While at the post office on Saturday, I bought a new batch of stamps. I had my pick of all sorts of impressive faces like Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. The woman in front of me did not know who that was as she was discussing stamp faces on line and I wanted to jump in and quiz her about a gaggle of women writers and quite possibly embarrass her enough to compel her to go back to school, nothing fancy maybe FCCJ, and enroll into an Introduction of Fiction class, but then it was my turn at the window and I was fine about letting her live her life without ever reading The Yearling.
Besides I was busy trying to decide what kind of stamps to buy myself. I've given to breast cancer research, I've walked 13 miles for breast cancer support and I've licked off the pearly pink lids of French yogurt and mailed them in for breast cancer funding, I didn't think I needed to buy the stamps. There were the American scientists stamps, portraits of very smart men and women but without a hint of whimsy. I'm not sure it showed their human side and that's important on a stamp. Flower stamps, I mean really, why not just the flag stamps and get it over with? There was the Black History figure stamp, but I am ashamed to say that I didn't recognize the person, so I felt relieved Bill Cosby was not behind me ready to quiz my sorry ass. As guilty as I felt, in good conscience I couldn't buy stamps of someone I didn't know or would, in all honesty, not even Google. Which left only one set of stamps to buy, a figure in popular literature that embodies the philosophy of the East with a smidge of semantic dyslexic terseness and the warrior moxie of Miss Piggy. That's right, I bought Yoda stamps.
Which got me to thinking about how that decision came about. How exactly do you get on a stamp? Is there a committee? Voting? How long does it take? Can money exchange hands to make that final decision come out a certain way? A more intelligent and far more ambitious person would research these questions and report back on them, well, you know that's not me. I'd rather think about them until my next random thought. But it did get me thinking about who else I'd like to see on a stamp because Yoda was frackin' genius. I should've bought a hundred of them. So here are my Top Five nominations for getting their mugs on a stamp:
5. Andre the Giant. Sure he was foreign, but he was the best giant in one of the most perfect movies ever, The Princess Bride.
4. Mr. Rogers. He always used his power for good.
3. Carol Burnett. Watching her show every Saturday night saved me and made me funny.
2. Christopher Latham Sholes, inventor of the modern typewriter.
1. Charlotte the Spider, because she was a good friend and a good writer.
So, Eastside Scribes, what are your nominations for stamp immortality?
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Monday, February 11, 2008
Fifty-six: La Vie En Rose
Over the weekend, I had a sublime salon experience.
But it started last month when I took a chance and changed my stylist and salon to one right over the intercoastal bridge, Salon La Vie. French sounding. I had noticed the French with the exception of Gerard Depardeau always look well coiffed and rather chic and so figured, well, why not? Change is often good, sometimes surprising and even interesting if served with a bit of whimsy, so why the hell not?
My first visit, just a hair cut was lovely. People were pleasant and offered me beverages many times during that hour. My stylist Carl was the perfect mode of chatty, neither talking too much or too little. Plus the man is a genius with scissors. I've gotten nothing but compliments on the cut. I did like that he didn't screech or wince when looking at the streak of gray coming from my roots and didn't press to color that day. Before I left, though, I did make the appointment for the color.
Which brings me to Saturday. First of all, there was no waiting. I hate when you get to a salon on time and there's a wait. If I wanted that, I could go to my primary physician thank you very much. Of course, after an offer of a beverage, it was on to the color room, a circular room inside the salon for, yes, you guessed it, the discussion, debate, and application of color, or as I like to call it where middle aged women go to dye. Carl brought me the color swatches, mounted in hair, and we agreed on a shade, both sassy and rich, yet age appropriate. A lovely chocolate brown with some auburn asides. He gave me an extra cranking of color right at my forehead where my gray loves to break free and call me a liar to my face. After about 25 minutes of soaking in it, a stylist in training and receptionist Cash, handsome dog despite the gravity defying hairstatement, rinsed me out. Then came the shampoo with the five minute scalp massage. After the scalp massage, came the conditioner under the warm towel. While that was going on, Cash massaged my hands with a rosemary and lavendar cream that turned back the clock on my hands at least 15 years.
By the time I got back to Carl, I was relaxed, soothed and damn, did my hair and my hands smell good. The man just gave me a freshen up cut and style, again, he is a genius with those shears and just as I thought we were done, he hands me over to Polish born Natalia for a complimentary make-up makeover. Fifteen minutes later, I looked like a rock star and I mean that in a Beyonce kind of way, not a Marilyn Manson way. I felt like a million bucks walking out of that salon and I have to say, it's been a long time, really long time, since I felt that way. Just because I looked good? Sure, I'll embrace that for what it is---as ego, vanity, humanity, PMS and a fair amount of school related stress. Billy Crystal's alter ego on SNL, Fernando used to say, "Dahlink, it is bettah to look good than to feel good." And I'm all over that, but part of it was that I did feel good. People offered me many beverages, massaged me, listened to me tell stories, paid attention to me. It was a great antidote for weeks and weeks of being either ignored, slighted, vexed, insulted and aggravated, sometimes all of them in one day. So sure, I could have meditated and contemplated my energy pathways and my channels of bliss, but now, this way, I have garnett streaks in my hair whenever the sun warms my head.
But it started last month when I took a chance and changed my stylist and salon to one right over the intercoastal bridge, Salon La Vie. French sounding. I had noticed the French with the exception of Gerard Depardeau always look well coiffed and rather chic and so figured, well, why not? Change is often good, sometimes surprising and even interesting if served with a bit of whimsy, so why the hell not?
My first visit, just a hair cut was lovely. People were pleasant and offered me beverages many times during that hour. My stylist Carl was the perfect mode of chatty, neither talking too much or too little. Plus the man is a genius with scissors. I've gotten nothing but compliments on the cut. I did like that he didn't screech or wince when looking at the streak of gray coming from my roots and didn't press to color that day. Before I left, though, I did make the appointment for the color.
Which brings me to Saturday. First of all, there was no waiting. I hate when you get to a salon on time and there's a wait. If I wanted that, I could go to my primary physician thank you very much. Of course, after an offer of a beverage, it was on to the color room, a circular room inside the salon for, yes, you guessed it, the discussion, debate, and application of color, or as I like to call it where middle aged women go to dye. Carl brought me the color swatches, mounted in hair, and we agreed on a shade, both sassy and rich, yet age appropriate. A lovely chocolate brown with some auburn asides. He gave me an extra cranking of color right at my forehead where my gray loves to break free and call me a liar to my face. After about 25 minutes of soaking in it, a stylist in training and receptionist Cash, handsome dog despite the gravity defying hairstatement, rinsed me out. Then came the shampoo with the five minute scalp massage. After the scalp massage, came the conditioner under the warm towel. While that was going on, Cash massaged my hands with a rosemary and lavendar cream that turned back the clock on my hands at least 15 years.
By the time I got back to Carl, I was relaxed, soothed and damn, did my hair and my hands smell good. The man just gave me a freshen up cut and style, again, he is a genius with those shears and just as I thought we were done, he hands me over to Polish born Natalia for a complimentary make-up makeover. Fifteen minutes later, I looked like a rock star and I mean that in a Beyonce kind of way, not a Marilyn Manson way. I felt like a million bucks walking out of that salon and I have to say, it's been a long time, really long time, since I felt that way. Just because I looked good? Sure, I'll embrace that for what it is---as ego, vanity, humanity, PMS and a fair amount of school related stress. Billy Crystal's alter ego on SNL, Fernando used to say, "Dahlink, it is bettah to look good than to feel good." And I'm all over that, but part of it was that I did feel good. People offered me many beverages, massaged me, listened to me tell stories, paid attention to me. It was a great antidote for weeks and weeks of being either ignored, slighted, vexed, insulted and aggravated, sometimes all of them in one day. So sure, I could have meditated and contemplated my energy pathways and my channels of bliss, but now, this way, I have garnett streaks in my hair whenever the sun warms my head.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Fifty-five: Oh Happy Day
The happiest day of the year is not the last day of school for me. The happiest day is today, Cal's birthday. I'm a fan of birthdays, there's all that cake, folks wishing you well and yeah, I'm going to say it, yeah, the presents are always a plus. People making a fuss cements the concept that it's true, it is all about you. But with Cal, I'm more exhilarated, really, because he's the best person I know and the occasion of his birth is something to be celebrated grandly and passionately. Being a fan of lists, I'm going to list as objectively as a woman still in love with her husband can be why he's worthy of such the fuss.
1. He's 55 and the man still looks great. I started with looks first because I'm basically shallow and vain, but that doesn't mean it's not important. Now he does have some great DNA to work with with those dreamy blue eyes and that sturdy jaw line most superheroes would love to own. But he's worked hard to stay fit and I appreciate that. Not every man puts forth that effort.
2. He's kind and patient. Living with me is no walk in the park. I can be flaky and have been known to change my mind 4 different times within a span of 3 minutes. Your basic Buddhist monk would have slapped me with his sandal a few hundred times already. The man takes it in stride. He's also kind to strangers, cashiers at the grocery store, servers in restaurants (he always tips 20%), DMV clerks and airline ticket agents.
3. He's funny, funnier than most people I know. Funny is important and life saving in a marriage, and he's smart funny and goofy funny. It makes the days light and soothing when work has pulled up your heart through your nose.
4. He's much smarter than me but never flaunts it or rubs it in my face especially when I'm dead wrong about an issue. He's been able to remake his skill set in less than 4 years for a totally different career. It almost took me that long to choose a name for my blog. He's able to problem solve while playing the guitar and checking his e-mail. He's amazing.
5. He protects me. Each and everytime we walk, he positions himself as the one closest to traffic. That's a little thing but it's how he operates on a larger scale.
There's lots more I could list but it wouldn't be much of a celebration if I stayed here all night to write.
Happy Birthday, honey! I love you always and twice on Sunday.
1. He's 55 and the man still looks great. I started with looks first because I'm basically shallow and vain, but that doesn't mean it's not important. Now he does have some great DNA to work with with those dreamy blue eyes and that sturdy jaw line most superheroes would love to own. But he's worked hard to stay fit and I appreciate that. Not every man puts forth that effort.
2. He's kind and patient. Living with me is no walk in the park. I can be flaky and have been known to change my mind 4 different times within a span of 3 minutes. Your basic Buddhist monk would have slapped me with his sandal a few hundred times already. The man takes it in stride. He's also kind to strangers, cashiers at the grocery store, servers in restaurants (he always tips 20%), DMV clerks and airline ticket agents.
3. He's funny, funnier than most people I know. Funny is important and life saving in a marriage, and he's smart funny and goofy funny. It makes the days light and soothing when work has pulled up your heart through your nose.
4. He's much smarter than me but never flaunts it or rubs it in my face especially when I'm dead wrong about an issue. He's been able to remake his skill set in less than 4 years for a totally different career. It almost took me that long to choose a name for my blog. He's able to problem solve while playing the guitar and checking his e-mail. He's amazing.
5. He protects me. Each and everytime we walk, he positions himself as the one closest to traffic. That's a little thing but it's how he operates on a larger scale.
There's lots more I could list but it wouldn't be much of a celebration if I stayed here all night to write.
Happy Birthday, honey! I love you always and twice on Sunday.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Fifty-four: Once
Sitting on the wall facing me as I put these words down is a small framed photograph of an old typewriter with this quote by Anais Nin: We write to taste life twice. It's my favorite quote about writing because I believe it to be true. So I will not write about my day since going through it once was enough to make me perpetually wretch into my next two lifetimes. Instead I shall list antidotes to my day:
1. A long hug from Cal. Sounds corny but nothing takes the bile-like stench off a dreadful day as a long embrace from someone who loves you and doesn't let go.
2. Pasta. Lots of it with olive oil, garlic and parmesan cheese. Oprah, Dr. Phil, Bob Greene, the dead Atkins guy, Jenny Craig and everyone from Weight Watchers say you shouldn't eat for comfort. They can all put it in park, close the garage door, wrap their lips around the pipe and suck on it. They call it comfort food because it makes you feel better. Baby carrots can't get the job done.
3. Music. Not just any music. Lots of the songs from the Rent Soundtrack and Just Fine from Mary J. Blige. Many times until I believe it to be true.
4. Aliens. Before this night is done, I'm going to watch it because it's a comfort movie like no other. Soldiers are ordered to go into an impossible situation, lots of things get blown up and shot, the bad guys eventually get eaten and not in a XXX kind of way, and there's a big slap down, kick-ass fight in the end where our heroine wins. Like a Jane Austen tale only a tad more slime.
5. Tequila. Not a lot because that's not the purpose of tequila. Tequila is there to soothe and soften. To offer a sunny place to sit and breathe deeply. Tequila is the Child's Pose of liquid refreshments.
1. A long hug from Cal. Sounds corny but nothing takes the bile-like stench off a dreadful day as a long embrace from someone who loves you and doesn't let go.
2. Pasta. Lots of it with olive oil, garlic and parmesan cheese. Oprah, Dr. Phil, Bob Greene, the dead Atkins guy, Jenny Craig and everyone from Weight Watchers say you shouldn't eat for comfort. They can all put it in park, close the garage door, wrap their lips around the pipe and suck on it. They call it comfort food because it makes you feel better. Baby carrots can't get the job done.
3. Music. Not just any music. Lots of the songs from the Rent Soundtrack and Just Fine from Mary J. Blige. Many times until I believe it to be true.
4. Aliens. Before this night is done, I'm going to watch it because it's a comfort movie like no other. Soldiers are ordered to go into an impossible situation, lots of things get blown up and shot, the bad guys eventually get eaten and not in a XXX kind of way, and there's a big slap down, kick-ass fight in the end where our heroine wins. Like a Jane Austen tale only a tad more slime.
5. Tequila. Not a lot because that's not the purpose of tequila. Tequila is there to soothe and soften. To offer a sunny place to sit and breathe deeply. Tequila is the Child's Pose of liquid refreshments.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Fifty-three: Dessert Storm
Watching the NH primaries, I am struck with a craving, something sweet right now, but I'm not sure what it is. PMS is not an issue, so chocolate is out. A cookie is not required. Pie? Perhaps, but still not quite right, the crust warm and flakey appeals, but nothing else not even pieces of apple (my favorite pie)toasty juicy in all that pastry. The same goes with a turnover or tart. Cake is almost there, but something chewier like brownies, but not brownies as chocolate is not needed. Something with custard like an eclair or napoleon, or the canoli, crunchy creamy goodness in a naughty phallic carrying case. Not ice cream. It's soft but cold and therefore not comforting tonight.
But here's the thing. If any of those items showed up at my door, I would not turn them away in disgust and disappointment. I would open my arms in full embrace and scoop them up and take a big greedy bite while still wishing for something else but being agreeable to distraction.
But here's the thing. If any of those items showed up at my door, I would not turn them away in disgust and disappointment. I would open my arms in full embrace and scoop them up and take a big greedy bite while still wishing for something else but being agreeable to distraction.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Fifty-two: Happy New Year
On the news today, it was all about resolutions. The New Year offers a symbolic clean slate, not that we couldn't start brand new habits in the middle of March, it's true we could. But there's something about the New Year, it's a common bond for all of us whether or not we go out like lemmings and drink till we puke the night before. We still reflect and then think ahead, maybe some of us make resolutions. I know there are those of you rolling your eyes at the thought of it, resolutions. Deep in my cynical self, I find the whole notion endearing, that we make it a habit to try to improve ourselves or part of our lives with a promise and sometimes with a plan of action. Statistics say that for the most part we, as a species, fail miserably year after year---there was no losing of those unwanted pounds, no bonding with our immediate family, the gym membership abandoned after January 13th, we remained shackled to our hateful jobs, our relationships stagnated, our fears dominated, there was no weekly Yoga, no increased bran, no lasting changes.
And yet we try every single year. That's the endearing part. That other part, relentless failure to focus on singular goals, well that's just a little pathetic. But the fact that most of us try every year, I suppose that's the dopeyness of our humanity, that in our heart of hearts we want to be more, we want to be better, it just takes us more tries.
And yet we try every single year. That's the endearing part. That other part, relentless failure to focus on singular goals, well that's just a little pathetic. But the fact that most of us try every year, I suppose that's the dopeyness of our humanity, that in our heart of hearts we want to be more, we want to be better, it just takes us more tries.
Monday, December 24, 2007
Fifty-one: Al-fa-la-la-la-lah!
JSG, EG and KV have all hit the ground running on this bad boy, so I will jump into the fray with my own alphabet soup.
A is for airports, airlines and airplanes. See letter H.
B is for blogging. What a surprise to enjoy this process.
C is for Chi Running. Let's see if it will make a runner out of me.
D is for Deal or No Deal. Those broads make Vanna White look like a nuclear physicist.
E is for Easter Bunny Super Hero. The short film that won the city competition, you can see the fruits of my labor as assistant Art Director (schlepper for my pal Vera) on You Tube I believe.
F is for fiber. Middle agers need lots of it for our Holy Grail of body functions, the smooth and all consuming poop.
G is for gratitude. Everyday is a gift and being grateful balances me and reminds me of what is essential.
H is for hell. All the architects of this war are going there and will have a Michael Bolton soundtrack for eternity.
I is for iPhone. Such a gadget. Now I know how a Serengeti crocodile feels when he spies a stray gazelle.
J is for Joy. Cal, my family(yeah, even them), my friends, breathing, moving, laughing. It's great when it's all good, and even when it's bad, it's all good.
K is for kudos to us all for writing, writing and writing during our real and complicated lives. It's been extraordinary to share a bit of you through your posts.
L is for listening. Trying to get better at it is time well spent for me.
M is for marriage. After 21 years, all I know is that it's all about the little things---tone of voice, common courtesies, lots of laughing, simple rituals, holding hands.
N is for nonsense: Patriot Act, No Child Left Behind, tax laws (ha!) for the wealthy, presidential debates, intelligent design, reality shows.
O is for Olmos as in Edward James. From Blade Runner to Battlestar Galactica, he is one of the most remarkable actors drawing breath on this planet.
P is for The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall. My favorite read of 2007, it's charming and sweet without being overly sentimental.
Q is for quality of hire. If education recruited and hired like Fortune 500 companies, schools would be cathedrals of learning instead of discount houses.
R is for real. What is real? Philosophers have asked that for centuries. The Washowski brothers lit up several fat ones, wrote and directed The Matrix for their answer.
S is for Shuhz, nothing but shuhz.
T is for tres leches cake. The Burke version this holiday will soak the cake in dark run and caramel before the sweetened milk bath.
U is for unclog. See F.
V is for Viggo as in Mortensen. Naked fight in a steam room in Eastern Promises. They had me at naked.
W is for writers' strike. Give them whatever they want. The new reality shows have sunk to depths only sonar can reach.
X is for X chromosome. Nancy Drew, Wonder Woman, Sarah Conner, Buffy Summers, Ellen Ripley, Lara Croft, Starbuck, Laura Roslin, our mothers, Judy, Morgan, Karen.
Y is for Yo-Yo Ma. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (flying people, hidden wires) is one of my favorite soundtracks. The cello as breaking heart.
Z is for Zowie as uttered by Joe E. Brown upon seeing Jack Lemmon in drag in Some Like It Hot. Thank Allah for classic comedies!
A is for airports, airlines and airplanes. See letter H.
B is for blogging. What a surprise to enjoy this process.
C is for Chi Running. Let's see if it will make a runner out of me.
D is for Deal or No Deal. Those broads make Vanna White look like a nuclear physicist.
E is for Easter Bunny Super Hero. The short film that won the city competition, you can see the fruits of my labor as assistant Art Director (schlepper for my pal Vera) on You Tube I believe.
F is for fiber. Middle agers need lots of it for our Holy Grail of body functions, the smooth and all consuming poop.
G is for gratitude. Everyday is a gift and being grateful balances me and reminds me of what is essential.
H is for hell. All the architects of this war are going there and will have a Michael Bolton soundtrack for eternity.
I is for iPhone. Such a gadget. Now I know how a Serengeti crocodile feels when he spies a stray gazelle.
J is for Joy. Cal, my family(yeah, even them), my friends, breathing, moving, laughing. It's great when it's all good, and even when it's bad, it's all good.
K is for kudos to us all for writing, writing and writing during our real and complicated lives. It's been extraordinary to share a bit of you through your posts.
L is for listening. Trying to get better at it is time well spent for me.
M is for marriage. After 21 years, all I know is that it's all about the little things---tone of voice, common courtesies, lots of laughing, simple rituals, holding hands.
N is for nonsense: Patriot Act, No Child Left Behind, tax laws (ha!) for the wealthy, presidential debates, intelligent design, reality shows.
O is for Olmos as in Edward James. From Blade Runner to Battlestar Galactica, he is one of the most remarkable actors drawing breath on this planet.
P is for The Penderwicks by Jeanne Birdsall. My favorite read of 2007, it's charming and sweet without being overly sentimental.
Q is for quality of hire. If education recruited and hired like Fortune 500 companies, schools would be cathedrals of learning instead of discount houses.
R is for real. What is real? Philosophers have asked that for centuries. The Washowski brothers lit up several fat ones, wrote and directed The Matrix for their answer.
S is for Shuhz, nothing but shuhz.
T is for tres leches cake. The Burke version this holiday will soak the cake in dark run and caramel before the sweetened milk bath.
U is for unclog. See F.
V is for Viggo as in Mortensen. Naked fight in a steam room in Eastern Promises. They had me at naked.
W is for writers' strike. Give them whatever they want. The new reality shows have sunk to depths only sonar can reach.
X is for X chromosome. Nancy Drew, Wonder Woman, Sarah Conner, Buffy Summers, Ellen Ripley, Lara Croft, Starbuck, Laura Roslin, our mothers, Judy, Morgan, Karen.
Y is for Yo-Yo Ma. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (flying people, hidden wires) is one of my favorite soundtracks. The cello as breaking heart.
Z is for Zowie as uttered by Joe E. Brown upon seeing Jack Lemmon in drag in Some Like It Hot. Thank Allah for classic comedies!
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