Saturday, October 17, 2015

Rip's Rules for Running (a Presidential Campaign)

 Let me tell you, the Democratic Debate was a breath of fresh air in the current national political scene.  The Democratic candidates vying to get their party’s nomination to run for President were downright civilized.  They discussed the issues and they didn’t attack one another or Anderson Cooper, their moderator.

Now I think this sort of demeanor and behavior should be par for the course for people who aspire to be the leader of our great country. However, before these most recent debates, many of the politicians running seemed to have forgotten some of the most basic manners they should have learned in Junior High.  I am frankly appalled at some of their behavior.

As a concerned American citizen, a grown-up and someone’s mother, I can no longer sit by idly and watch this misbehavior on the playground -um, I mean, national political scene.  Someone has got to tell these children - er, I mean, Presidential candidates- the proper way to behave.  So Presidential Candidates, listen up! Here are the rules (an infraction may result in a time out):

No Name Calling – It is never okay, under any circumstances, to call anyone else involved in the campaign process a demeaning name, even if they ask you a Tough Question during a Debate.  That is their job, and if you can’t handle a Tough Question with aplomb and poise, you have no business trying to be President.

No Personal Attacks – Please feel free to take on your opponents on the issues.  That really is what we, responsible voters, want to hear.  However, when you personally attack someone for any other reason than their stand on the issues, you’re being a bully.  As an aside, please know that is as unacceptable to attack someone based on gender as it is to attack someone based on their race, ethnicity, or religion.  I would never vote for a woman just because she is a woman.  That said, I would never vote for a man who ever suggests that a woman is not a viable Presidential candidate because she is a woman.

No Witch Hunts- Sometimes it seems to me that a certain political party will resort to absolutely anything to discredit a strong opponent from the other party, especially if that opponent has a wealth of applicable experience and qualifications and might be a real threat to them in the general election.  They may have been trying to bring this particular candidate down for years and years, spending lots of the taxpayers’ money and wasting inordinate amounts of time.  They persist, even though none of their accusations stick because they are bogus and blatant attempts to bring this strong, sure, capable candidate down.  To them I say, knock it off.

So, Presidential Candidates, are you now thinking, “Well, goodness, if I can’t just call people names or personally attack them or conduct expensive campaigns to discredit them, how can I win the election?”

Try a new approach to the campaign process.  Focus on why you’re running, not on why your opponent shouldn’t be.  Talk about what you stand for, about the issues and about your plan to address these issues if you should be chosen by your fellow citizens as their leader.  Then if you should be elected remember that you have a responsibility to all the people in the nation.  Make it about leadership, not winning, and in the end you just may win.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

Dream a Little Dream

I am a boring dreamer.

Here's what I can tell you about my dreams.  Sometimes they are vivid nightmares and sometimes I have dreams that are beyond mundane, like dreaming that I am at work on a typical workday.  When I wake up I am usually happy to realize it was a dream. In the five minutes after I wake when I can remember the details of the dream there is no mystery about its deeper meaning.  There really is no deeper meaning- it usually relates directly to something going on in my life.

One things always the same.  An hour after I wake up I don't remember the dream or anything that happened in it. 

The reason I'm telling you all of this is because I just woke up from a dream I actually want to remember, so I thought I'd better write it down.

In my dream, Mr. Rip and I were walking into our local Eat n Park to get some coffee to take out and I noticed that Paul McCartney was standing at the bakery counter.  Just as we passed, Paul (I feel that I can call him Paul now) saw that I recognized him and reached out and touched my elbow playfully and said, "Hey!" in that Liverpool accent of his.

Now I am not one to get too impressed by celebrities, and I generally don't bother them if I run into them at my local Eat n Park, but this was Paul McCartney, and he just recognized my existence and touched me.  I couldn't help but glance back at him. 

Then he started to walk over. Was Paul McCartney coming over to chat with me? "Hello," he said.

"Um, hi," I answered.  I hesitated, trying to think of what to say now that it seemed I was going to be making small talk with Paul McCartney in the Eat n Park in Wexford. Telling him that John was my favorite Beatle didn't seem appropriate.

He saw me struggling to find something meaningful to say, and (helping me along in a self-mocking cocky way), said "I know, you know all me music."

I was ready with a comeback.  This should have tipped me off that this was a dream since this never happens in real life.

"Well, I've heard some of your music, and you know I think it's pretty good."  He looked at me for a minute and then broke into a hardy laugh.

Then I woke up.  It was actually appropriate that Paul would appear to me in a dream, as I read an interview with him once where he revealed that the song Yesterday came to him in a dream. If I ever had an iconic song come to me in my sleep, I forgot it an hour after waking up.

I do feel pretty self-satisfied that I could engage in witty repartee with a legendary Beatle, if only in my dreams.

Monday, June 22, 2015

The Mature Non-Gambler's Guide to Las Vegas

I don't always believe it when people they try to convince me that I will actually enjoy something that I loathe - like the taste of mushrooms or the movie Raising Arizona - if I just "give it one more try."  This has never ever been true. So, when people told me that you don’t have to gamble to enjoy Las Vegas, I was skeptical.

Then my son J.J. and his wife (my lovely daughter-in-law, aka DIL) told us they thought that we would have a good time in Las Vegas.  They know us pretty well, and in fact J.J. has known me his entire life.

Then it dawned on us that the Grand Canyon was an easy side trip from Vegas.  Not only would we have the opportunity to see a Natural Wonder of the World, I would be able to add two states to the list of states I've visited (to address a deficit in this area brought to my attention by a Facebook quiz). 

It was decided.  We were going to Vegas! Unfortunately my arthritic knees and Mr. Rip's bad back insisted upon coming with us, so there we were – just a couple of arthritic non-gamblers ready to shuffle into and tackle Sin City.

Once there we discovered many helpful hints for more mature non-gamblers with mobility issues and potential gastrointestinal disorders that help to assure a pleasant and productive stay in Las Vegas:

Follow the advice of the experts

In our case, this meant "listen to the kids."  JJ and DIL acted as our unofficial travel agents - we pretty much planned our entire itinerary around their sage advice.  As long as we followed their helpful suggestions things turned out extraordinarily well. And when we didn’t, well….

You really don’t have to gamble when in Vegas.

People kept telling us that we had to gamble once “just to say we did.”  I sat in front of a 25 cent slot machine waiting for Mr. Rip the first day we were there.  I contemplated it for a moment, and considered taking the dollar out of my purse, but didn’t. The casinos were noisy and filled with cigarette smoke (which I can’t tolerate).  So I did not gamble once, “just to say I didn’t."

Go wild!

You know what they say.  What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.  Actually, what happens in Vegas gets posted on Facebook, but nonetheless it is a place where you can let your hair down and go a little crazy. 

Now I didn’t gamble, and I did not have an alcoholic drink while I was there.  No, I stepped outside my comfort zone when I compromised my complete boycott of the Hooters franchise by hailing a cab in front of their hotel. Crazy, right?  

Vegas also provides the chance to try new things.  Haven’t had a chance to visit France or Italy or even Hoboken? No problem!  Ride a gondola with a real live Italian gondolier and visit Carlos’ Bakery (of “Cake Boss” fame) at the Venetian Hotel and or visit the “Eiffel Tower” at Paris.  We had a mighty fine time on that gondola ride.

See the shows. Rub elbows with celebrities.

Take your pick.  Magicians, Cirque de Soleil, “headliners,” comedians, Las Vegas showgirls – whatever strikes your fancy.  Get some great seats for shows at greatly reduced prices by buying your tickets the same day at the Tix4Tonight booths all over town (this handy tip comes to you courtesy of DIL)

Because we missed Bette Midler by two days we enjoyed TWO Cirque de Soleil shows - Ka (recommended by DIL) and Love (the Beatles-inspired show), both pretty spectacular to watch, with some tricks that even Bette wouldn’t attempt.

We had a chance to meet Rita Rudner (a talented comedienne, for you whippersnappers out there saying “Who?”) after her show and we have the autographed photo to prove it.  But Rita (we’re on a first name basis now) was not the only celebrity with whom we got to hobnob.  No we also met Sandy, the MGM employee who was featured on an episode of Undercover Boss that we happened to catch when we first arrived (and we have the pictures to prove that too).

Use the money you save on gambling to pay for transportation.

We wanted to stay in a hotel that was not a casino. JJ suggested the Desert Rose Resort just off the south end of the strip. JJ also suggested that we might want to take advantage of the Monorail when traveling the Strip, which was long and difficult to navigate.

Nonsense, we thought.  We were trying to walk more and the Strip was only 4 ½ miles long. We headed off to the Bellagio which is just halfway down the Strip, equipped with our Fitbits and sporting our lightweight clothing and sensible shoes.  We came to a point where we could see the Bellagio, but we could not figure out how to get there. Was it a mirage, a phenomenon we understand sometimes happens in the desert?  A few walkways, a couple of escalators, a tram inside an upscale shopping mall and a couple of hours later, we finally got there.

The next day we listened to JJ and bought a Monorail pass.  We got where we were going in a timely fashion, figured out that we could hail a cab if needed and walked a record 20,000 steps.  Worth every penny.

Go to the Hoover Dam and Take the Whole Dam Tour

If you are making a side trip from Vegas to the Grand Canyon you really must stop on the way at the Hoover Dam.  It is one of the most magnificent examples of ingenuity and human achievement that you could ever hope to experience.  As long as you’re seeing the natural wonder of the Grand Canyon, you might as well add a man-made wonder to your itinerary while you’re there.  Well, Vegas is actually full of man made wonders, but you don't have to walk through a casino to get to the Hoover Dam.

Tuesday, April 14, 2015

The Boomers and the Millenials Should Be Friends

My visit to the Verizon store on my way from work should have been pretty straightforward.  It was time to upgrade my phone, and I knew I wanted either an iPhone 5 or an iPhone 6.  The store wasn't crowded and I should have been in and out of there in less than 30 minutes.

My salesman was very helpful and knowledgeable as I compared models and selected a carrying case.  He was perfectly willing to sell me the model that cost 99 cents if that's what I wanted, and saved his hard sell for a super strong screen protector, as he evidently sized me up (correctly) as an accident waiting to happen.

Then I chose to select the Verizon Edge option, and that's when we hit a snag.  It turns out that Mr. Rip, as the account owner, had to sign for this option.  Yes, that's right - I couldn't buy Verizon Edge without my husband to give me his permission in person despite the fact that my name and phone was clearly on the account.

Mr. Rip had stopped at the Asian Food Market on his way home from work on the other end of busy McKnight Road, but said he'd be right over.

The salesman and I had some time to kill together.  Our conversation turned to music.

My salesman thought that Led Zeppelin “borrowed” much of their music from other artists, and decided to prove it (although I don't remember questioning his theory).
   
“Now, you won't know this band,” he said to me as he was finding the piece of music he wanted me to hear.  “This is Spirit, and this piece of music was published about 1960.”

I had to admit that the passage he played sounded a whole lot like “Stairway to Heaven.”

We went on to discuss the concept of copyright infringement, and somehow got on the subject of Lady Gaga.  I said I thought that she was a versatile vocalist, equally adept at singing her own stuff, a Stevie Wonder cover, standards with Tony Bennett and the Sound of Music medley she so beautifully delivered at the Oscars.  They agreed although the second salesman wondered if she'd ever live down that meat dress.  We also all thought that Katy Perry was a pretty good singer, and my salesman thought Katie may be a just a bit “bigger” than Gaga right now because of the Super Bowl half-time show.

Mr. Rip arrived and before our transaction was complete we found out that my salesman was a 2011 Penn State grad.

How about that?  I just spent two hours in a professional transaction and personal discussion with a Millennial where we related like two human beings with little regard to age.  He even taught me a little something about music made in the 1960's, and I knew a little more about what Gaga's been up to lately than he did.

This wouldn't have been so surprising if I wasn't constantly being barraged with articles and instructional seminars to teach me how the Millennials (people coming to adulthood about 2000) think so that this old dinosaur can manage to communicate with them. 

You see, according to these authorities, Millennials are rare and exotic creatures who are an entirely different species than all the made-up generational groups who came before them, you know, the Baby Boomers, Gen X, Gen Y, whatever. They have the world at their finger tips and want immediate gratification.  If we oldsters don't keep up we will perish and lose them forever.

I read one ridiculous blog by an actual Millennial pretty much putting the rest of us on notice that they’re here now and they’re just not going to live by our archaic rules.  They will do what they want, and we had just better get out of their way. After reading it, I had a flashback to the 60’s when the young people of the day (aka the Baby Boomers) had a mantra of their own.   “Don’t trust anyone over 30.”  Maybe the Millennials aren’t so different than their forerunners after all.

Want to hear a secret? I see people of all generations living and working together peacefully and productively all the time, and I know a lot of older people who have smart phones and short attention spans, too.

We really should all just get along. With the Millennial's tech skills, social media saavy and short term memory and the Boomers' wisdom, experience and ability to format a standard letter, together we can pretty much rule the world.

Saturday, February 28, 2015

What Color is This Sweater?


What color is this sweater I'm wearing in the picture above?  I'll give you  a moment to look at it and think it over.

Did you guess some shade of blue, or aqua, or teal?  Wrong!

In reality, in person, the sweater in the picture above is very, very purple.  This is the same sweater:

OMG!  This very purple sweater just LOOKS blue in the first picture.

Why? I have absolutely no idea.  Both pictures were taken with my I-Pad Mini.  Maybe it was the lighting in the restaurant, maybe it looked blue against the backdrop of the booth.  Maybe there is some blue in the purple.  I don't see colors in other colors, but Mr. Rip does.  He is always saying things like "That top goes with those pants because there's a lot of brown in that red."

When I first saw the photo, I said to Mr. Rip, "Hey, my purple sweater looks blue in this picture."

"It sure does," Mr. Rip replied.

We didn't give it another thought, and resumed living our lives.

Then along came the Great Dress Debate. In case you somehow missed it, someone posted a picture of a dress on Tumblr with the caption "What color is this dress?"  Some people thought the dress was black and blue while others thought it was gold and white.  The debate raged across the nation. Houses were divided.

The truth?  Well, there is a very good scientific photographic explanation for it all. I am neither scientist nor photographer, but let me see if I can explain it to you in everyday language.  The dress was actually dark blue and black.  If the dress was photographed with the colors reversed it was now white and gold.  The picture posted on the internet was in an exposure that made it appear between the two extremes.  So some people saw the black and blue, and some saw the gold and white.  It was all in the eye of the beholder.

Simple, right?  Well, unless you're me.  My mind's quirky eye saw the dress as being blue and BROWN.  Perhaps I saw what actually was - in that exposure was the trim of the dress  somewhere between black and gold? Who's to say that isn't brown?  Perhaps I just have a totally unique perspective.  I'm sure that the Today show will be calling for their interview soon.

Friday, February 13, 2015

On This Day My Child Was Born

                                                   

It was February 13th.  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment.

My doctor said he thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28th due date.  That was okay with me.  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.

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 arrived at work safely, just in time for lunch.

When I stood up after lunch, 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 my friend and co-worker Joan know what was going on and left.  I got in the car, turned the key and…the car wouldn’t start.  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 felt strongly that a woman in labor should not be driving herself anywhere, especially in the snow.  He refused to jump my car.  I explained that I just planned to drive the few miles to my house, and 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 there, dead, 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,  a very persuasive person, intervened and Paul grudgingly agreed to jump my car.

I drove home and packed my suitcase but hadn’t heard from my husband.  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 thought better than to mention the dead car battery.  She asked how long it would take me to get to the hospital.  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 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 drive me, 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.  It would have taken 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 now.  When I finally arrived at the hospital, I told the doctor that aside from my water breaking and driving 30 miles in the snow, I was feeling fine.  He examined me and informed me that I was indeed 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 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 plenty of time for the birth.

I will not share 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 30 (!) today, a milestone birthday to follow a milestone year when he married the love of his life.  One word always comes to mind when I think of him- proud.  I am so very proud of the fine man he has grown up to be.   Here’s wishing my son, who's spending the day in a warmer climate this year, a wonderful birthday.

Saturday, February 7, 2015

Living Life on the Edge

Mr. Rip and I live life on the edge, and by “the edge” I mean the periphery.

On Saturday, we went to the Ross Park Mall on a mission. We were there to buy a stove.  Believe me it was time. Our current stove was probably manufactured the year they invented the electric stove.

We entered Sears on the floor where the appliances are located, we knew exactly the model we wanted and in record time, we were the proud owners of a new stove. We could have gotten out of Dodge, er, the Mall, right then and there, but I wanted to check out the one-day sale at Macy's.

As we started towards the store exit, we noticed several Sears salespeople gazing outward wide-eyed.  I heard one of them exclaim, solemnly, to the others, “It’s my worst nightmare out there.” He was trembling a little. 

Undeterred, we walked out of Sears into a huge sea of people who were waiting in line for…something. As we ascended out of the mob below on the escalator, Mr. Rip immediately began using his fine investigative skills, honed during repeated viewings of The Mentalist and History Detectives.

“There must be a Famous Person here,” he surmised and then added meaningfully, “note that they are all young females in line.”  I looked and saw that it was true - there were thousands of pre-teen and teenage girls in line.  We wondered just what teen sensation was at the Mall today.

A couple of hours later as we were leaving the mall, there were still thousands of young girls waiting in line.  Our curiosity got the best of us, so I politely asked one of the teen girls in line who they were waiting to see.

"There is a Famous Person here," she answered sweetly. Aha, Mr. Rip was right!  

"What Famous Person?" I asked.

"Oh, Bethany Mota," she answered, obviously sure that I would have no idea who that is.  "She was on Dancing with the Stars." Of course, I did know who Bethany Mota is because she was on Dancing with the Stars.  She is a video blogger who takes an anti-bullying stance on her blogs.  She danced with Derek, and they came in fourth in the most recent season. 

I was gratified to learn that all these young girls were waiting in line to meet an anti-bullying advocate and not some misbehaving untalented under-dressed attention-hungry tongue-wielding singer. Then we went home.

So, there we were at the Mall when thousands of girls were waiting for up to four hours to see Bethany Mota.  We had no idea that Bethany Mota was at the Mall and no interest at all in meeting her despite our approval of her as a role model for kids, but we knew who she was because of DWTS.

Because that’s how we roll. We are quasi-informed casual observers of today’s pop culture.

The other big event last weekend was the Super Bowl.  Mr. Rip and I never see the Super Bowl because we are always ushering at the Pittsburgh Public Theatre when it is on (except when the Steelers are playing, in which case PPT cancels that performance).  So, while the nation was watching the Super Bowl, we were watching a particularly wonderful production of “My Fair Lady” from front row center.

Strangely, we didn't even need to see the Super Bowl to find out what happened. The Patriots beat the Seahawks after a very controversial final play by the latter, Idina Menzel sang the National Anthem (after her less-than-super live performance of “Let It Go” on New Year’s Eve), and Katy Perry did the half-time show with the help of Lenny Kravitz, Missy Eliott, and a couple of dancing Sharks.

I didn't have to go out of my way to see clips of the game, and especially that final play.  It was all over the news broadcasts.  Not only did I understand what happened, when I was included in the inevitable Facebook Message conversation debating the final call I had an informed opinion. Yes, it was a bonehead call by the Seahawks-they should have run the ball.

I had to watch the video of Idina Menzel to see if she redeemed herself, and I would say that she did.  She was a success by her own modest standards because I would say that she definitely hit more than 75% of the notes in the song.

As for the half-time show, well, they had me at “Lenny Kravitz.” All in all, though, the entire half-time show (which I watched on YouTube) was wildly entertaining, including the dancing shark on the left, who improvised his movements for the most of the dance after losing his way part way through.  I sympathized, as I have found myself in that same situation on stage more than once, but never with an elaborate costume like that to disguise me.

Meanwhile, back at the Pittsburgh Public Theatre the cast of "My Fair Lady" was pretty much flawless. I did not detect any false moves or notes from them like those exhibited by the Seahawks, Idina Menzel, or the Left Shark.

Sunday, January 18, 2015

Underestimated and It Feels So Good

It is gratifying to know that at my advanced age I remain a bit of a mystery even to those who know me best, or at least the longest.  In fact I am practically an enigma.

The other day my father was surprised and impressed to find out that I could type.  Well, yes, I can type with the aid of a computer, and all its fancy features that allow me to save, copy, change or delete text.  I will admit that it was tougher for me back in the days when typewriters were all the rage, but nowadays I manage to type quite nicely.

However, I was somewhat taken aback when my very own sister seemed shocked when Mr. Rip posted on Facebook, “Sharon is pretty handy with a screwdriver.”

“Sharon CIRAULO Wolf?!?!” commented my sister.

I don’t know why she was so surprised.  First things first, how hard is it to use a screwdriver?  Can’t a monkey be trained for this particular task?  The only tricky part is finding the screwdriver that fits the screw, and that’s only because when we use screwdrivers they often don’t find their way back to the tool box or the kitchen “junk” drawer, where they belong.  I don’t know where they all go.  Maybe they’re hanging out with the missing socks.

But really, I think it is time to share one of my hidden talents with the world.  I am somewhat proficient at assembling small furniture items that come from the store with clear instructions and all the parts and hardware included, and sometimes this involves using a screwdriver.

My latest successful assembly was the small space-saver bathroom cabinet for the weird little nook in my funny little bathroom that was previously filled with a plastic file cabinet-like thing that I picked up at an office supply store.  It took me an hour or two and I essentially completed the project by myself with Mr. Rip supplying moral support and occasional reassurance that the piece I was about to attach was facing in the right direction.  He also anchored the cabinet to the wall when it was assembled.

My other work includes small wooden living room end tables, a TV stand or two, and several standing lamps, among other things.  I also was one of the two-person crew responsible for putting together the two chest of drawers in our bedroom.

Here’s another revelation:  I enjoy doing this.  We ordered those wooden end tables online and the day they arrived I was so excited to get started on them I called Mr. Rip to ask him if he would mind if I went ahead and took a crack at putting them together before he got home from work.

“So, this means the tables would be all put together when I got home?”  he clarified. I verified that that would be the case.  I believe his exact response then was, “Knock yourself out.” I am sure that this was primarily because he did not want to keep me from the fun of putting these tables together, and not because he does not enjoy the process nearly as much as I do.


In fact the only time that I run into any trouble is if the furniture is a piece of crap, which happened with an inferior bathroom cabinet I bought and tried to assemble prior to getting the one I just put together with no problem. There were missing parts and hardware and the pieces didn't fit together.  

This was ironic because it was the same price as the larger, sturdy, perfect bathroom cabinet that now adorns my bathroom.  Mr. Rip explained to me that you take your chances when you buy inexpensive bathroom cabinets and that whether or not it is a decent piece is a crap shoot (no pun intended, I’m sure).

Friday, January 2, 2015

Rip Goes Into the Woods

Living in a world where people take their musicals (especially if the music and lyrics are written by Stephen Sondheim) very, very seriously, I hesitate to even share with you my own lukewarm history with Into the Woods.

The first time I saw it was when the stage version with Bernadette Peters as the Witch was broadcast on PBS.  I stumbled across it as I was scrolling through the channels just as it was beginning. I thoroughly enjoyed it and its uncharacteristically happy ending for a Sondheim piece.

I guess I should say when I thought it was over, because a couple of hours later I was still flipping through the channels and stumbled across Bernadette and the rest of the cast taking their curtain calls.  I realized then that I had only seen Act I of the play. Oh, that crafty Sondheim was up to his old tricks, I thought, with two acts of one play that could absolutely stand on their own but yet came together to form one (over-long) whole.  That's how Sunday in the Park with George was, too.

I was prescient enough to realize that things probably went terribly wrong in those Woods in the second act, since Sondheim was involved.  While I was mildly curious about it, I did not feel any compelling need to do anything extraordinary to see the second act because I had a feeling my chance to see the show would come to me in good time. 

Oh, was I right about that!  I saw two quality amateur productions  and one fine professional production of the show, and I was also spot-on about the second act getting "darker," to say the least.  Just call me psychic. I'm actually surprised that the FBI hasn't tried to hire me to help them solve cases due to my highly developed intuitive skills.

So how did I feel about Into the Woods on stage? It was fine.  Always a pleasure to watch, excellent score, a bit more cynical than my world view (but so is Company).  But I have to hand it to Mr. Sondheim and the book writer James Lapine on this one - no one fractures a fairy tale better than they do.

Oh, and I loved Jack's Mother, a minor role that I always thought that I could play well, given the chance.  In fact, I was actually called back for the role when I auditioned for one of the aforementioned amateur productions of the show, but the director ultimately went with another actress for the part.  I hold no grudge because people make mistakes....fathers, mothers, local community theater directors....

Anyway, Disney and Rob Marshall decided to make a movie of Into the Woods which threw many of my musical theater friends into quite the tizzy of excitement and anticipation.  Would it be good?  Would it be true to the original stage musical?  Would it cut their favorite song or plot point?

For us it became the perfect Christmas Day destination movie. Musicals opening that day are always strong contenders, and we like to choose something that my Dad might like, which is easy enough because he was equally interested in Tangled and Lincoln.  

The movie version was really, really good - a wonderful, beautiful-to-watch movie that retained the darkness and spirit of the original work. I liked the way (SPOILER ALERT) that some of the violence in the show was implied -when a favorite character died, we did not see them dead, trampled and bleeding on the ground while the coroner and detectives stood over them discussing the nature of their murder.  It is not necessary for violence to be gratuitous or sensational to have an impact. Oh, and I really liked the way that the Baker's Wife's dress was ripped at the shoulder - you know dresses don't stay pristine when you're schlepping around the woods (which is just one of the reasons I stay out of the forest).

Meanwhile, back on Facebook, my musical theater geek Friends (you know who you are and you know that I love you) are busy wildly debating the virtues of the movie versus the play.  Some can't get over the fact that their favorite character lived or their favorite song was cut from the movie.  Some refuse to see the movie because they heard of these changes.

A word to the wise in surviving seeing your favorite stage musical be adapted to the big screen: do not go to the movie expecting to see the stage version.  The movie should be different- otherwise there would be no need to make the movie at all - you can just see the show on stage or watch the filmed version of the play on PBS.  And furthermore, if you don't like the movie, so what? It's just a musical.

Dad summed it up in his very positive review after seeing the movie: "It held my attention the whole time - I didn't fall asleep once." That's the measure of a successful show in our family - if it keeps us awake.

On This Day My Child Was Born

  It  was February 13 th .  I was 8 ½ months pregnant and returning to work after my weekly gynecologist appointment. My doctor said he th...