A Photo from the Past (on Facebook)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Lonely Life of the Anchovy Lover

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

March of the Rach-Monologues

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the Winner Is....

When you read this, the Oscar broadcast will be over, but they are not the only awards that were bestowed last week. I found out that my essay “Honestly, Do You Really Want the Truth?” won an Honorable Mention in America’s Humor Press’ December/January contest, the first writing contest I’ve entered since starting this blog in 2009.

As a character on The Mentalist said last week, “I won’t let false modesty tarnish this moment...”

They like me, they REALLY like me.  THANK YOU to the judges at America’s Humor Press for choosing me.  I am honored to have been in the company of my fellow awardees, all of whom are pretty damn funny.  Thank you to all my faithful readers, and to all my teachers and mentors who encouraged me to write, and to all my family and friends for their love and support.  Thanks to my Dad, for giving me the gift of gab…my in-laws for being my number one fans…my sisters for agreeing to be mentioned in my column as long as they are not actually named…my most precious son for being so interesting and giving me so much good material (starting with the day he was born)… and to my most wonderful husband – you are my heart, my soul, and the one who first said, “Why don’t you write a blog?”

What?  What do you mean I’m running long and need to wrap this up?  There are no time limits in my blog.  I could make this blog one big acceptance speech if I like – it’s my blog!  Sure I know it isn’t an Oscar or anything, but you have your awards, and I have mine.

Back to the Oscars, I always wanted to do one of those columns where I predict the winners – you know, where I tell you who will win and who should win, but the Academy foiled me this year with so many nominations  from so many different movies. I did not have enough time to watch all 9 Best Picture nominees, much less dig up all the movies with nominated performances.  But here are my thoughts, written before the broadcast, based upon what I’d seen (and the actual results follow, reported as they happened):

BEST PICTURE:  I saw five of the nine nominated films:  The Artist, The Descendants, The Help, Midnight in Paris, and Moneyball.  The Artist will and probably should win.  It was unique and totally brilliant.  Personally, I enjoyed watching The Help the most- it would sweep the Movies Rip Liked in 2011 Awards. 

Reporting LIVE! from my couch: The Artist wins.

BEST ACTOR:  I saw three of the nominated performances:  George Clooney in The Descendants; Jean Dujardin in The Artist; and Brad Pitt in Moneyball.  Either Clooney or Dujardin will win, but George Clooney should win.  As an actor essentially playing in a silent film, Dujardin had to be and was over-the-top, with huge emotions, expressions and actions.  As a real-life husband coping with the loss of his wife, and developing relationships with his two daughters, Clooney was exceptional – nuanced and subtle, and sometimes conveying the emotion his character was feeling with just a subtle change in the expression in his eyes, or a quiet sigh.  He couldn’t even rely on his physical appearance to aid him because there is nothing than you can do to make George Clooney look anything but ruggedly handsome.

Reporting LIVE! from my couch:  Jean Dujardin wins. He loves our country, as well he should.

BEST ACTRESS:  I only saw Viola Davis in The Help in this category.  Without knowing anything about the other nominated performances, I’m rooting for her because when I see the actress she is nothing like the character she played so well.  Either Meryl Streep (The Iron Lady) or Davis will win.

Reporting LIVE! from my couch:  Meryl Streep wins, and it’s hard to begrudge her that.  I’m sure her performance was brilliant because it always is.  She acts like she can’t believe she won.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR:  I only saw Jonah Hill in Moneyball, and I predict that he will not win, because I don’t understand why he was even nominated.  Subtlety is one thing, but being practically catatonic is another.  Christopher Plummer (Beginnings) will win.

Reporting LIVE! from my couch:  At the age of 82, Christopher Plummer becomes the oldest person to win an acting Oscar.  He says he’s been practicing his acceptance speech since he came out of the womb.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS:  I saw four of the five nominated performances!  Berenice Bejo in The Artist, Jessica Chastain in The Help, Melissa McCarthy in Bridesmaids, and Octavia Spencer in The Help. Octavia Spencer will win, and Jessica Chastain should win.

Reporting LIVE! from my couch:  Octavia Spencer wins.  She looks great, and is too verklempt to give a coherent acceptance speech.

So that’s a wrap on my Awards blog.  I know George Clooney may be as disappointed as I am at his loss, but I hope that he takes some consolation in the fact that I have been appreciating his work since his Facts of Life days.

Not My "Type"

Last Sunday, on CBS Sunday Morning, Bill Geist reported on “A Typewriter Renaissance,” a resurgence in the popularity of typewriters mostly with young people who obviously don’t know any better.  One 27-year-old in the typewriter repair shop that Geist found in Mesa, Arizona had just purchased a Smith Corona typewriter (that came with its own carrying case) at Goodwill for $7.99.  She explained that she enjoyed the fact that you can see the words in front of you as you type them when you use a typewriter.

“Isn’t that what you can do with a computer?” asked Bill.  He took the words right out of my mouth.

Some of the typewriter aficionados interviewed for the story had other cockamamie rationales for their appeal.  For instance, typing on a typewriter is more of a craft because you have to get it right the first time you type as there is no going back to correct it.  Here, all this time, I thought that this was the typewriter’s hamartia, its fatal flaw.

One teacher was subjecting his high school students (many of whom had never seen one before) to using typewriters on the premise that it made them better writers because they had to really THINK before they put their words down on paper.  Huh.  I thought a really good writer is one who hones his or her work after the first draft - you know, the way you can when you write on a computer.

Another typist was waxing poetic about the feeling of returning the carriage, and the “dinging” sound it makes and the sensual nature of the keys beneath your fingers.  I’ll bet you anything you can buy a computer app that will simulate that experience for you.

I remember typewriters.  My family owned a heavy black Underwood manual typewriter when I was growing up.  I’m going to reveal something about myself to you now. I can’t type.  Never could.  Don’t tell anyone though, because I type for a living.

When I took a Typing class in high school, I was doing just fine until about halfway through the year when they suddenly thought we should type fast, as well as accurately.  That simply wasn’t happening for me.  Wite-Out became my best friend, but you had to realize you had made the mistake before you could correct it.  I cannot even begin to count the number of sheets of paper that I had to scrap in the quest to produce an error-free document.  Talk about killing trees.

I was delighted when the electric typewriter became more popular.  I had an enormous one at work that actually had a self-correcting tape built into it.  That made it easier and much less messy to correct my mistakes, but didn’t reduce the number of mistakes I made in the first place.

Then a miracle happened.  I discovered that someone had invented a wonderful new contraption called the word processor, and my life changed forever.  Much to my astonishment, I realized that on a word processor I could save, copy, delete and edit text!  My memory is not what it used to be, but I do think I may have wept for joy that day.  I got one the following Christmas – pretty much like a typewriter in a monitor box.  I could now make mistakes and…wait for it…fix them later.  I could save whole documents for all eternity. From the word processor it was an easy leap to computers, even this one that is sitting on my lap right now.

So I would no sooner trade in my computer for a typewriter than I would trade in my car for a horse and carriage, or trade in my washing machine for a rock by the river.

My friend Jeanne has the right idea – to celebrate the typewriter, she finds and buys old ones and makes the keys into very cool and unique jewelry.  Check out all her jewelry (which is made from recycled and found materials) at http://www.juNxtaposition.com.

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 thought I may come a little earlier than my February 28^th 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 though 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 quite a state, I might add.

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 27 today.  One word always comes to mind when I think of him- proud.  I am so very proud of the fine young man he has grown up to be.   Here’s wishing my son a wonderful birthday, and hoping that the weather today is better than on the day he was born.