With Love From Me, To You

I just returned home (greeted by a huge, black bug waiting for me on the kitchen counter) from a first ever three-day, two-night sleepover at one of my oldest friends, SC’s (no, not South Carolina’s) house. Because her husband is in Haiti, photo-documenting a pop-up medical clinic, and because one of her writer friends just published her first novel and was giving a reading, I drove almost two hours for some rare one-on-one time together (and to keep her from committing hari-kari from writerly jealousy).

Not once did we worry about monitoring our comments or behavior, stifling our laughter, or repressing our gastrointestinal comings and goings. Instead of worrying, we gossiped, ate too much and too often, laughed hysterically, confessed real and imagined sins, read aloud to each other from the New York Times, obsessed about our children, talked about books and the last episode of Mad Men, and sat quietly, side-by-side on the couch, our laptops on our laps, noodling around Computerland.

On my second day, we jumped into the car and drove to the neighborhood farm store for fresh mozzarella, which we combined with fresh-picked tomatoes and basil growing like crazy in the garden. We side-tripped to a favorite bakery, Lakota, to snap up a dozen outrageously sweet homemade cookies for late night noshing (a nice change from the fresh ice cream we scarfed down the night before). They were so sweet I was worried I’d lapse into a diabetic coma after one bite. 

We schlepped into Boston for the book reading at the Boston Public Library, easily found an ideal parking spot in a nearby parking garage, sat with our feet in a reflecting pool of water near an old church in Copley Square, then slowly dragged ourselves in the heat to the right room for the book reading. After the book signing and congratulating, we accidentally stumbled upon my husband’s favorite sushi joint on Newberry Street, where we sat on high-backed stools at the counter and stuffed ourselves once again.

We stayed up past midnight, our eyes closing and snapping back open as we talked and talked. We found out that we’re so in synch that we both recently bought expensive leather pocketbooks we’d coveted, but ended up with odd, non-traditional colors (coral and yellow) instead of more traditional brown and black. We both stored them in our respective closets in their individual cloth drawstring bags, and hid their ridiculously high costs from our husbands.

Are three-day visits, late-night talks, and wrong-colored pocketbooks the stuff of future novels? Nah. But we are: a friendship lasting 37 years, mixed and matched with loving kindness, easy camaraderie and shared memories, loud burps and inappropriate comments, wishes made on stray coins found heads-up on the street, and endless teachable moments. We might not be back in the USSR, but we sure do know how lucky we are.

Water, Water Everywhere!

I’ve grown up to be a scaredy cat who’s (currently) afraid of heights, lightning, guns, an encyclopedic array of bugs, getting my head dunked under water, violent movies, flying on small airplanes (or big ones), late night (or very early morning), phone calls, all of my doctors, sitting in the passenger seat of my husband’s midlife-crisis (convertible) sports car, sunburn, our central air conditioning system (it tends to spring leaks and ruin our ceilings), calling my swollen big toes “bunions,” and many other things that if I listed them I’m sure you’d believe I should be institutionalized.

A few weeks ago (or was it only a week ago? Oh, how time flies when I’m so hot I can barely move, let alone remember anything) I was in Banff (or as my son-in-law likes to call it, “Banffffffffffffffff”) with my son-in-law’s entire family (on his father’s side), celebrating his grandparents’ sixty-fifth wedding anniversary. One of the planned activities for the trip was a 2-hour white water rafting expedition down the Kicking Horse (or as I called it – Kick Ass) River in British Columbia. Since one of my biggest fears is head dunking, I told my daughter there was no way I was going to participate in this idiotic day of water torture.

But then, my son-in-law’s brother kind of, sort of cyber-bullied me and typecast me as a wussygirl - which I am, but privately, not publicly (until today). This left me no alternative but to prove him wrong by emailing back that I was, too, going, so there, you macho man, arm twisting, semi-relative. So, busted!

Oh, I went all right - but at first with such a negative attitude (and teary-eyed stoicism) you’d have thought I was marching off to be water boarded. I reluctantly squeezed myself into my one-piece black wetsuit, flimsy fleece sweatshirt, yellow rubber raincoat, orange life vest, and orange helmet. I avidly listened to each and every word preached to the group by the rafting guides. I memorized all of the rules, especially the one for falling out of the boat (“feet up, let ‘em greet your face”). My anxiety level was sky high, but I didn’t raise my hand when we were asked if anyone wanted to sit on the bus for the next two hours (which I oh-so-badly wanted to do). When our guide asked if everybody was ready, I was the only one who didn’t scream, “YES!”

The before picture taken of me in the rubber river raft (I sat in the back for the first hour of the ride, then in the front for the last hour) vividly exposes scared-shitless me: my mouth is pulled down to my chin, my body is slumped forward, and my entire demeanor emanates fear. The next picture, taken right after we’d slammed through our first huge wall of ice-cold water, soaking me inside and out, shows me grinning from ear to ear, water dripping down my glasses, arms spread out in utter abandon. Surprise! I loved it!

I loved being scared to death, getting soaked, not falling in (two kids from another boat fell in – our boat rescued one, mute with fear), grabbing on to the ropes (inside and out), following every, single direction, paddling (yes, I even paddled!), shivering from the cold (it was icy cold that day and the water was even colder), going head first into Class 4 waves, and (be still my heart) howling with delight. I can’t lie: I experienced extreme happiness, because the ride was fun (but also because I didn’t fall out).

Would I do it again? Maybe. Is scaredy-cat me glad she went? YES! YES! YES! (Too bad the rafting guides can’t hear me, eh?)

Blame Canada!

A Rose is a Rose (or a Leah)

When I was little, I had two grandmoms, but I didn’t love ‘em both the same. Leah, my favorite, was sweet and kind, mine all mine, while Rose, my hands-down unfavorite, treated me bad and made me mad.

After both sets of grandparents ended up moving to the same Center City apartment building, I spent most Sunday afternoons throughout my childhood visiting one and then the other, starting with Rose and Sam, my father’s parents, and ending with Leah and Grampy, my mom’s. We’d take the elevator to Rose’s floor, where we three kids always hung back by dragging our feet down the long, carpeted hallway. Our hands glued to our sides, we’d refuse to knock on the door, hissing back and forth, “You knock,” and “No, you knock,” until our father or mother would reluctantly lift the knocker to announce we were there.

Rose and her witch shoes would loudly clomp to the door, where she’d fumble to unlock the many locks guarding her fortress. As soon as I heard the final clonk of the last dead bolt, signaling she’d be popping her angry face out like a frightening jack-in-the-box, I’d have to force myself to breathe, because I dreaded her claw-like hand’s grab, which pulled me to her mouth so she could suck my cheek instead of softly kissing it. I don’t know if the rest of my family hating being cheek-sucked or visiting her as much as I did, because we never discussed it, but I’m guessing they wished they could be anywhere else but there, too. Since I only vaguely remember silent Grandpop Sam, I’m guessing that’s because wild, Jewish Rose takes up most of the room in my now middle-aged memory bank.

After she unhanded me, I’d walk inside and pay silent homage to 4 year-old me dressed up in my hand-me-down party dress, heart necklace (my one and only present from Rose), and black patent shoes, captured forever inside the one displayed picture on the cabinet next to the door: Rose and Sam’s Fiftieth wedding anniversary at the Warwick hotel. All I knew about Rose and Sam was in this family portrait, where all of us (except my cousin M, who wasn’t born yet) were permanently captured together as a family for the first and only time. I know they say a picture’s worth a thousand words, but I wish my grandmom had been able to substitute even half of those thousand, so I’d have learned more about her than the almost-nothing I knew and know.

What I can tell you about Rose is that she was short, low-to-the-ground, Yiddish-accented, unfriendly, boxlike, and scary. She sported dangling arm flesh, bright red lipstick, black clumpy lace-up shoes, and a humorless countenance. I used to stare at her in dread, wishing to be anywhere else but near her. She didn’t hug, coddle, or talk, although she sure did loom large. The only grandmotherly act I remember her performing was to offer us a dish of dried, stale candy, which she’d slam down on the coffee table and order us to “Est and be qviet.” As deprived of candy as we three kids were, and we were seriously deprived (my mom, dead against sweets, convinced me that even looking at candy would rot my teeth), I was never able to enjoy (or swallow) one piece of that white-spotted drek, Sunday after Sunday, during those interminable visits.

My favorite part of the visit occurred when my mother cheerfully reminded Rose it was time for us to visit her parents, our well-deserved reward for withstanding Rose’s unpleasantness. Getting off the elevator a second time, we three kids would race each other to the next set’s door, then fight each other to be the first to knock with all our might. Once inside, I’d snuggle up to Grampy or search for treasures in Leah’s drawers, which held a mish-mash of colorful costume jewelry, eyeglasses of every shape and hue, and little plastic volcano-shaped viewfinders with pictures of the two of them posing jauntily on vacation in Florida.

Now that I’m a grandmom, I wonder what the grandkids will remember about me, now that I have my own set of unmistakable DNA-twinned arm flaps (even after religiously lifting weights) and enough inner Leah to shower the people I love with love. At least when they’ve traveled over the river and through the woods, they’ll find a stash of children’s book to rival a library, many of the kids’ best-loved toys, and my husband’s and my two hearts (silver and gold) ready to burst with adoration when the time comes for our little treasures to come knocking at our door.

Oh, boy, does hope ever spring eternal, “ready to [expatiate] in a life to come.” (Yes, I’m quoting Alexander Pope – who’d have imagined?)

Rose-Colored Glasses? Yeah, Right!

As the gulf oil spill continues to gush and my migraines to crush, the news from Lake Woe-Is-Me is not as rosy as I’d hoped.  I know, I know - I made a vow to remain positive for the entire month of June, but my migraine brain refuses to let me live up to it. On Monday it unleashed what has now turned into a three-day bender’s-worth of pain, and it’s been really, really (yes – really) hard for me to do anything more than lie around in the dark, blocking out the bright, sunshine-y days outside my window.

Some of you TV-watchers may be familiar with the series Say Yes to the Dress (I’ve never watched it - sorry), which is why I’d like to introduce you to my own, original, newly-developing spring blockbuster: Say Yes, You’re a Mess. Oh what clever things I think up when I’m lying in bed, listening to the wheels go round and round.

Here are some of the upcoming episode titles: Yes, I’m spending too much time groaning, kvetching, and moaning (but you would, too, if it happened to yoooooou). Yes, I find it difficult to look on the bright side (even though I have a terrific pair of dark prescription sunglasses). Yes, I know I’m not a magician, which is why I can’t wave a magic wand and stop the pain. Yes, I’m doing yoga breathing, although it only seems to work on others, for some strange reason. Yes, I’ve made promises I can’t keep, even though I’m not Tim Hardin. Yes, I can do something about this mess I’m in, which is why I’m going to see my drug-pushing neurologist tomorrow instead of eating lunch at home like I usually do. And, finally, yes, we have no bananas.

Doldon (that’s what I sound like when I say “hold on,” especially when I’m teaching ESL) to your hats. Someone at the New England Center for Headache (in Stamford, CT) just called to “congratulate” (her word, not mine) me for being “accepted” (who do they think they are? Harvard?) as a patient (I called yesterday, when the pain was getting me down, to find out if they’re on the up and up). But, first, I must fill out a gigantic packet of forms, then pledge to pay out of pocket, since they don’t accept our insurance, and, last but not least, wait until August to be seen (or sooner, should someone cancel an appointment – or die, whichever happens first – nudge nudge, wink wink). As you can imagine – yes – I’m not over the moon about this place.

And the beat goes on, even though, yes, I know I’m not Cher (but once, right before my senior year of high school started, I was at a school dance, and the guy I was dancing with said my long hair made me look like Cher).

Everything's Coming Up Roses

The other day I was unable to stop and smell the roses (don’t worry, I’m not referring to Ringo Starr’s album) popping up like popcorn in Elizabeth Park, because I’m so industrially allergic to them. I’m also highly allergic to most other flowers, dust, pollen, yeast, pine trees, perfume, cigarette smoke, anything and everything scented (think shampoo, sunblock, lotions and emollients, makeup, and, oh Lordy, a list so long I’ve only just begun to describe it), as well as, in the past few months, alcohol, of all things (it triggers an instant migraine so painful that if I described it, you’d get one, too).

I tried to imagine myself smelling them while wearing my old, rubber nose plugs, which rest in peace in my underwear drawer in their little plastic container (since 1964!) to block out their luscious (yet sadly toxic-to-me) odor, but I couldn’t, because I was too busy sneezing and itching my eyes out. I had to race home like Atalanta and swallow a Claritan (which I forgot to take before heading outside). It’s a good thing I didn’t actually try out the nose plug thing, though, because if I had, I’d probably have been arrested for insane, rather than indecent, exposure.

Since I am no longer able to literally smell things like roses, I started thinking about metaphorically smelling them, especially after my husband challenged me to say and do (he left off think, thank god) only “positive” things for the upcoming month of June. I’m not used to channeling my Pollyannaish, positive side, but since I have 4 cheeks to turn, I chose one and accepted his challenge.

I will be spending the next thirty days burying my Scrooge-like, bah humbug-ness, and channeling my inner Mama Rose. As I aim for hitting the heights, keep your fingers crossed for me as I skip the light fandango, turn cartwheels across the floor, and turn an even lighter shade of pale. I'll keep you posted as I keep myself from going postal.

Let the wild rumpus start.

Take My Hand...

Recently, I started thinking that you might think I’m strange because of my need to obsessively hyperlink the music that swirls inside my head with my tip-tappingly typed-up bloggerly-written content. If you do, I’d rather you thought of me as Michel Gondry-ish strange, even though, unlike Gondry, who holds nothing back, I hold myself back from all-out exposing you to the full range of debris circulating inside my aging head (like my 62 year-old treasure trove of stranger than fiction book and movie references, as well as 58 years worth of stronger than dirt T.V. shows and commercials).

What I think is strange is that when I listened to Mick Jagger (my favorite after John Lennon when I was in high school in the 60’s) being interviewed the other day on NPR, I was shocked that he sounded like a veddy upper class twit Brit. He’s a good enunciator, as is Bob Dylan when he hosts his radio show on XM/Sirius radio, but I always thought of him as a street-talking kind of guy. When he was asked about the re-release of the Stones’ remastered 1972 album, Exile on Main Street, he must’ve thought it was strange that he had to offer up serious answers to what I thought of as strangely zip-a-dee-doo-dah questions. I have no idea how he managed to keep himself from hooting and hollering after he was asked if he wrote his new lyrics for the new album’s unpublished outtakes the same way he did forty years ago.

I wonder what the interviewer (Renee Montagne) was thinking when she asked this strangely inane question, because who doesn’t write (and think) differently, forty years down the pike (unless they’re stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again)? Jim Morrison was right – people are strange, especially when they’re strangers.

Take my hand, and become a stranger in paradise with me, as forty plus years later I explain how I think differently, now that I’m one month into being a senior citizen. I now think people act strangely in stores, especially when they bump into me, try to pretend they’ve done nothing wrong (even though they have), and then glare at me like I’m strange when I refuse to apologize for their mistakes. The other day I was in Whole Foods, minding my own business, methodically sorting through the sell-dates on all the Fage yogurts so I could snatch up the newest batch. Suddenly, this insane woman smashed her cart into my leg, loudly yelled at me to watch where I was going, then stood there tapping her foot impatiently as she waited for me to apologize. Since I had done nothing to apologize for (I was the one standing still, right?), I refused. Instead of giving her the satisfaction of speaking, I stared straight into her eyes, gritted my teeth (in pain), rubbed my now-bruised leg, and wiggled my nostrils in and out like a rabbit. Strange, but true.

I now think people are stranger, yet, on trains, especially in the newly created quiet car, which didn’t exist when I first started taking Amtrak in 1958. Today they often refuse to be quiet – even after being called out for rude, annoying, inappropriate, uber loud cell phone talking. I love how they pretend to ignore the Ssh! This is The Quiet Car sign, my (and other passengers’) repeated requests to shut up, and often even the conductor when we rat them out (which always makes me feel like I’m complaining to my mom that my younger sister is bothering me). I’m now amazed how people who break the rules act shocked and surprised when they’re being confronted, then look around in wonder at us, their accusers (strangers, all), as if the theme from Twilight Zone was suddenly leaking its way through the train’s loudspeakers, proving that we’re the strange ones, not them.

After practicing yoga for the past 36 years, I more often than not believe that yoga classes have turned into refuges for strange, odd duck acolytes. My favorite yoga class is often invaded by a loud-breather guy whose noises make it impossible for me to keep a straight face as he turns what are usually quiet downward facing dog and warrior posing moments into high comedy. Instead of in-through-the-nostrils, out-through-pursed-lips breaths, he produces loud piggy snorts, gurgling, or deep-voiced groans, making it hard for me to focus on anyone or anything but him. His obvious-to-me strangeness doesn’t seem to bother the others, but unbalances me so much I have to om shanty om up a storm inside my head so I won’t fall off my tree pose and dissolve into hysterical giggles.

I can’t help but feel like a stranger in a strange land these days - maybe because I’m getting older, maybe because I’m not working full time and I have more time to think about strange things (don’t get me started on those Tea Party poopers) – or maybe because my past is butting up against me, laying waste my powers. Never fear - faces aren’t coming out of the rain – but I’m pretty sure something equally bizarre will emerge next on my middle-aged strange-o-meter, proving to me that I am, in fact, not morphing into old and intolerant, but merely experiencing strange days, indeed.

Count on Me

I told the head of group exercise at my gym that she could count on me to wear an AARP-sponsored pedometer for 10 weeks, with the goal of taking at least 10,000 steps a day. Unfortunately, I’m not even close to meeting this goal, so my failure has turned me into a petulant pedometer pooper (which every party has, all alliteration aside).

I mean – how on earth is it possible that I, Ms. Flibber-de-Gibbet, the Original Restless Leg Swinger, am only averaging 5,000 steps a day, considering all I do is walk, exercise, then walk some more? Explain why no matter how I try to up my step quotient, I remain lower than low on the totem pole. I’m all ears, since these feet don’t seem to be doing enough walkin’.

My newest illogical answer is that I must be moving my legs and size 7 feet too fast for the pedometer to accurately measure my steps; therefore, it’s the pedometer’s fault, not mine.

As if.

Seriously, though – how can it be my fault, when I rarely sit still (even when I’m typing on the computer or checking email)? How come I, uber diligent student and slave that I am to this stupid, frickin’ black and white plastic clip-on box, am not in the top 50,000 step range, considering that I even clip the thing on my underpants when I get up, so that (God forbid) I won’t miss counting a step before I get my pants on? How come, now that I go out of my way to run up and down the stairs even more now than I did before I had to count my steps, they don’t add up?

I’ve decided that it’s your turn to explain, because this morning when I went to yoga, which was taught by a new instructor whose voice was pitched so low and New Age water-dripping-down-the-stones music was so droningly and ear-splittingly loud I couldn’t hear most of what she was telling us to do, I barely moved, let alone took steps. But, when I got home and checked my pedometer, it said I was up to 7,221.

I am no longer holding myself accountable, even though I try so hard. Maybe I do not understand, because something is happening here, but I don’t know what it is. Do you? 

Where The He(art) Is

I can’t make art, so I compensate for it by decorating the walls of my house with as much of it as I can. My newest acquisition, titled Tableau, is a Michelle Weinstein dipping-pen-and-ink-on-paper original, hot off the walls of her Smack Mellon Brooklyn, N.Y. exhibit. It arrived from Los Angeles (where she lives and paints), wrapped in so many layers of bubble wrap that it took me nearly twenty minutes to cut it free from its shackles.

As I sat down on the kitchen floor to look over Moo’s magnificent gift, my heart swelled with pride at her depiction of wintery trees, spine-like in their bareness. I spent so much time kvelling that I left myself less than five minutes to drive like the wind to the library for my last day of volunteering at its community knitting program (say that fast three times - and I can guarantee that the skin around your mouth will tighten and tone). It was my last volunteer hour there until the program starts back up in the fall, so I didn’t want to be late.

For our last day together, our library leader decided to reward our knitters by introducing a simple take-home art project: decorating cheap tchotchke pendants with bottles of glitter glue. Our young knitters instantly turned themselves into mini-Picassos and Pollocks, while I cheered them on, oohing and aahing like the true art lover that I am. Each kid’s creation-in-the-making looked really and truly terrific (unlike their knitting projects, which often looked mostly not-so-terrific). Watching them effortlessly work like busy bees, I was reminded yet again how I tank at creating art (even though I rule at teaching knitting).

I didn’t want to admit up front to them that I’m art-impaired, so I plopped myself down at the “adult” table and attempted to imitate them. I started with silver (oh-so-sparkly and tiara-ish), quickly switched to pink, green (a disaster – I smeared it all over the letter i), purple, gold, and last but not least, blue, which was the only color not being used. Soon the other adults joined me in decorating (and appropriating glitter glue squeeze bottles from the kids).

As I dabbed dots of colors along my pendant’s letters (f-r-i-e-n-d), I found myself muttering that I was not doing a very good job, was I. One mom across the table from me was painting a magnificently colorful pendant, as was the one across from her. My friend L, on the other hand, seemed to be having almost as much trouble as I was. We whispered to each other that we were not only far from terrific, but missing the “art gene,” too.

The kids had finished with their decorating by then, so they gathered around me, the person who always gathers around them to cheer them on with their knitting. They weren’t cheering, though, when they saw the disaster I’d produced. Instead they shouted things like, “Oh. You’re not very good at art, are you?” “Do you want me to do this over for you?” “I can make this look better, if you’ll stop ruining it.” “Were you the worst student in art when you were younger?” “You should wash off all the glitter or you’ll never fix this mess.” “You might be ‘the ripper’ when you help us knit – but you’re the dripper today, because look at you - you’ve smeared glitter glue all over yourself.”

Oh, were they ever happy correcting me, their weekly corrector. Laughter and joy literally dripped out of their mouths, along with the pink-iced cupcake, hummingbird cake, and snickerdoodle crumbs they were chowing down on. I can tell you that they loved “fixing” my mistakes for once, instead of me fixing theirs, and that I loved that they offered to fix L’s, as well (it made me feel a little misery-loves-company better).

Once they were all done, they happily grabbed their artwork, and L and I graciously donated our made-over pendants to the girls who labored over remaking them. I thanked the librarian for my thank-you gift (a sampler box of Whitman’s Dark Chocolates), we all hugged each other, and then waved good-bye with our glitter-covered fingers.

And, oh, was I ever happy, because I’d never to have to see that pendant again. Smiling like the Cheshire cat at my hour of artlessness, I couldn’t wait to get in my car and drive myself home, where the art is.

Cat and Mouse

My migraine brain has been trying to kill me. It misunderstands me, and thinks I’m happy living with it, but I’m not. Today it’s playing mouse, so I’m playing cat as I lay in wait for this brief, pain-free interval to stop sticking like a perfect Olympic landing.

As I wait, I’ve been entertaining myself by sorting through my blockbuster laundry list of movies-in-the-making events. My first feature, Oh My God, Our Passports Have Been Stolen, stars me as a frantic, drawer-ripping-apart lunatic and my husband as a calm, naysayer who exclaims, over and over, “You always do this. You swear something’s been stolen and it never is. Remember your “stolen” earrings? Hidden in your sock drawer. Remember your “stolen” heart necklace? Hidden in a different sock drawer.”

This drama-packed film is full of insane dialogue (“Of course I didn’t move the damn passports. Don’t you know I never move things from their spots – especially this spot, which is 26 years old? Trust me. I know they were stolen.”), live action strewing of desk drawer contents, kangaroo-like jumps up and down stairs, and madcap rifling through random rooms and sock drawers.

The final scene slowly lingers on me, exhausted from searching for and shrieking about “stolen” passports, not listening to my husband first threatening to call the police to report our cleaning people and ruin their lives, and then repeating over and over, “I told you so.” Spoiler Alert: The passports were not stolen. I can’t be trusted. I move things, and forget I moved them. Yes, I moved the freaking passports inside a fireproof safe given to me by my pseudo-daughters, which they no longer needed after they emptied out their mom’s estate. Satisfied?

My second feature, Let’s Itch Again, Like We Did Last Summer, stars me (yes, again!) and my husband. The camera lovingly lingers on a silver BMW sports car, its top down. and on two grumpy middle-aged people (yeah – us again) squeezed into a pint-sized death trap, getting ready to zoom (“Too fast,” the wife screams, “You’re driving way too fast.”) to Tulmeadow Farms in West Simsbury, CT to treat themselves to their first favorite ice cream of the newly sprung spring season.

As they drive along in the husband’s midlife crisis convertible (or as the wife calls it, the penis), it’s clear that it’s a warm spring afternoon, because the car’s outdoor thermometer says 83 degrees. The wife has forgotten that the air is full of pollen and allergens. She has also forgotten to bring her antihistamines. (Yes – I admit it! I forget things. So sue me and get it over with, already!) The wife does remember to wear her (stupid) UConn basketball-insignia-ed baseball cap to ward off scalp cancer, though, so all is not lost.

When they arrive, there is a long line of people dying to eat delicious, creamy, Voted Connecticut’s Number One ice cream. Husband and wife stand behind some young, vital, sports-loving dads and their daughters, whom the wife takes an instant dislike to because she’ll never be young like them again. She tries not to drool as she waits for her small (2 scoops) red raspberry, chocolate chip regular not sugar cone. As she sucks saliva back into her mouth, she spies gorilla-sized bees flying above her head, foreshadowing something ominous. (You’ll have to keep reading to find out what, though.) They dive-bomb, so she keeps cringing and pointing at them, as if that’s going to stop them from scaring the living beejesus out of her or those damned adorable young dads.

Finally, the exhausted kid behind the window hands the couple their ice cream in both cone and cup (the husband always orders his ice cream in a cup, because he believes doing so will cut down his caloric intake, even though this ice cream is so chock full of fat and calories that one tiny cone is a drop in the proverbial bucket). Pan in on the wife grabbing a too-big pile of paper napkins, which she starts pointing at the damn bees, because they’re getting a little too close for comfort, for goodness sake.

The camera pans away as the two grumpuses slowly march away from the killer bees, into the woods, where they walk, slurp, and wipe. Suddenly, the wife’s left eye becomes wildly inflamed. She experiences an itching so strong that she screams, “I’m going to scratch this eye out, and I don’t care if it makes me go blind.” Zoom in on the swelling, red, allergic, pollen-filled left eye, which instantly swells up into a carbon copy of those damn killer bees’ bodies. Aah. Foreshadowing explained at last. Happy?

I’m sorry, but there’s not going to be a third feature, because I’m too old to sit through three movies in one day, let alone write about them. I’ll leave you with a brief synopsis-like trailer of the third (and last) movie, though, because I’m a nice person and I don’t want to leave anyone hanging. (Get it? Trailer? Hanging? Foreshadowing? Knick knack paddywack, give the dog a bone?) 


With a roar sounding nowhere near as scary as the opening-credits MGM lion, this fake filmmaker (Yes, me again! It’s my blog and I’ll appear if I want to) must now slowly lower the curtain on yet another beautiful day in the neighborhood, because it’s time for her to work on keeping that mouse at bay, so that please, oh please, she will not have to experience another migraine before the day is done.

The Party's Over

The phones (both cell and land – sometimes both at the same time) have stopped ringing, the cards have stopped dropping through the mail slot, the Facebook greetings and emails have ceased, the doorbell’s stopped ringing, and the UPS guy has stopped delivering. My 62nd birthday has come and gone, quick as a wink, so the party’s [definitely] over.

Our tasting menu of a lunch took four hours to eat, because there were so many courses and so much artistically prepared food delivered to our table by the window twenty stories up (overlooking Hartford and the Connecticut river). I lost count after the fourth course (I think there were more than eleven!), because I had to get up and take a walk around the restaurant, to redistribute my mussels, New Zealand cockles, head-on shrimp, and sous vided scallop to make room for more.

By the time our delightful waitress placed the so-called last plate of food in front of me, I was on the verge of tears, because I was afraid that leaving uneaten food on my plate would insult the chef (I ended up bringing it home), who’d stood at attention in his kitchen, cooking up deliciously-creative dish after dish, just for the two of us. I was unable to put one more morsel of food into my mouth, even though Hudson Valley foie gras and duck were staring me in my bloated face. I ate the leftovers for lunch today – and they were still delicious (even though I ate them cold, directly out of the take-out container, without heating them up).

I dried my eyes and watched my husband eat his portion, then I got up and walked around some more, so I’d be able to farci myself like a long-necked goose with a few tastes of dessert. I don’t know how I ate every morsel of the two desserts that were eventually delivered, but I probably managed to stuff them down the hatch because I have a separate compartment inside that opens its gates even after the regular compartments are chock full.

The icing on the cake of this birthday present extravaganza, though, my favorite present of the day (along with my newest commemorative UConn Women’s basketball T-shirt, and 3 Jane Austen paperbacks – which my husband will be reading aloud to me) was the lunch and learn portion of the afternoon. I was invited to come into the kitchen and watch the chef prepare four of our courses. I wish I could’ve helped him cook, too (he said a firm “No! No!” to the idea when my husband asked, because he works alone), but being a watcher still turned out to be a big treat for foodie me (I call myself foodmaven on Chowhound).

I was thrilled to my quickly-filling core to be allowed to step inside his stainless steel private Idaho and watch how a real artist works behind the scenes, because I never, ever slow down long enough to deconstruct or conjure up the origins of beautifully-presented food. I’m so glad I had a chance to stop being my usual little piggy eater self and smell the spices.

I loved watching, because I’m not (darn it) capable of creating culinary masterpieces like my idols, Hartford’s Noel Jones of On20 or world-famous Thomas Keller of Napa’s French Laundry and New York City’s Per Se. I’m a mere recipe-following cook (and pattern-following knitter), which is why my four forays into the kitchen were eye opening and delightful artistic lessons for someone like me, who, once food magically appears, gives it a quick oh-wow, isn’t-this-amazing glance, then slurp…inhales it. (I’m not referred to as Hoover for nothing.) My four instructive trips turned into welcome, concrete mini-lessons that reshaped and refueled my (un)orthodox foodieism.

In case you’re interested, we’re eating leftovers tonight, from the pedestrian dinner I cooked on Monday (eye of the round in special, secret sauce, cooked @ 300 degrees for three hours; a tossed salad with my daughter’s delicious lime dressing, fresh Parmigiano Reggiano cheese sprinkled on top), along with fresh asparagus (even though today’s New York Times food section had an interesting recipe for baking asparagus in parchment packets for an hour @ 200 degrees) and string beans, simply steamed, to perk things up. Oh – what the hey. I’m fancy-foodied out.

May the long time sun shine on you [and] all love surround you.

They Say It's [My] Birthday...

I just changed the name of my blog to 62 and Counting, even though it took an inordinate amount of time and energy to remember how to do this, because at 1:10 a.m. I will be turning a year older (and a whiter shade of pale).

62. Sounds old. Sounds even. Sounds like icky-poo. Sounds about right.

I guess this means I can stop lying at the movie theater kiosk, where I like to buy my tickets because I can click the “senior” button and pay less (ah, baby, that’s-a what I like). Just think, even though I’m not senior enough to get a reduced fare bus (or New York subway) pass, I will be in three more years, giving me something new to look forward to. So, look out, Cleveland…

When people ask me about my birthday, I usually tell them that it’s the same day as Hitler’s. Now that I’m turning a year older, I’ve decided to try and act a bit less obnoxious (yeah – right), so I Googled April 20th birthdays to find out who(m) I share this day with, other than Adolf. I discovered that Juan Miro (one of my favorite artists), Senor Wences (“S’all right? S’all right”), Lionel Hampton, Tito Puente, Edie Sedgwick (oh, boy, does this mean I’m only six degrees of separation from Kevin Bacon?), Carmen Electra (my brother will be happy about this one), Jessica Lange, Luther Vandross, Stephen Colbert (my sister will also be happy, since she’s always asking me if I watch his show), and way, way too many cricket and football players were also born on my birthday.

I’m also proud to share this day with all of my pot-smoking doper friends around the world (except in France, where they celebrate on June 18th), who will be lighting up a doobie to celebrate a day that Wikipedia calls “counterculture” but I call let’s go get stoned.

I won’t be smoking a joint, but I will be celebrating part of the day by chowing down on a 9-course tasting menu at On20, my favorite Hartford restaurant. I’ll spend the rest of the day gaining back all the weight I’ve tried to lose over the past week via the South Beach Diet (yeah, I porked up again), cursing my husband (who took off the day to celebrate with me - thank you, sweetie) for subjecting me to his idea of the perfect birthday present: food, glorious food, and enjoying the calls and emails from friends and family that (I hope) will trickle in, one by one.

In the words of my favorite band on earth, “it’s my birthday, too…” so I’m gonna have a good time! Oh me, oh my.

Wishin' and Hopin'

I’m baaaaack (as Tina Charles exclaimed to Barack Obama after she’d cut the net down, since the team will be returning to D.C. a second year in a row), chugging ginger-pineapple-carrot juice, made for me by one of my pseudo-daughters to help me get back on my feet from the cold, sore throat, and now fever that have taken up residence inside me and my iffy immune system (which doesn’t seem to be all that particularly immune from Alamodome, hotel and airplane germs, does it?).

I came, I saw, and I conquered San Antonio. I rode the water taxi and trolley, walked along Riverwalk and the streets above it (which we explored from end to end), cheered like crazy for UConn (thank God they won, or I’d have gnawed off my wrist at being stuck in Texas without basketball to look forward to), and ate at some off-the-beaten-path restaurants. (I posted my comments on Chowhound, which you can read if you’re a member or have nothing better to do.)

Even though I’m officially sick, I’ve washed, folded, and put away all my UConn-themed T-shirts, read all the back issues of the Hartford Courant, and finished reading Lee Smith’s newest book of short stories, Mr. Darcy and The Blue-Eyed Stranger. I’ve recounted my Final Four adventures to my friends and daughter, spent way, way too much time in bed trying to fight off this cold, and utterly enjoyed the silence of home, where neither the loud, raucous UConn pep band nor those high-pitched gaggle of cheerleaders can continue to blow out my already-blown eardrums like it did in San Antonio. (I bet you didn’t know that I was the only fan in the entire Alamodome who wore earplugs to block out the noise!)

I’m glad my we-only-live-once, UConn-obsessed husband made me go with him on this topsy-turvy, four days and nights of men’s and women’s basketball-filled trip. I’m now wishing I was a baseball fanatic, like my son-in-law, so I could continue to read the sports page each morning and cheer for my favorite players, like I do all fall and early spring. Unfortunately, I’m not (it’s hard to teach this old Husky dog new tricks), but, hey, hope springs eternal…so who knows what tomorrow may bring.

Queen of the Wild Frontier

Tomorrow morning I’m leaving on a jet plane for San Antonio, Texas – home of the 2010 NCAA Women’s Final Four. I’ve packed four, old, ratty UConn-themed T-shirts, sunscreen, a bathing suit, too many clothes and shoes, four library books, my iPod, and a tiny notebook, since I’m leaving my laptop home.

I’ll be putting on my great, big Girl Scout smile as I open myself up to the next five days of sun, river walks, Tex-Mex food, my husband’s UConn Women’s Basketball Team fanatacism, the hotel’s rooftop pool and Jacuzzi, and…last but absolutely not least…some great college basketball.

I’m ready for the challenge of being on foreign turf without a computer, across from one of my favorite childhood TV characters' (Davy Crockett) beloved Alamo. I thank my Uncle Justin for this early fascination of mine, which started on the day he picked up my brother and me in his convertible, a coonskin cap on his head, to take us on a fast trip to Howard Johnson’s. The waitresses flirted with him and admired his hat, and so did I.

I know that some girls are turned on by a guy’s muscles, but Davy Crockett’s hat does it for me.

I’ll be taking notes and pictures, which I’ll upload and share when I get back.

Westward, ho (and adios Fes Parker)!

Chicken Soup With Rice

Even though I’m working on day two of a stubborn migraine, (last week I had one for 3 days, triggered by a wild and crazy Zumba class I tried for the first time on an early Saturday morning, with a wiggly, jiggly, gyrating, inspirational instructor known as “Sistah”), at least I can type, which I think is quite a trick for a cloudy, rain-rain-go-away Monday afternoon, don’t you?

It’s almost the end of March, a time when madness strikes big time at my house, thanks to the daily college basketball games that my husband and oh yeah, me, too, watch two-at-a-time on the split screen of our TV set (even though this year I really only care about the UConn women).  

My bracket-obsessed husband kind of, sort of believes we’re going to magically score two tickets, then hop on a plane to San Antonio on Saturday to cheer on the women in person as they fight their way to the top of the ladder. I, on the other hand, believe we’re going to stay home and watch our women win, me on the couch or rocker, him in his first-dibs-claimed leather chair, bathrooms close at hand.

While I patiently wait for my favorite team to ace the NCAA championship, I’ve also been anxiously anticipating April, which T.S. Eliot called “the cruellest month…” but I call the best. How “cruell” can it be if it brings the Final Four, May flowers, “the whistle of returning birds” (Emerson), my (Hitler’s, too, aren’t we oh-so lucky to celebrate together?), Charlotte Bronte’s and William Shakespeare’s birthdays, plus 4:20 or National Get Stoned Day, April Fool’s Day (my friend SC’s birthday), Arbor Day, Buddha’s birthday (4-08), Tax Day, the Boston Marathon, and Earth Day?

I love this month so much that I sometimes let myself fantasize that “in April I will go away, to far off Spain [or Paris] or old Bombay, and dream about hot soup all day.” I know it will not happen this year, but it’s a great almost-April fantasy, nevertheless, to brighten up this dreary, rain-soaked day.

In reality, I am going to stay close to home, watching bball, checking out the crocuses and “a host of golden daffodils,” waiting patiently for my sneezing and eye-rubbing allergies to kick in, blossom and bloom, as March Madness gallops across April and slowly morphs into the merry month of May.