrities.  Whole articles have been written about it. 

I enjoy that Pittsburgh is so supportive of its native sons and daughters, and appreciate that they welcome them back to town and support them so rigorously.  We are not very discriminating about the Pittsburgh-connected celebs that we celebrate – we embrace the criminals and reality show contestant winners along with the award-winning actors, authors and musicians.

However, I think it is time that we face the fact here that local reporters have perhaps become a little overzealous in seeking the Pittsburgh connection of famous folks.  For instance, a recent article jumped the shark of finding celebrity connections to Pittsburgh when they said that Mickey Dolenz (of The Monkees) has a Pittsburgh connection because as a 10-year-old child star his first concert was at Kennywood.  No.  I am very sorry, but performing in Pittsburgh does not a “Pittsburgh connection” make.

In an effort to stop the madness, I thought I would develop a helpful primer on degrees of Pittsburgh connection to act as a guideline for those dogged pursuers of celebrity Pittsburgh connections:

1)      Born, raised or spent part of their formative years in the 10-county Pittsburgh region (i.e. Allegheny, Armstrong, Beaver, Butler, Fayette, Greene, Indiana, Lawrence, Washington or Westmoreland County).  A PITTSBURGH CONNECTION!

This is the most pure Pittsburgh connection that there is.  Many bona-fide celebrities fall into this category.  August Wilson, Andy Warhol, Lenora Nemetz, Jeff Goldblum, Michael Keaton (who introduced the word “jagoff” to a national audience on The David Letterman Show)  and recent Tony award winners Christian Borle and Billy Porter (both of whom thanked Pittsburgh in their acceptance speeches) all qualify. 

Perhaps the best Pittsburgh celebrity in this category is the one-and-only Fred Rogers, a Latrobe native who made his fame as beloved and revered child television host, Mr. Rogers.   He achieved his national celebrity while remaining in Pittsburgh.  He is a local hero.

2)      Lived here as an adult. – ALSO A PITTSBURGH CONNECTION

While few seek Pittsburgh as a life destination independent of some precipitating event (“I think I want to live in Pittsburgh, so I’ll move there and then find a job”), many attend school here or find a job that brings them here and then “get their foot stuck in the door” and stay around.  Pittsburgh, for all its quirkiness, has an off-beat charm that just sometimes grows on newcomers. So, yes, if a celebrity lived here for a time as an adult, it counts. 

3)      Attended a secondary educational institution in Pittsburgh, then left. KIND OF COUNTS AS A TENUOUS PITTSBURGH CONNECTION.

Okay, so they attended college, maybe Carnegie Mellon’s drama program or Point Park’s performing arts program, in Pittsburgh. They lived here, formed relationships, and ate at the O.  They might even come back now and then to visit old college pals or for an alumni event or to attend a football game.   Saying that they are a Pittsburgher is a bit of an overstatement, but identifying them as a “Carnegie Mellon graduate” is certainly acceptable.  However, when you cite a reality show contestant as having a Pittsburgh connection because they attended nursing school in New Castle, you have crossed the line.

4)      Had a relative who lived in Pittsburgh who they sometimes visited. NOT REALLY A PITTSBURGH CONNECTION

Visiting Grandma or Aunt Mary or cousin Nettie who lived in Highland Park for the holidays or even a week in the summer does not count as having a Pittsburgh connection.

5)      Visited while on tour, filmed a movie here, or stopped in town to see the Andy Warhol Museum. NOT A PITTSBURGH CONNECTION.

I have visited Niagara Falls 6 times, and no one has ever accused me of having a Niagara Falls connection or having a dual-citizenship with Canada.  Visitors do not count!

6)      Rode a bus through town, changed flights at Pittsburgh International Airport, or drove past the Pittsburgh exit of the Turnpike. -  DON’T EVEN TRY IT.

When the "Stars" Align

I was on pins and needles waiting to hear the decision.  My heart was in my throat, racing, and pounding out of my chest, all at the same time. It was only a matter of seconds, but it seemed like an eternity passed waiting for the announcement.  It probably seemed like an eternity because I was holding my breath.

“And Mirrorball Trophy goes to….”

Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat….. Beat

“MERYL AND MAKS!”

A wash of relief flowed over me, followed by an illogical kind of euphoria.  I LITERALLY whooped, threw my hands in the air in victory, and shouted “YES!”

Meryl Davis, Ice Dancing Olympic Gold Medalist, and professional dancer Maksim Chmerkovskiy had won Dancing with the Stars.  It was as it should be and in Maksim's case, long overdue. All was right in the DWTS universe.

By far and away Meryl was the best dancer of this season’s lot (no one else even came close), but that doesn’t always guarantee a win for a DWTS celebrity contestant.  Furthermore Maks had inexplicably never won a season in his 14 seasons on the show, and there was the fear that this season would not break this unenviable streak.

There was an absolute palpable magical chemistry between Meryl and Maks, on and off the dance floor.  Their relationship was captivating to watch.  Both tough-as-nails professional athletes, their personality styles couldn’t be more different.  She was soft and gentle and kind, while he is the direct and unapologetic “Bad Boy of the Ballroom."

A funny thing happened on the way to the Mirrorball Trophy for Meryl and Maks.  He brought her out of her shell.  She brought out the softer side of him.  We saw Maks as he was when he really cared for his partner.  It was a beautiful transformative process, and it was breathtaking to witness.

Meryl and Maks winning DWTS was not the only occurrence that put things right in the universe on Tuesday. A judge overturned Pennsylvania's ban on gay marriage, making it legal for same gender couples to marry in the commonwealth of Pennsylvania.  Finally.  There was great jubilant celebration in my Facebook world, from my gay friends and all those who believe that all the citizens of our great land deserve the same civil rights under the law.

Meryl and Maks have denied that they are dating, and at least one divorce attorney I know joked that it Tuesday was a great day for his profession as well.

Maybe I’m just a hopeful romantic, but I wish Meryl and Maks would have a great romance off the dance floor – chemistry like theirs doesn’t come along every day.  As for my soon-to-be-married friends (no matter their orientation) I fervently wish that their unions be strong and nurturing and that they never need to call a divorce attorney.

 Because what I really believe in is love.  Finding the right life-partner has been one of the finest, most satisfying experiences of my life and I can’t help but wish happy partnerships for everyone. 

A Mother's Day Lesson

As mothers we wear many hats, but certainly one of the most important roles we have is to act as a teacher to our children.  There are so many lessons to impart about life and values and how to live, but sometimes you have to step in and help with the homework. 

Which brings me to the subject of this blog.   A few months ago, some formerly well-respected dictionaries added a second definition of the word “literally.”  From Webster’s¹  -

LITERALLY

1:  in a literal sense or manner :  actually  

2:  in effect :  virtually 

Usage Discussion of LITERALLY

Since some people take sense 2 to be the opposite of sense 1, it has been frequently criticized as a misuse. Instead, the use is pure hyperbole intended to gain emphasis, but it often appears in contexts where no additional emphasis is necessary.

See, this is literally so ridiculous that Webster’s felt it necessary to include a defense of its inclusion of the second definition.  Now, I am not the biggest grammar stickler I know.  Mr. Rip and my sister were shaken to their cores by this travesty.  They were literally sure that this was the end of civilized communication as we know it. 

However, I was literally dumbstruck that a dictionary, the presumed authority on language and its usage, had endorsed a meaning for a word that is the exact opposite of the original meaning of the word.  The dictionary meaning of the word “literal” has not changed, so how can the meaning of the word “literally?” 

I understand that language evolves and that meanings of words sometimes change.  For instance, “awesome” used to mean “full of awe” but now it legitimately means “really great.”  But there are limits.  By including two opposite meanings for this word without identifying one of them as a colloquial or slang usage, the dictionary has rendered the word “literally” completely useless. 

Now for the lesson.  Let me clarify for you the difference between “literally” and “in effect,” or, if you will indulge me, “figuratively” in a manner befitting Mother’s Day.

I was always  a maternal sort.  Two of my best friends were on the track team in college, and the entire team called me “Mom” around campus.  I had this strange effect on guys who drank too much at parties.  They would end up literally (by that I mean “actually”) crying on my shoulder about some girl they liked or some other life problems, and I ended up walking more than one of these young drunks home to make sure they got there safely.

I was not literally their mother.  I did not give birth to them, or adopt them or marry their father.  I was a mother figure to them – in effect acting in a maternal way towards them, but to say that I was literally mother to the track team and random drunk guys at parties in college would be, simply, incorrect.

I literally became a mother when I gave birth to my son, J.J. on February 13, 1985.  While we’re on the topic, let me tell you nothing in my life has ever been more important or enriching than that experience.  He is simply everything a mother could ask for her son to be.  Literally.

¹  Merriam-Webster.com. Merriam-Webster, n.d. Web. 11 May 2014. .

Sing, Sink or Swim

A capella is to choral singing as skinny dipping is to swimming. Vulnerable, exhilarating and prone to revelations.               

                                                                                                                               -Christina Davis

I sing in a choir, and sometimes that choir sings “a cappella” – i.e. without accompaniment.  That’s okay with me, because literally I will happily sing absolutely anything my choral conductor hands me to sing.  Singing “a cappella” is more of a challenge than singing with accompaniment, but I’m always game for a vocal challenge.

However comparing singing “a cappella” to skinny dipping does not exactly entice me to try either. I’ve never exactly been a big fan of vulnerability, although I will admit that both activities might be prone to revelations. Like the revelation that it is harder to stay on key if singing without a musical net, or the revelation that when you get out of the water you will be sopping wet AND naked.

There are two things about skinny dipping that I have a problem with – the skinny and the dipping. I gave up swimming after having almost drowned twice – once in a local swimming pool and once in the raging rapids of the Youghigheny River. You don’t have to almost drown me more than twice for me to get the hint that maybe I’d be better off staying out of the water.

For the record, I eschew public nudity, in or out of the water.  Honestly, I am rarely totally naked even in my own house.  What can I say?  I get cold.  Heck, for years, I wouldn't even wear shorts in public, much less appear naked.  Yes, almost everywhere I go I am fully clothed.

Once when I was auditioning for a show for a theater company located in the East End of Pittsburgh which was known primarily for its children’s shows, one of the questions on the audition form was “Would you appear nude on stage?”  What went through my head was, “Are you totally insane?  With these thighs?”  What I considered writing in response was “Not as long as my father is alive.”  What I finally, actually, wrote was, “No.”

Ironically, Nightswimming, my very favorite song by R.E.M (my very favorite band), is ostensibly about skinny dipping: 

Nightswimming deserves a quiet night
I'm not sure all these people understand
It's not like years ago,
The fear of getting caught,
Of recklessness and water
They cannot see me naked
These things, they go away,
Replaced by everyday.

The way I see it Nightswimming is about skinny dipping the way A River Runs Through It is about fly fishing.  It is, but it is about so much more than that.  It is metaphorically about being surer in your own skin and not being afraid to be yourself in the world.

Nightswimming has been in my head and on my lips ever since I thought about using it in the blog. This means that I would never be caught dead skinny dipping but you might very well find me singing “a cappella” about skinny dipping.