I'll Just Sit Here in the Dark

Things really weren’t the same after the power surge messed with our computer system at work last week. We had no Internet service and no access to our server, where all our files live. We could look at our e-mail inbox, but could not send or receive e-mail. We were told it would probably be several days before the system was fixed. Suddenly, we were set adrift just outside the cyberspace in which we now operated.


To risk sounding like the old fogey that I actually am, I remembered the days before we all had computers and the Internet in our workplaces. We called people on the telephone, sent letters through the mail, looked things up in books, and typed things – like entire newsletters – on typewriters. We certainly didn’t have computers or phones that we could carry with us. Boy, did I hate those days.

My whole life changed when I got a word processor. It was basically a glorified typewriter encased in a monitor box, but it allowed me (miraculously!) to view, save, copy, edit and delete text. From there, it was an easy leap to the word processing programs on real computers, e-mail, and, for a research junkie like me, to the Internet.

When it was all abruptly taken away, I experienced something very close to a real withdrawal. Trying to work without my tools was exhausting. By the end of the second day, functioning was difficult, and I had a problem putting together intelligent sentences.

So, that evening, when we lost power at home on a calm, storm-less night, it was almost too much to bear. I’m even more attached to electricity than I am to the Internet. I thought, briefly, that Armageddon was coming after all, just a day or two late. It was reassuring when I called my son, who lives in the city, and heard that he had power. That meant that the entire Earth wasn’t affected. We were unable to reach my father, who lives near us, so at about 10 p.m. my husband and I headed out to check on him.

On our way there, from radio reports and the newspaper (via my son) we discovered that a transformer blew causing a Big Power Outage for something like 44,000 households, including ours, in two counties. After determining that Dad was just fine, and equipped with alternate light sources, we found our way to an Eat n Park that was open and had power.

The salt in the wound of all of this was that by this time, they were getting ready to announce the winner of Dancing with the Stars. Not only was I missing it, I wouldn’t be watching later as there was no electricity to power the DVR that was set to tape the show.

My sister called to find out what was going on. She told me that Chelsea Kane had already been eliminated on DWTS, so now it was between Kirstie Alley and our very own Hines Ward to win it all. She offered to stay on the phone to give me the play-by-play, but by that time, my comfort food – Grilled Stickies ala Mode- had arrived. We were the last customers left in the restaurant and they were starting to clean up, so I thought I should eat my food. A few minutes later, my son called with the good news. Hines Ward was bringing home the Mirror Ball Trophy! A little light in the darkness, to be sure.

The power was out at home for 12 hours, and the computer system at work was out, in full or in part, for four work days. Now that I am reconnected to my precious technology, the shaking has subsided and I am again breathing normally.

Reporting from Steeler Country

Now the Royal Wedding is just a happy memory, and Bin Laden is a bitter one. The Rapture scare is over, and seemingly we are all still here.  Finally, the local media can get back to the topic we really care about here in Pittsburgh.
In case you haven’t heard, the Pittsburgh Steelers went to the Super Bowl last season. If you are unaware of this, you obviously do not live in Western Pennsylvania.

It wasn’t an easy season for our Steelers. With Ben Roethlisberger forced to sit out the first four games of the season as a NFL-sanctioned punishment for alleged misbehavior off the field, and injuries to some key players including Troy Polamalu, no one would have been surprised if the Steelers didn’t even make it to the playoffs. But make it they did, and while it wasn’t always pretty, they WON those games! And off they went to their 8th Super Bowl, playing for their 7th win.

I knew all this despite the fact that I didn’t tune into a Steelers game until the second half of the first playoff game. How did I keep so well informed, you ask? I live in the greater metropolitan Pittsburgh region, aka “Steeler Country,” where news of the Steelers trump severe weather warnings (Pittsburgh’s second favorite news topic), savage assassination attempts, natural disasters, political elections, and just about everything else on local newscasts.

The Internet has revolutionized the way I don’t watch football – I can keep up with the game without ever turning on the TV, or while enjoying the figure skating being broadcast on another channel, or even while picking up my weekly groceries when the supermarket is empty because everyone else is home watching the game.

Of course, I couldn’t grow up in Pittsburgh completely untouched by the Fever. Back in the 70’s and 80’s when the Steelers first started winning Super Bowls, I watched religiously. I’ve seen The Chief three times. This one-man show about Art Rooney by Rob Zellers and Gene Collier was produced and performed several times at Pittsburgh Public Theater. I still get chills watching the footage of the “Immaculate Reception,” almost as exciting as when I watched it live.

I can barely bring myself to say this, but, our beloved Steelers did not win the Super Bowl this past February. I can’t remember who won, but it really doesn’t matter, now does it? Football in Pittsburgh is all about the Steelers.

A pallor fell over our local newscasts. Without the Super Bowl to cover, they were forced to go back to covering car accidents and homicides. No one was happy about it. Then we heard the news. Steelers wide receiver Hines Ward would be competing on Dancing with the Stars!

Oh happy day! There was rejoicing all over the Steel Valley! A Steeler would be competing for a prize once again. Hines explained that he was doing DWTS as a chance for redemption – if he couldn’t bring home the Lombardi Trophy he would bring home the Mirror Ball Trophy to Pittsburgh.

Hines and professional dance partner Kym Johnson have proven worthy of the attention, which has been excessive, of course. Hines has turned out to be likable, and a pretty fine dancer, with his fans in the audience waving their Terrible Towels after every dance.

Then Kym suffered a horrific and potentially dangerous neck injury in rehearsal, right before the semi-finals. As they were wheeling her out on a stretcher, Kym was worried about Hines missing rehearsal time, but Hines was sincerely just worried about Kym and her well-being. Kym rallied, and came back to dance on the next show. Hines broke down in tears after successfully completing the dance. OMG, Hines proved he was a sensitive guy and a gentleman, in addition to having a great smile and killer moves on the dance floor.

Now the day has come - the finals of Dancing with the Stars. Tonight, the citizens of Steelers Nation will again be perched on the edge of our seats- Terrible Towels and voting devices in hand – waiting for our Steeler to take it all, for the glory of Pittsburgh.

Those Three Little Words

There are three little words I long to hear. They don’t come easily or often, yet when I hear them, they fill me with such rich satisfaction, such serendipity and serenity that it really defies description. I actually feel warm down to my toes.

“You were right.”

Yes, once in a while, in this hardscrabble world, someone will acknowledge that I am indeed correct about something. It’s probably just because I am surrounded by supremely confident and knowledgeable folks, many of them relatives, who are so totally secure in their own correctness that the veracity of my knowledge is never just taken for granted.

I don’t pretend to be infallible, and in fact, consider myself to be an expert on just two topics – Huckleberry Finn and the art of foundation relations and grant writing. I readily admit when I am wrong and defer to those with superior knowledge to mine on any given topic.

I have, however, learned a couple of things as I navigated my way through life so far, and I do on occasion know what I’m talking about. So it is a little baffling why no one believes me without some independent proof, even when I am presenting information that I know to be factual.

It’s one thing when the doubters are my peers or my elders, but my son was BORN with a robust level of skepticism. From the time he was a baby, he never believed a word I said. He always wanted verification, preferably written and from a respected reference book. The first time he actually said “You were right, Mom” he was 17. He now knows and acknowledges that I can be and have been right, but only grudgingly.

I only mention all of this, because it has been a banner month for me.

A few weeks ago, I gave my father a phone number that he needed after looking it up on the company website. He informed me that the number I gave him was wrong, because he got a different number from the phone book. I tried to explain that the website probably had the more up-to-date information, but he was having none of it. After calling the number in the book first (it was a wrong number) he reached the company with the number I gave him. He called back, to say, incredulously, “You know, Sharon, you were right.” Ah, that felt good, although I don’t know why he always sounds SO surprised when he discovers that I am right.

My sister actually KNOWS that she is always right about everything, which makes it difficult to set her straight when some misinformation falls into her unsuspecting hands. Just last week, she sent me an e-mail referring to a man by his son’s name. I informed her that she was really talking about the father, and explained why. SIX e-mails later, she remained unconvinced. Desperate, I downloaded a picture of father and son and sent them to her. Then and only then did she realize and acknowledge that she was indeed speaking of the father. And then she said, in writing, “Oh, yeah, and you were right.” Music to my ears!

Finally, last Monday, my son and I had a lively discussion about how we should watch the TV shows on the DVR. It’s kind of complicated to explain exactly what the disagreement was, but suffice it to say that we did it my way, because we were celebrating Mother’s Day. My son sat by, waiting to prove me wrong. But in the end it worked out just the way I said it would. My son said, “Well, Mom, first of all, you were right.” Perhaps the best Mother’s Day present of all!

It’s not that I’ve been right three times in one month that pleases me so. Believe it or not, that’s not SO unusual. No, it is that three generations of family members have actually said “You were right” to me in just one four-week period, and in one case, I have it in writing.

A Tale of Two "American Presidents"

It had been a busy weekend, what with the Royal Wedding, and the fact that we had sung with the Pittsburgh Concert Chorale in their Pops Concert. So, late on Sunday evening, I was winding down, watching “The American President” again. This perfectly charming movie stars Michael Douglas as a bachelor President who woos an environmental lobbyist, played by a delightful Annette Bening.


The movie was almost over, and I decided to check Facebook and e-mail one more time before turning in.   I logged onto Facebook, and then I saw all the posts. “Osama Bin Laden is dead!” proclaimed post after post, along with professions of disbelief, and celebration, and awe.

Well, I didn’t believe it. I figured there was one of those bogus virus links going around, like the one proclaiming that Charlie Sheen was dead, and now people were picking up that news and going wild posting it. I needed to find out if it was true, and I needed to see it somewhere other than the Internet.

With one last wistful look at “The American President,” I turned on the local CBS affiliate, and there was Russ Mitchell doing a special report on the death of Bin Laden. It turns out that he was indeed reported to be dead, and it wasn’t from natural causes. We were now just waiting for Barack Obama, the actual American President, to speak to the nation. Obama came on, and verified the reports. He had issued the order, and Navy Seals had carried out the mission. Osama Bin Laden was dead. Almost 10 years after the tragic events of September 11, 2001, the alleged perpetrator had been caught and killed.

You know that old advice to never discuss politics or religion? Well, that obviously does not apply to Facebook. First, there was a lot of celebration, a sense of justice being served, a lot of “about times” expressed. Then the backlash began, with lots of people talking about how the U.S. had no more right to kill Bin Laden than he had to organize the attacks that killed thousands of American citizens on our own soil. A doctored pacifistic misquote from Martin Luther King was reposted by a least a dozen of my Friends.

I was a little nostalgic for the days when I didn’t know everyone’s politics. I believe everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion, and that the freedom of speech does extend to online social networks. The only posts I found offensive were those in which the poster lectured and chided others about how they should feel and what they should post about this very important event in our history.

I found out a few things about myself through this incident. I do not trust Facebook as a news source - any news I hear on Facebook first needs to be verified by another source before I believe it to be fact. I really respect our American President. Barack Obama was decisive, took action, and followed through on something he determined to be a priority for the American people. And I am really fond of “The American President,” the movie. I’m still a little sorry to have missed the ending on this particular viewing.

Pomp, Circumstance and Crazy Hats

Luckily I chose to watch the Good Morning America coverage of the Royal Wedding with newswoman extraordinaire Barbara Walters as one of those broadcasting live from London. It was okay that I hadn’t read or watched much about the couple or their upcoming nuptials since they announced their engagement, because Barbara was a veritable fount of knowledge on the royal family, the wedding, and young Prince William and long-time girlfriend Kate Middleton.

You know, I was awfully smitten with Princess Diana. I watched it all when she married Prince Charles, 30 long years ago, just a few months after my own (first) wedding. That Royal Wedding was spectacular, but the marriage was sadly doomed from the start. So, I resolved to remain cavalier about William and Kate.

That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to watch every minute of the coverage of the actual Royal Wedding. Of course I was. I am an absolute sucker for a good (and even a bad) wedding, and Britain’s Royal Family certainly knows how to throw a wedding. Unlike thirty years ago, when I set my alarm to wake up at 5 a.m. and watched the entire five hours or so of coverage of Charles and Diana’s wedding live, I set my DVR to tape the wedding coverage, and figured I would watch it at my leisure.

However, on the morning of April 29th I just happened to wake up at 4:55 a.m., so there I was, watching the pre-coverage of the Royal Wedding, just as the guests were beginning to arrive, all dressed up, with the women in those crazy hats the Brits like so much. They were more objets d’art than just plain hats, and some of them (and I’m talking to you, Beatrix!) were just plain weird.

David and Victoria Beckham walked in, she looking as dour and unhappy as ever. Someone on the broadcast team wondered why they were invited. Barbara Walters explained that it wasn’t just because he was a big soccer player and a national treasure, but because William and he had worked on a project (which she explained in detail) together, and had formed a friendship and mutual respect. Thanks, Barbara!

Elton John was not only there but somehow he scored a front row seat. He was a close friend of Diana’s, so apparently her reign had some lasting effect on the monarchy after all. It also became apparent when Kate’s mother and brother arrived that the Middletons were going to bring some attractive genes to the royal gene pool, another tradition started by Diana.

The Queen arrived, dressed as the Sun, in a bright canary yellow dress and matching hat, with Prince Phillip at her side. A hale and hearty couple they are, at 85 and 90, respectively. I hate to say it, but they look more fit and healthier than Charles and Camilla.

Prince William and Prince Harry entered the Abbey, resplendent in their military uniforms. I couldn’t help but think of how very proud Diana would have been of her boys, whom she adored. They are both handsome and seemingly decent young men. That Harry, though - even if you didn’t know anything about him, you could tell by his swagger and the twinkle in his eye that he would be a hell of a good time at a party.

A bunch of older British types started to get out of cars. Diane Sawyer didn’t know who they were. “I’ll tell you who these people are,” Barbara said, riding to the rescue again. They are the minor royals, she explained, and then she named each and every one of them, including little factoids about their relationships to the Windsors. I’m telling you the woman is impressive.

Barbara and Diane talked about the fact the Princess-to-Be would “never be known as Kate again” – she would now be “Catherine.” At this point, I’m hesitant to doubt anything Barbara says, but it still seems hard to believe that no one, but NO ONE, will ever again call her Kate. And then she arrived.

Whatever you call her, she looked spectacular. The dress was, in a word, perfect. It was like Kate herself – beautiful but not over the top, pretty in a very natural sort of way. Barbara explained that the tiara she was wearing under her veil belongs to Queen Elizabeth.  It originally belonged to the Queen Mum who gave it to Elizabeth on 18th birthday. It was Kate’s “something borrowed.”

When she arrived at the altar after that four-minute walk down the aisle at Westminster Abbey, William looked at her with clear love and adoration in his eyes. I didn’t need Barbara or the lip reader they hired to tell me that what he said to her was “You look beautiful.” An understatement.

And in this crazy world in which we live, it was one perfect celebration of love between one Prince and his lovely lady. I kept thinking how Diana would have loved to see this all unfold and how pleased she would be that we have every reason to believe that this young couple is headed for a long and happy union. My husband – who is my own Prince Charming- just wanted to know when they were going to pick them up in chairs and dance the hora. I assured him that would probably happen later at the untelevised party.

"Hair," There and Everywhere

Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair
Shining, gleaming, streaming, flaxen, waxen….
                                                                                                    -James Rado and Gerome Ragni

It was always exciting when my older sisters came back from college for a visit, but nothing beat the time they came home for a break with their Hair soundtrack in tow. Their purpose was to shock my father, who was still listening to Jerry Vale and Lawrence Welk at the time.

Of course, I was intrigued, as any 12-year-old might be, and I eagerly followed the three of them into the dining room as my sisters started playing the album for my Dad. The song “Sodomy” came on, and I was fascinated. Despite priding myself on having a pretty good vocabulary, I did not understand one word of the song. My father suddenly realized I was sitting there, and said, “Sharon, you’re a little young for this, so you’d better leave the room.”

Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away from hearing the rest of that album, but my father could have if he wanted to. I had to think fast, which was never my forte. I always think of exactly the right comeback about an hour after I need it. However, this time my response was quick and perfect.

“Well, Dad, if I’m really too young for it, I won’t understand it anyway,” I reasoned, “and if I understand it, then I mustn’t be too young for it.” I waited, holding my breath to see if he would buy it.

The three of them regarded me silently for about 30 seconds, Dad suspiciously, and my sisters with a mixture of astonishment and shock. Anyone who knows my family can imagine how rare an occurrence 30 seconds of silence was in our household. Then, my father turned to my sisters, and said, “And just which one of you taught her THAT??” Ha! They were getting the blame. “Oh, no, it wasn’t us,” they quickly defended themselves, “She came up with that all on her own.” It was clearly against his better judgment, but my father let me stay.

I don’t think my sisters converted Dad to becoming a member of Hair’s musical tribe that day, but I was hooked. I loved the album so much that my sister let me borrow it, and didn’t reclaim it until several years later. I listened to it. I inhaled it. I was consumed by it. I spent some of my precious time at the Carnegie Library looking up all the words in the song “Sodomy,” doing my research the old fashioned way, in hard copy dictionaries. Just intellectual curiosity, I assure you, in the interest of improving my vocabulary.

Hair was jubilant, and defiant, and completely captured the hippie scene of the time. It was interesting musically, but the beautifully poetic lyrics about sex, love, drugs, politics, race, war and (naturally) long hair, absolutely took my breath away.

When I was 13, Hair came to the Nixon Theatre in Pittsburgh. My friend Casey was going. Casey was and still is one of my very best friends. Our friendship had its roots in our mutual appreciation for pop culture musical phenomena, namely the Monkees, who hit the scene when we were in fifth grade. We were the most avid “Monkee Lovers” in our class. Casey was very cool, and so it was no surprise that she also had one of the coolest mothers around. Mrs. B. actually took us to see the Monkees at the Civic Arena when they came to town when we were 10. It was my first “rock concert.”

Mrs. B. not only agreed to take Casey to see Hair, she bought a third ticket so that Casey could bring a friend. Naturally, I wanted to see Hair at the Nixon, and I wanted to see it with Casey and her mom. However, despite my parents’ resignation to my obsession with the Hair soundtrack, the stage play involved full frontal nudity which, surprisingly, was not featured on the soundtrack. Casey and I were both sure that my parents would never allow me to see Hair, so she was going to ask friends with more liberal parents. I was envious, but happy for her, and she promised to tell me all about it.

Then a strange thing happened. Those liberal parents of Casey’s other friends said no! Although I knew it was futile, both Casey and I thought that I could at least ask my parents if I could go.

The moon must have been in the Seventh House and Jupiter was obviously aligned with Mars when I asked my parents if I could go see Hair at the Nixon Theatre with Casey and her mom. They barely looked up from their newspapers. Sure, they said, as long as Mrs. B. was with us. My parents would let me go almost anywhere as long as there was an adult chaperone along, and they liked and trusted Casey’s mom. So, suddenly, I was going to see Hair at the Nixon, a dream come true.

Casey and I could barely contain our excitement as we arrived at the theater. Her mother led us to our seats which were…..in the last row in the theater. It dawned on us that Mrs. B. purposely bought tickets in the last row, to keep us at a safe distance from the actors on stage during the infamous nude scene. She might have been the coolest mother, but she was still a mother.

Well, Casey was pretty upset. She accused her mother of treating us like children- we were 13, after all! Her mother was largely unapologetic. I sat between them. Our seats didn’t bother me a bit - I was just grateful to be at this particular party. Casey, on the other hand, was still a little bitter about it when we discussed it the other day.



The program- courtesy of Casey B. 

 The show began and it was absolutely glorious- everything I had imagined and hoped for, and more. Of course they sang all the songs that I knew and loved so well, but it was more than just a show. It was an experience, a happening. It felt like we were hangin’ with the tribe, and their energy filled the theater, to the very last row. The nude scene was so darkly lit that the silhouetted bodies of the actors left me with no more of an idea what the male anatomy looked like than when I arrived. However, I could now say, truthfully, that I had seen Joe Mantegna naked. He played Berger in the show.

That production of Hair was about the closest I would get to living the hippie lifestyle, unless you count my stint as a member of the Folk Mass Group in high school, or the fact that as an adult I went to Grateful Dead concerts when they came to Pittsburgh. I had planned to be a hippie when I went to college, but by the time I got there Nixon was out of office and the war in Vietnam was over, and alas, the hippie scene had also passed.

Because of Hair, though, I get to occasionally revisit that place and time in America’s history. We saw it couple of years ago at Robert Morris University’s Colonial Theatre, with real live college kids who really got into the spirit of it, despite having no first-hand knowledge of the sensibility of the time.

Then last week we saw the revival of Hair when it came to Heinz Hall in Pittsburgh with the Broadway series (a subscription was my son’s generous Christmas present to us). This was a fabulous production with the same exuberance I remember in the first production I saw all those years ago. But this was a really good show, not a happening, because these fine young professional actors weren’t there in the 60’s. This became apparent when one of the young tribe members working our part of the balcony during the show kept high-fiving people. We didn’t do that in the 60’s.

It was clear though that we middle-aged-and-beyond members of the audience were fondly and nostalgically remembering the days when Hair first took the stage. And let’s face it, “Give me a head with hair, long, beautiful hair” had even more meaning than ever for some of us.

A Day at the Museum, A Night at the Theatre

Someone once said, “The definition of insanity is repeating the same behavior over and over again, and expecting different results.” No one knows who said this for sure. It’s been attributed most often to either Benjamin Franklin or Albert Einstein, but it can’t be proved that either one of them actually said it. Of course, this is not the legal or official definition of insanity, used for psychological diagnosis and in legal cases, which is the inability to differentiate what is real from what is not.

Thank goodness, because this means that my husband and I were not insane for going to a museum in New York City the day after Thanksgiving two years in a row. Forgetful? Perhaps. Foolish? Probably. “Both Sides Now” kind of cock-eyed optimists who insist on seeing the good things about clouds no matter how often they block the sun, or rain and snow on everyone? Sure. But NOT insane.

I blame Tim Burton for the first time we made this mistake. It was all because of him that last year we decided to “make a day” of our annual trip to NYC to see a show with a trip to the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA), which was featuring an exhibit of his work that interested my husband.

Let me tell you how I feel about art museums. You know how sometimes meditation and relaxation exercises involve visualizing yourself in peaceful, tranquil settings? I suppose that most people think of themselves on a lake or in some pretty nature setting, but I don’t really like nature that much, and don’t find being outside even remotely relaxing. I always envision myself in an art museum, sitting and looking at a beautiful oversized piece of art, maybe something by Claude Monet. Every time I visit a new city I make a point of visiting its art museum, and I like going alone. Yes, I adore art museums, and most of the art you find there.

Then there are the modern art pieces. Call me obtuse, but I just don’t get modern art, for the most part. Given that the actual definition of insanity is a warped perception of reality, when I look at Picasso’s work, I wonder if he was ever in therapy. I don’t find anything about paint splattered randomly on a canvas (a la Jackson Pollak) particularly genius, interesting or attractive.

My sister said it best. On my first visit to see her when she moved to Baltimore, I wanted to see the Baltimore Museum of Art. She agreed to take me there (because she loves me). We were having a perfectly lovely time, enjoying the artwork, and our conversation, and then we came to the modern art exhibit. We were politely going from picture to picture, when we found ourselves in front of one of those massive works consisting of four symmetrical perfectly square blocks of canvas painted in primary colors. After regarding it for a few seconds, my sister said to me, “You know, I have a theory about art. If I could do it, it isn’t art.” Exactly! A lot of modern art pieces look like anyone could do it.

MOMA that day was the antithesis of everything I love about art museums. We arrived early in the afternoon to find a sea of humanity in the lobby waiting to buy tickets. To add insult to injury, the Tim Burton exhibit was completely sold out. That sea of people flowed through the various galleries, completely interfering with my ability to even see the art, much less enjoy it. Luckily, it was just modern art, so I wasn’t missing that much. Of course, we had fun, because that’s what we do.

After making our escape from MOMA, we found a nice seafood restaurant that wasn’t crowded, and which featured a good and reasonably-priced prix fixe menu that involved lobster. It was quiet and relaxed, and, in fact, the only excitement we experienced during the entire meal was when Spiderman walked past our window. This was long before he had his own show on Broadway. He was carrying a backpack, and, this being New York, no one even looked at him twice. Obviously, I looked, but I’m from Pittsburgh, where we still get excited about superheroes walking amongst us.

From there we went to see “Billy Elliott,” and it was simply spectacular. It had an interesting storyline, based on an actual historical event. The juxtaposition of the story of the coal miners’ strike and the children in ballet class, the great performances and dance numbers made it as enjoyable an evening as can be had in the theater.

Let’s fast forward to November 2010, shall we? My son is with us this year, and we already have our tickets to see “Memphis” the day after Thanksgiving. We decide to “make a day” of it and go the Museum of Natural History in the morning before our afternoon matinee. Does any of this sound familiar? Sensing a pattern, a certain “déjà vu” in this story? I do not remember either my husband or I saying, “Wait a minute- remember what happened with MOMA last year?” Off we went, like happy little lemmings into the sea of people waiting for us at the museum.

Now I have a bit more affinity for natural history than I do for modern art (“I’ll take African Mammals for $1000, Alex”) but the museum was packed from the moment we stepped off the subway and into its hallowed halls. There were all kinds of people – including lots of little children- between us and those stuffed mammals and dinosaur bones. I was reminded of that Christopher Durang monologue from “Laughing Wild” about just wanting to get to the tuna fish in the supermarket. My son was intrigued by the place and vowed to return sometime when it was less crowded, perhaps some Wednesday afternoon in February. We had fun, of course, because that’s what we do.

After we made our escape from the museum, we were off to “Memphis,” which was simply spectacular. It was, in many ways, a good old-fashioned musical with an interesting storyline based on historical fact. Its compelling characters, and excellent songs and dances, made it as enjoyable an afternoon as can be had in the theater.

After the show, we had dinner at a nice little restaurant we’ve discovered near our parking garage that is rarely crowded and has good food at reasonable prices. Spiderman must have been in rehearsals this year because we didn’t see him wandering the streets.

It’s funny how memory works, isn’t it? We remember all the good things about an experience but block out the parts that traumatize us. However, I am pretty sure that we will not be going to a museum when we visit NYC the weekend after Thanksgiving next year, because that really WOULD be insane.