tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35616962524356441302024-03-13T21:13:19.409-05:00Soloway StoriesMusings, missteps, memories, and other miscellaneous text from the author of the memoir, "The Division Street Princess," and the e-novel, "She's Not The Type."She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-34374401602189465402012-02-28T04:06:00.005-06:002012-02-28T04:20:58.232-06:00Paint By Number<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CFdsvXprPzM/T0yqfEEXvJI/AAAAAAAAByo/H95Bpl4QB_w/s1600/venice.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 227px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CFdsvXprPzM/T0yqfEEXvJI/AAAAAAAAByo/H95Bpl4QB_w/s320/venice.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5714129477871058066" /></a><br />I wasn’t jealous when Tommy beamed as he led Julie on a tour of our house. He was showing off his paintings and smiled at her, like a teen smitten with a cheerleader.<br /><br />But, later that morning, when my husband revealed something to this art therapist he had not shared with me, I felt as envious as a plain-Jane watching from the sidelines. <br /><br />I had hired Julie to work with Tommy following the recommendation of the social worker at Northwestern Hospital who has been guiding me since my husband was diagnosed with <a href="http://www.brain.northwestern.edu/ppa/index.html">Primary Progressive Aphasia</a>, a dementia that robs the brain of language.<br /><br />Julie had premature grey hair, was dressed in a black outfit accessorized with colorful scarves, and looked the part of Artist. In some ways, she resembled a younger version of me. I’d like to think that led to Tommy’s easy acceptance of her into his therapeutic life.<br /><br />He had 15 Paint By Number pictures to show her. They are on walls throughout our house. All are beautiful and match the example on the cover of each kit. Over the years, as Tommy completed each painting, he’d select a frame, tuck the painting into protective glass, then hang it where it could be seen and admired.<br /><br />Tommy chose Paint By Number as a winter hobby, when the weather prohibited his favorite pastime, golf. I was happy to see him engaged in something creative. To show my support, I bought an easel for the spare bedroom, a gooseneck lamp to clip to the top of the board, and a French beret to complete the picture of artist’s atelier.<br /><br />For several years, Tommy finished two paintings per season. Then, last year, trouble. His work no longer matched the box’s cover. He halted this effort midway, eventually tossing it in the trash. I guessed the cruel illness that was stealing his speech was now affecting his brush strokes.<br /><br />So, when Tommy wanted to try again this year, I was surprised. I helped him choose a new kit from our usual online store, and watched as he assembled the easel, attached the light, spread the baby pots of paint on a makeshift table, and started in. (The beret is long gone.) But, after a few days, he stopped. He turned off the lamp, put the brush down alongside the pots, and left the unfinished painting on the easel. Then, he closed the door to his studio.<br /><br />“These are marvelous,” Julie said, as Tommy led her through the first floor and pointed to each one of his paintings. When the two of them went upstairs, I could hear her praising the works in the hall and in our bedroom. Then, I heard him open the door to the room where the abandoned painting still stood on the easel. I remained downstairs, wondering how artist and teacher would handle what they found.<br /><br />Julie came down first with Tommy trailing after. “We’re dumping this,” she said, holding the painting in two fingers. My husband was nodding in agreement and grinning. “We’re going to start fresh with a new painting.” Then, she showed me what Tommy had written on a post-it note. “MESS,” it read. <br /><br />Julie smiled at him as if he were already her favorite student. “Yes,” she said, “that’s what Tommy was trying to tell me upstairs. That’s why we agreed to start a new one.” <br /><br />Mess? My husband had confessed to this stranger how he felt about his abandoned painting? I was jealous; the emotion absent from their first interaction now struck.<br /><br />I wanted in. "Maybe it would be better to try something free form," I said. "It might be easier than Paint by Number."<br /><br />"No," Julie said, looking to my husband for confirmation. "Tom likes Paint By Number, so we're going to stick with that."<br /><br />Then she asked, “Tom, is the problem that the numbered places are too small, or that your brain is having a hard time getting the message to your hand?”<br /><br />He shook his head at the former and nodded “yes” at the latter. <br /><br />“Okay,” Julie said. “Now we know how to proceed.”<br /><br />After Julie left, I thought about how she was able to get my husband to open up. Perhaps it was her training, her distance from the role of spousal caregiver, and her compassion that gave her the key.<br /><br />Or, maybe it was because Julie didn’t know our backstory; that before the illness, when Tommy could talk, he was a man of a few words, never eager to discuss emotional issues. When I saw the closed door, I assumed Tommy preferred to drop the subject. And, perhaps I was relieved I didn’t have to enter this emotional territory. <br /><br />That afternoon, I turned on the computer. Tommy pulled up a chair next to me. We searched the Paint By Number website. He selected “Ice Cardinal.” It’s due to arrive any day now, in time for our next Art Therapy.Elaine Solowayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00188124165205604782noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-77339866347434427132012-02-22T12:59:00.004-06:002012-02-22T13:04:44.964-06:00The Wrong War<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-64Y1YxncxVo/T0U7NebntoI/AAAAAAAAByE/yyMKjqkL-a4/s1600/AirForce.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 245px; height: 206px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-64Y1YxncxVo/T0U7NebntoI/AAAAAAAAByE/yyMKjqkL-a4/s320/AirForce.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5712036805082592898" /></a><br />In 1956, when he was 21, Tommy enlisted in in the U.S. Air Force, where he trained as a radio operator. Eventually, he rose to the rank of Corporal and was stationed in Japan until honorably discharged in 1959. <br /><br />I didn’t know Tommy in his youth; we didn’t meet until 1996, and then married two years later in a Las Vegas ceremony officiated by an ecumenical minister. But, I often pictured that affable boy in those long ago days-- trim in his uniform, cap atop his military crew cut, proud to serve his country.<br /><br />Those images surfaced recently when I dug through my husband’s papers to learn if he would be eligible for a U.S. Department of Veterans Affairs benefit called “Aid and Attendance.”<br /><br />If he passed the test, the V.A. would pay up to $1,644 per month to hire a home health aide. The application for benefits required a copy of Tommy’s separation papers, medical evaluation from physician, and current medical issues. The Air Force papers were in my hand. His 2009 diagnosis of Primary Progress Aphasia, a form of dementia affecting the brain’s language center, was filed in the folder marked “Brain.” <br /><br />For nearly a year, my daughters -- who live in Los Angeles and Boston -- had been urging me to find someone who could stay overnight with Tommy. They were disappointed that I halted my travels after I believed it was no longer safe to leave my husband home alone. I knew he could handle normal activities, but what if he had to call for help? His aphasia would have rendered him powerless in any emergency calls to 911 or neighbors. <br /><br />When he was well, I travelled to either coast at least three times a year. Tommy, a stepfather who became bored at my desire to do nothing but stare at my grandchildren, or shadow my daughters, opted to stay put and housesit the dog.<br /><br />While away, I would call him nightly. “Get your butt home,” he’d tease. Then, I knew all was fine. But, eventually that phrase was absent. Or, if he did manage a few words, they were dangerously frayed.<br /><br />So, I saw that $1,644 monthly benefit as my salvation. That would be enough money to enlist the services of a home health agency to give me an occasional break, and to be assured Tommy would be safely tucked in his own home if I travelled to fawn over my offspring and theirs.<br /><br />I studied the amount -- one thousand, six hundred, forty-four. I imagined the check directly deposited into my bank account each month. Envisioned myself handing a set of house keys to a trusted aide who would bid me goodbye with, “don’t worry about a thing. He’ll be fine.”<br /><br />Then, I looked at this V.A. eligibility caveat, “Any war veteran with 90 days of active duty, 1 day beginning or ending during a period of war.”<br /><br />Period of war? Quickly I searched for the descriptions. Here’s what I found of recent conflicts:<br /><br />World War II. December 7, 1941, through December 31, 1946, inclusive. If the veteran was in service on December 31, 1946, continuous service before July 26, 1947, is considered World War II service. <br /><br />Korean conflict. June 27, 1950, through January 31, 1955, inclusive. <br /><br />Vietnam era. The period beginning on February 28, 1961, and ending on May 7, 1975, inclusive, in the case of a veteran who served in the Republic of Vietnam during that period. The period beginning on August 5, 1964, and ending on May 7, 1975, inclusive, in all other cases. <br /><br />Do you see 1956-1959 in that list? Neither do I. My boyish Tommy, trim in his Air Force uniform, earnestly communicating with his static-filled radio, gung-ho in his military exercises, had served in the wrong war. There would be no $1,644 check slipping monthly into my bank account; no packing of suitcases for the coasts.<br /><br />Okay, so the V.A. won’t come to my rescue. But, no retreat for this caregiving spouse. I’ll gather ammunition, devise a battle plan, and tramp ahead. Surrender isn’t an option.Elaine Solowayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00188124165205604782noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-77465345384650991172012-02-14T03:15:00.007-06:002012-02-14T03:34:29.771-06:00Matching Bands<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4wtC3RrhEcI/TzoqjyP4wDI/AAAAAAAABx0/0o1wZmF8rBo/s1600/wedding%2Bbands2.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-4wtC3RrhEcI/TzoqjyP4wDI/AAAAAAAABx0/0o1wZmF8rBo/s320/wedding%2Bbands2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708922271917719602" /></a><br />In 1998, when Tommy and I got married, we went to Service Merchandise to buy matching gold wedding bands. It was the second marriage for both, we were in our 60's. I think we paid $25 for each. Fancy gems weren’t important to us back then; still aren't.<br /><br />This year --2012 -- our gold rings still encircle our fingers, but we’ve added an accessory just a few inches below these symbols of our union.<br /><br />We wear matching black flex bands with 2-inch-wide stainless metal plates. Engraving on the front side of Tommy’s reads, "Tom Madison, <a href="http://www.brain.northwestern.edu/ppa/index.html">Aphasia</a>, Chicago." On the inside, "Call Wife, Elaine Soloway," and my cell phone number.<br /><br />While Tommy’s band is size 7, mine is 6. Engraved on the front side of mine is simply, "Elaine Soloway, Chicago." Thus far, I have no medical issue that requires explanation. Arthritis doesn't count, does it?<br /><br />On the reverse of my band: "In Emergency, H. Soloway, MD," with my ex-husband's cell phone number. The two bands cost $46.90 including shipping and handling. Nearly the same as our gold ones.<br /><br />I ordered our <a href="http://www.IdentifyYourself.com">medical alert bracelets</a> after Tommy got lost. “You shouldn’t let him travel alone,” a daughter had warned. But, I knew he treasured his CTA senior card, and I believed since all previous trips returned him home safely, he’d be fine. I had already taken away his car keys. I hated the idea of robbing him of one more symbol of independence.<br /><br />On the afternoon Tommy got lost, he was on his way to see his speech therapist. Her office is at Michigan Ave. between Randolph and Washington in Chicago. One hour and 15 minutes after he left, the home phone rang. No one except marketers call on this line, and I’ve urged Tommy to only use my cell. But, I answered it.<br /><br />Dead air. Finally, garbled words. “Honey, where are you?” I said. I held on to my desk. “Mmmm,” he got out.<br /><br />“Are you in the subway?” I envisioned him in the depths, alone, scared. My grip tightened.<br /><br />“Mmmm,” he repeated.<br /><br />“Honey,” I pleaded. “Please find someone you can hand the phone to.” <br /><br />I was grateful he carried his cell phone, grateful he could punch in the number -- even if it was the landline -- but terrified on how to find him.<br /><br />Finally, a female voice. “Hi, this is <a href="https://marcellos-northave.foodtecsolutions.com/menu">Marcello’s</a>.” <br /><br />“Marcello’s on North Ave. and Halsted?” I asked. <br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Tell my husband to wait there, I’m on my way.”<br /><br />“Oh, he’s okay,” she said. “He just bought a slice of coffee cake.”<br /><br />You know those photos of people doing super-human feats in an emergency? Wee women lifting automobiles off of trapped victims? <br /><br />It was 4:30 p.m., rush hour in Chicago, and I was about to drive five miles from our house to the intersection of North Ave., Halsted St., and Clybourn Ave. -- the traffic triangle from hell. But, I was super human.<br /><br />I put the leash on the dog, got in the car, and together we slogged along I90 to North Ave., then crept east to the restaurant. At every mile, I thanked God, grateful Tommy was found, grateful he was okay, grateful he ate coffee cake.<br /><br />My husband was seated on a bench outside the restaurant. “How did you get here?” I asked. Before getting into the passenger seat, Tommy opened the back door and patted Buddy’s head. <br /><br />The best I can figure from Tommy’s “yes” and “no” responses, is that he exited the subway at Washington and Dearborn as usual. Then, he got confused and started walking. And he walked the three miles to Marcello’s.<br /><br />When the medical alert bands arrived a few days after this episode, I thought Tommy would balk at putting his on because he doesn’t like to cop to his illness. But, this time, no argument; he slipped it on.<br /><br />My own medical alert band, with my ex's information was necessary because I can no longer list Tommy as emergency contact. “Do you mind?” I had asked Harry. We were married for 30 years, he knows my doctors, has our daughters’ phone numbers plugged into his cell, and with the MD after his name, I knew I’d get immediate attention. And, we are blessed with a good relationship. “No problem,” he said.<br /><br />I only wear my medical alert band when I leave the house. But the gold ring hasn’t left my finger -- nor Tommy’s -- since the ecumenical minister who married us in Las Vegas encouraged their mutual exchange. <br /><br />In that ceremony, as we slipped gold bands on each other's finger, we echoed the clergyman’s words. “In sickness and in health,” we vowed.Elaine Solowayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00188124165205604782noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-15971723269532032542012-02-06T14:58:00.015-06:002012-02-07T05:33:26.734-06:00Tommy sleeps through the night<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mvxnpwcxv-4/TzA_M95qMpI/AAAAAAAABxc/9DhtBoU867Y/s1600/rockfordfiles05a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mvxnpwcxv-4/TzA_M95qMpI/AAAAAAAABxc/9DhtBoU867Y/s320/rockfordfiles05a.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5706130219885802130" /></a><br />I’m on the living room couch watching the numbers on the DVR’s digital clock. It's 3:30 in the morning, and I'm praying Tommy doesn't wake up before his alarm, like he did yesterday.<br /><br />It was 3:45 a.m. when he hustled out of bed and started pulling on his jeans. (This is a typical wake up time for me, so I wasn't angry, just scared.)<br /><br />"Honey, it's 3:45 in the morning," I told my husband. I pulled his elbow and tried to stop him from putting his belt through the loop.<br /><br />Tommy pulled away and moved to lace his tennis shoes. He didn't rebut because he can’t speak. <a href="http://www.brain.northwestern.edu">Frontotemporal Dementia (FTD)</a> and <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2011/05/03/health/03brody.html">Primary Progressive Aphasia (PPA)</a>-- disorders affecting the brain’s language center -- started robbing him of his speech in 2009, and like one of the "Ps" says, it's Progressive. So, over the years, there's been less and less talk, and now we're left with bits of common language from our 14 year marriage. And if we're lucky, a written note.<br /><br />At least he’s safe in bed, I tell myself. <br /><br />At least he’s no longer driving.<br /><br />It was my neighbor across the street who called to tell me Tommy had sideswiped another car and drove off. I was waiting for this kind of call for I worried every time he got in his car. If he was late coming home from the Y, or from his golf date, I’d pace in front of the window until I saw his Honda Accord pull into the driveway.<br /><br />“You have to take away the keys before he kills someone,” my daughter said when I told her of the latest incident. "You'll never forgive yourself." <br /><br />So, neighbors Holly and John sat on the couch with me to tell Tommy it was no longer safe for him to drive. When he refused to give me his car keys, I said, "John will remove the battery." I got that line from one of his neurologists.<br /><br />"We've got lots of kids in the neighborhood," Holly said. "You can't be driving." <br /><br />"No," Tommy said. "Golf, the Y." He could get those words out.<br /><br />"I'll take you," I said. "Anywhere you want to go." I do.<br /><br />Yesterday, when Tommy woke at 3:45 a.m., I followed him downstairs to the living room. He settled on the couch and turned on the remote. He wrote on a Post-it, "Rock." <br /><br />Aha! Tommy thought he had been taking his afternoon nap and it was time to get up and watch one of his favorite TV shows, "The Rockford Files." When I opened the curtains to show him it was still dark outside, when I went through the MeTV listings to show him there was no Rockford, when I pointed to the a.m. on the TV screen's time, he clicked the remote and went back upstairs to bed.<br /><br />This morning it appears he is sleeping through.Elaine Solowayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00188124165205604782noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-47995518803416204772010-02-23T07:11:00.009-06:002010-02-24T06:54:27.834-06:00Hole in the Head<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4Pd6DvbPWI/AAAAAAAAAY4/ze6PdxeMK6g/s1600-h/JillFaithBacks.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4Pd6DvbPWI/AAAAAAAAAY4/ze6PdxeMK6g/s320/JillFaithBacks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441436764300066146" /></a><br />"Cute bag," I said to <a href="http://faithsoloway.com">Faith</a> as she swung a messenger bag over her head. The bag bore a charming cityscape design in blue and black; my favorite colors.<br /><br />"You gave it to me, Mommy," she said. She placed the bag across her body and I watched as it settled at just the right place, easily accessible by a hand reaching for a wallet.<br /><br />"I did?" I starred at the perfect <a href="http://www.timbuk2.com/tb2/products/home?gclid=CPHK0IXFiKACFRAeDQodNgJYdQ">Timbuk2</a> bag that would go beautifully with everything in my wardrobe (black t-shirts, blue jeans). Suddenly, I felt as conflicted as a woman who had given up her child for adoption. How could I have let my baby go? But, my dear daughter has it now. Obviously, she cares for it and has given it a good home.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PYQr3-QpI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/AQbtepZlyj4/s1600-h/ElaineBags.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 316px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PYQr3-QpI/AAAAAAAAAYQ/AQbtepZlyj4/s320/ElaineBags.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441430555960689298" /></a><br />I must've bequeathed it in a weak moment, realizing I already had dozens of backpacks and messenger bags piled up on a closet shelf. And Faith likely had been carrying a purse of her own, one with an opening easily pick-pocketed. Surely, it was a sense of motherly protection that prompted my handing over such an outstanding bag.<br /><br />Afterward, while still longing for that-which-was-given-away, I pondered my difficulty with relinquishing things. I wouldn't call myself a hoarder; after all, there are no piles of newspapers blocking doorways, or mason jars stacked along basement stairs. But, truth be told (And where else but on a blog could one have a chance to use that phrase?), I do possess a number of collections that cause me to question my state of mind.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PZzS3_2RI/AAAAAAAAAYw/lv3PMQ7NNvY/s1600-h/SaltPepper.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PZzS3_2RI/AAAAAAAAAYw/lv3PMQ7NNvY/s320/SaltPepper.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441432250056956178" /></a><br />I think I'll blame its beginning on my other child, <a href="http://jillsoloway.com">Jill</a>, for it was she who thought it would be good for her mother to start a collection of salt and pepper shakers. Heaven knows why she came to this conclusion; perhaps it was a dark, cold, Chicago February and she worried her mother might launch one of her typical ban-the-blues enterprises.<br /><br />"Look, Mommy," she had said as she handed me a box. A lift of the lid revealed a dozen pair of miniature people, animals, and objects, all with one or several holes in their heads. "When you're bored [who, me?]," she said, "you can go antique shopping and add more to your collection."<br /><br />I was delighted. Tasks, goals, what could be better? Carefully, I lined up the Noah's Ark along window sills. Then, I added "scour shops for s&ps" to my To-Do List. For a few Sundays, I performed as a true collector, walked carefully among dusty do-dads (tchotchkes really, but you know me and alliteration), holding my bulky tote at my side to avoid breakage, and selected pairs of s&ps to join the others.<br /><br />This worked well until the day I realized that dusting every little hand, foot, hat, basket, and whatever of that crew would add hours to my day. Without notifying my well-meaning child, I returned every last one to their original nesting place and stored it on a basement shelf. Of course, I couldn't donate or regift my collection for Jill might label me ungrateful and avoid future presents. So in their box they remain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PY3DId3zI/AAAAAAAAAYo/JYH3pfncEvs/s1600-h/office.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PY3DId3zI/AAAAAAAAAYo/JYH3pfncEvs/s320/office.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441431215038914354" /></a><br />Sadly, it didn't stop with the salt-and-pepper shakers. Other hard-to-part-with collections stuff shelves: water bottles, pens, notebooks, sunglasses, knitted caps, and jackets. Each stockpile begins the same way: I seek something that will be perfect for task at hand. A water bottle that can easily be opened with thumb and finger, a pen that smoothly glides across the page, a spiral notebook that opens and lies flat, sunglasses that protect my eyes but make me look movie star-ish, a cap that does not reduce my head to bowling ball appearance, and a jacket perfect for every seasonal temperature.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PYnYOahzI/AAAAAAAAAYg/UauaanKvBbU/s1600-h/Garbage_landfill.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S4PYnYOahzI/AAAAAAAAAYg/UauaanKvBbU/s320/Garbage_landfill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5441430945823098674" /></a><br />Soon, each of the above loses its luster. It misrepresented itself. It was clumsy, leaked, bled through, or made me look funny. Into a bin the original goes. Then comes the delightful search and purchase of its replacement, and replacement, and replacement. Somehow, I cannot toss the early ones away. I worry they might wind up in a landfill (even though I couldn't identify or locate one in my neighborhood.) I fear that if I pass it on to someone else, they might not care for it as I believe it deserves. And, in the case of my Timbuk2 bag (just to remind you how all of this started and to bring a satisfying full circle ending), would I regret giving away something that was so perfect for me?<br /><br />You see my dilemma. Instead of putting myself through all of that angst, I've obviously decided to just hang onto the items purchased. Except of course for that messenger bag that my first born wheedled away from her vulnerable mother. Perhaps I can persuade her to swap it for a different one in my collection? Maybe this one, its blue and black, but lacks a space for a water bottle. Think Faith would go for that?She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-66974517329600499462010-01-07T08:48:00.007-06:002010-01-07T08:56:41.277-06:00Come Fly With Me, Or Not<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X0k62svbI/AAAAAAAAAXg/fSqGfbGwhJA/s1600-h/airplane.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 103px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X0k62svbI/AAAAAAAAAXg/fSqGfbGwhJA/s320/airplane.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424010241348779442" /></a><br />When the 23-year-old terrorist attempted to bring down a passenger jet Christmas Day, he not only shook up the airline industry, but also turned this 71-year-old occasional flyer into a suspect. Because of his deed, airport security now scan passengers' behavior for clues. Those who nervously glance about, or repeatedly open and close their bags are targets for investigation. That’s me! <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X0x8G-h4I/AAAAAAAAAXo/kEksHLU78SQ/s1600-h/security.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 129px; height: 98px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X0x8G-h4I/AAAAAAAAAXo/kEksHLU78SQ/s320/security.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424010465023788930" /></a><br />It's not fear of flying that causes my fidgetiness. Au contraire, once I’m on board and the plane takes off, I’m as relaxed as if I were sunning at the shore. It’s the lead-up to lift off that drives me (and truth be told, all of my loved ones) nutty, and produces the eccentric behavior likely to flag security’s attention.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1AOa31sI/AAAAAAAAAXw/nF7dx8J3qbo/s1600-h/PackingSuitcase.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 90px; height: 120px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1AOa31sI/AAAAAAAAAXw/nF7dx8J3qbo/s320/PackingSuitcase.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424010710457243330" /></a><br />Prior to Departure Day; I leisurely pack. By leisurely, I mean a week before. The suitcase is in the spare room, open on the bed, and each day I deposit some article of clothing that may or may not make it to final latching. With this leisurely method, and deaf to the derision of my husband who throws things into his suitcase the night before, my luggage is sealed and standing at the front door before the sun rises on D Day.<br /><br />To further lessen anxiety, I insist on printing out my boarding pass as soon as the clock strikes the allowable time. At home, I make sure my printer is on, a full stack of plain white paper is in the feed, and there is nothing to interrupt the procedure. <br /><br />If I am out-of-town, and you can confirm this with either of my daughters, I start plaguing them as soon as they have their coffee. “Is the printer on?” I will ask as if I were waiting for my drug fix. “Yes, Mommy,” they will answer, in a voice similar to the one used for their offspring. There have been times when leery of their equipment, I insist on stopping at a Kinko’s to get the job done. (I have already printed out the locations of all Kinko’s in a five-block area.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1RDYTnnI/AAAAAAAAAX4/jEaSkzSKOHg/s1600-h/woman%2Bman.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 131px; height: 126px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1RDYTnnI/AAAAAAAAAX4/jEaSkzSKOHg/s320/woman%2Bman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424010999551467122" /></a><br />When I travel with my husband, we discuss the time we'll leave the house on departure day. This is an amusing exercise as both of us know that no matter the time agreed upon, I'll be sitting at the bottom of the staircase, dressed in my coat, and hand atop the luggage handle 30 minutes before.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1ih3GQrI/AAAAAAAAAYA/m57j2iva6j0/s1600-h/OHareMainMapjpBeige.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 225px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1ih3GQrI/AAAAAAAAAYA/m57j2iva6j0/s320/OHareMainMapjpBeige.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424011299791454898" /></a><br />I prefer to arrive at the gate a full hour before departure, and seated with my Starbucks coffee and the New York Times. Instead of reading, though, I’m behaving in the exact mode on the terrorist watch list. I frequently rise to check the board that identifies our gate. Sure, it said C12 when we arrived, but perhaps it’s been changed now and we’ll have to make a mad dash to the new gate. <br /><br />Although I’ve packed my tote with enough snacks, cords, and meds to accommodate an unexpected delay, I’ll unzip and search every 15 minutes to be sure I didn’t just imagine adding Aleve to the pill case. <br /><br />And once the plane begins boarding, although I may be in Group 4 and they are just on First Class, I rise, pace, and get in the back of the line of Group 3. Husband, of course, prefers to wait until 4 is called, which causes us to separate and meet up in the crowded airplane aisle where I await his hoisting. (My carry-on, not me.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1ygXLQRI/AAAAAAAAAYI/cRiPrg5Hs-k/s1600-h/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/S0X1ygXLQRI/AAAAAAAAAYI/cRiPrg5Hs-k/s320/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424011574267035922" /></a><br />One may wonder why I continue to fly if the trips cause so much anxiety. But because my daughters have elected to live on either side of the U.S. (<a href="http://faithsoloway.com">Boston</a> and <a href="http://jillsoloway.com">Los Angeles</a>), and if I want to see my grandchildren before they bear children of their own, it’s essential I endure. So if airport security seeks a target for this flyer’s suspicious behavior, you know whom to finger.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-25560770268723473852009-12-01T08:25:00.011-06:002009-12-01T08:40:30.178-06:00What, Me Worry?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUnrwSHhhI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/EZ_kMVF2pzU/s1600/ambulance.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUnrwSHhhI/AAAAAAAAAWQ/EZ_kMVF2pzU/s320/ambulance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410274160004269586" /></a><br />I’m declaring today National Free From Worry Day (NFFWD). Thanks to me, you can go about your business without thinking of the hundreds of things that nag. Hang on a sec; I hear sirens. Oh wait, just remembered my daughters live out of town, so there’s no worry the ambulances or fire trucks are headed their way. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUn04hQkoI/AAAAAAAAAWY/wEgatSlUTHw/s1600/BrainWave.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 223px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUn04hQkoI/AAAAAAAAAWY/wEgatSlUTHw/s320/BrainWave.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410274316834083458" /></a><br />Now, where was I? Seems my memory is getting a bit foggy as I age. Like an overstretched rubber band, it pulls far out, but doesn’t snap back as it used to. But today is NFFWD, so no more worries about my brain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUpJETjF-I/AAAAAAAAAXA/2Er4LD8-SSI/s1600/snoring-cartoon-couple.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 276px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUpJETjF-I/AAAAAAAAAXA/2Er4LD8-SSI/s320/snoring-cartoon-couple.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410275763106813922" /></a><br />Before that siren interrupted me…Wait, perhaps I should go to the window to make sure it’s not a fire truck screaming down our street. All is okay. Let’s see, I was talking about my daughters, and that reminds me of the time when they did live home and were old enough to drive and be out late. While hubby snored peacefully at my side, I, on the other hand, would lie awake with my ears perked like an on-edge animal. Not until I heard a key in the lock, did my ears and racing heart rate shrink.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUoEA5zl3I/AAAAAAAAAWg/ii4l505iUd4/s1600/storm.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 98px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUoEA5zl3I/AAAAAAAAAWg/ii4l505iUd4/s320/storm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410274576782563186" /></a><br />Now that they are adults, with families of their own, my worry level on their behalf has significantly decreased. Except of course when it snows in Boston (<a href="http://faithsoloway.com">Faith</a>),<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUoT3tlD-I/AAAAAAAAAWo/0MsrvS4D-DE/s1600/quake.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 90px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUoT3tlD-I/AAAAAAAAAWo/0MsrvS4D-DE/s320/quake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410274849193267170" /></a><br />have tremors in L.A. (<a href="http://jillsoloway.com">Jill</a>), or any of my grandchildren spike a fever above normal.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUooguSk5I/AAAAAAAAAWw/0OD2LODyPQc/s1600/due.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 128px; height: 100px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUooguSk5I/AAAAAAAAAWw/0OD2LODyPQc/s320/due.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410275203799487378" /></a><br />Lest you think I’m obsessive only about my offspring, there are other things I worry about. The mail looms large. I’m convinced our USPS carrier lugs an overdue bill in her sack. The letter will be all caps and warns our electricity, cable, gas, or phone service will be cut unless the missing funds are supplied immediately. Of course, these bills are in error, but that doesn’t stop the sweat simmering on my brow, and that racing heart I described earlier. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUpYmkehPI/AAAAAAAAAXI/Dwhr68JbgGQ/s1600/Phishing_Cartoon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 204px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUpYmkehPI/AAAAAAAAAXI/Dwhr68JbgGQ/s320/Phishing_Cartoon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410276030002660594" /></a><br />E-mail used to induce shakes similar to those spurred by snail mail. I’d worry, is this message legit or phishing? But since I signed on with WeGotYourBack.com, a site based in Nigeria that guarantees I will never be the victim of a scam, I can rest easy. You might want to enroll as well. All you have to do is provide your social security number, your mother’s maiden name, your date of birth, and you’re in. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUqpAUp9HI/AAAAAAAAAXY/PuRWegyN6rU/s1600/iphone.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUqpAUp9HI/AAAAAAAAAXY/PuRWegyN6rU/s320/iphone.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410277411305157746" /></a><br />I have one more worry you might think silly, but bear with me. (I’ve awarding you this worry-free day, so the least you could do is hang on a bit.) I’m afraid my iPhone will die. You see, in the early days of the device, it took many trips to the Apple store and phone calls to a tech to unfreeze it. All of the phone’s info is stored on my Mac, so there's really no need to worry. But still…<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUpl2FMrUI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/jVr25Y6WFac/s1600/worried+.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 97px; height: 146px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SxUpl2FMrUI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/jVr25Y6WFac/s320/worried+.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410276257504734530" /></a><br />Someone wise once said, “99% of the things we worry about never happen, so relax." Sounds sensible, right? But what if this maven wasn’t wise after all, just delusional or condescending?<br /><br />That worries me.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-76953761556109857372009-10-12T05:11:00.013-05:002009-10-13T10:51:21.323-05:00Hunting Down and Suiting Up<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMiDs4JX3I/AAAAAAAAAVI/6q2xD-KZWnA/s1600-h/barbell.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMiDs4JX3I/AAAAAAAAAVI/6q2xD-KZWnA/s320/barbell.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391690625874222962" /></a><br />When most people embark on a new exercise routine, they look forward to fitting into smaller size clothing, having more energy, and winning kudos from friends. For me, it’s in the hunting down and suiting up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMigPWQZOI/AAAAAAAAAVY/63ZxS7l_c08/s1600-h/easyfitSmall.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 267px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMigPWQZOI/AAAAAAAAAVY/63ZxS7l_c08/s320/easyfitSmall.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391691116163654882" /></a><br />Recently, after joining a <a href="http://galterlifecenter.org/">fitness center</a> and enrolling in yoga and Pilates classes, as well as weight lifting and aerobics sessions, I decided research into each activity was the first order of business. Books had to be bought, and CDs, DVDS, and web sites reviewed. While that investigation delayed my actual performing of the exercises, I deemed the preparation essential.<br /><br />After my initial fieldwork, my appetite for additional knowledge was stoked. Now, I wanted to know more about the derivation of each exercise. Oh, you may think I didn’t need to learn yoga’s origins in India, or read the biography of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Pilates">Joseph Pilates</a> who invented his physical fitness system in early 20th century Germany. But curiosity and enlightenment should never be squelched. Should they?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMj-KP4t6I/AAAAAAAAAWI/obj43IAq3rs/s1600-h/treadmill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 125px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMj-KP4t6I/AAAAAAAAAWI/obj43IAq3rs/s320/treadmill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391692729702463394" /></a><br />Maybe the background on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kenneth_Cooper">Dr. Kenneth H. Cooper</a>, former Air Force Colonel from Oklahoma who authored the 1968 book “Aerobics,” which emphasized a point system for improving the cardiovascular system, was too much information. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMjVbMyIpI/AAAAAAAAAV4/sJ2YpIZcpBU/s1600-h/Sandow.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 190px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMjVbMyIpI/AAAAAAAAAV4/sJ2YpIZcpBU/s320/Sandow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391692029878215314" /></a><br />And on second thought, the story of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eugen_Sandow">Eugen Sandow</a> from Prussia, who first promoted bodybuilding, was overkill. However, bibliography did heighten excitement and anticipation.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMjJpzGwuI/AAAAAAAAAVw/SqpPtmAOj6I/s1600-h/RunningShoes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 100px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMjJpzGwuI/AAAAAAAAAVw/SqpPtmAOj6I/s320/RunningShoes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391691827638616802" /></a><br />Thus armed, it was time to select new wardrobes for my four workouts. Naturally, I couldn’t be expected to wear stretched and out-of-fashion shorts and tank tops squished in a corner of my dresser drawer. And my running shoes – a misnomer I admit –were several years old and painfully devoid of support. Some $140 later, I felt quite the jock trotting the shop floors of <a href="http://www.fleetfeetchicago.com/htm/events_races_elvis.asp">Fleet Street</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMjsIjIBxI/AAAAAAAAAWA/vBJ48y3yHwA/s1600-h/yoga.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMjsIjIBxI/AAAAAAAAAWA/vBJ48y3yHwA/s320/yoga.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391692420008642322" /></a><br />As for yoga, entire industries now focus on clothing for poses that were once performed in simple muslin. Obviously, I had to purchase pants and tops that would allow freedom of movement, yet hug the body. There was also a cunning invention called the “shelf bra” --tank top and bra in one garment, but alas, I could barely pull that shelf over my head, let alone cover the products they were intended to support.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMi9UcMXzI/AAAAAAAAAVo/rez5uIC9wBg/s1600-h/right-mats.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 216px; height: 116px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMi9UcMXzI/AAAAAAAAAVo/rez5uIC9wBg/s320/right-mats.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391691615746940722" /></a><br />While I was aware my fitness center possessed yoga mats, blocks, and straps, I thought it wise to purchase my own equipment. True, big box stores carry these items, but since I would also be reaping Eastern wisdom and a certain amount of soul stuff, it just didn’t seem right to go cheap. How can one put a price on serenity? (Actually, I could: a tad over $200.)<br /><br />Lest you think that the inventory of instructions and clothing from previous exercises; i.e. tennis, swimming, spinning, and kickboxing, that are gathering dust on closet shelves (and smirks from family and friends) would dissuade me from my current fitness pursuit, you’re mistaken.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMiND39DdI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/PeoXJTjemgw/s1600-h/dog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 111px; height: 87px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMiND39DdI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/PeoXJTjemgw/s320/dog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391690786666253778" /></a><br />Soon enough, when I feel properly informed and suited up to Downward Dog, tighten my core, pep my step, or hoist a barbell, I’ll begin. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMit_3TLNI/AAAAAAAAAVg/d6sQuSBvRMI/s1600-h/no+evil.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 125px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/StMit_3TLNI/AAAAAAAAAVg/d6sQuSBvRMI/s320/no+evil.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391691352525450450" /></a><br />Until then, please keep your mouth shut and avoid rolling your eyes.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-55205428887030487122009-09-10T04:43:00.012-05:002009-09-10T05:01:23.079-05:00My Bad<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjK8Q_agzI/AAAAAAAAAUI/9o8n-w-scD0/s1600-h/FailCard.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 107px; height: 88px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjK8Q_agzI/AAAAAAAAAUI/9o8n-w-scD0/s320/FailCard.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379772891595965234" /></a><br />This isn’t easy to admit, but there are several activities I currently engage in where I am, well, bad. Not fair, mediocre, or C+; just bad. And yet, I soldier on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjLcY3PZTI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/oVgkV9LZnKo/s1600-h/CBS.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjLcY3PZTI/AAAAAAAAAUQ/oVgkV9LZnKo/s320/CBS.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379773443464979762" /></a><br />One would think if a student sat in class after class of Spanish language, and was still unable to dialogue in a tense other than first, she'd throw up her hands, and declare, Adios. Pero, no. This mujer continues to listen to <a href="http://rlnvault.com/rln09/shows/spanish/coffee-break-spanish/">Coffee Break Spanish</a> podcasts on her iPhone, click on the Spanish Anywhere app in her downtime, and embarrass her only children by attempting conversations with any Latina(o) who crosses their path.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjLs0jkh0I/AAAAAAAAAUY/kY_o50df0V0/s1600-h/PaseoBoricua(divisionSt)4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjLs0jkh0I/AAAAAAAAAUY/kY_o50df0V0/s320/PaseoBoricua(divisionSt)4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379773725776578370" /></a><br />For this inability to speak and understand the Spanish language, I blame my parents. Yiddish! Such was the language of the ghetto I grew up in in the 1940s. Ver can that take me, I ask you? On top of that, the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">Division Street</a> I knew back then is now Paseo Boricua, where Spanish is the native tongue. I would've been so ready if Min and Irv had a bissel foresight.<br /><br />While we’re blaming the parents (oh, come on, hop aboard), let’s point fingers at them for my dismal renditions on the piano. Over the years, I’ve tortured a variety of teachers. Some have encouraged me to keep count with a metronome. Others suggested scales. And some benevolent souls have allowed me to skip Beethoven and go straight to Rogers and Hart. And yet, close your ears. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjL9TctdII/AAAAAAAAAUg/co8GeS3UkkM/s1600-h/piano.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 137px; height: 103px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjL9TctdII/AAAAAAAAAUg/co8GeS3UkkM/s320/piano.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379774008947209346" /></a><br />Would it have been so terrible to place a piano in our little flat above the store? Not a grand, of course, but a spinet. Instead of Mom’s Singer Sewing Machine in a corner of the kitchen, we could’ve had a sweet little Wurlitzer. So, we’d be a little tight. And Mom would’ve had to hem my skirts by hand. But at least today I’d be popular at parties. “Elaine, come play us a tune,” I’d hear. Instead of, “No, sweetheart,” as the host clamps the keyboard’s lid on my stunted fingers.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjMLSddp8I/AAAAAAAAAUo/pa9mS3KRYi0/s1600-h/Weissmuler.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 107px; height: 135px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjMLSddp8I/AAAAAAAAAUo/pa9mS3KRYi0/s320/Weissmuler.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379774249200101314" /></a><br />Don’t get me started on swimming. My father, built like a wrestler, boasted he swam laps at the Division Street YMCA, “the very same one that Johnny Weissmuller -- you know, Tarzan -- swam at.” If that’s the case, why couldn’t Dad have taught his only daughter how to freestyle? Why did she have to feign her monthly period throughout high school to avoid the natatorium? <br /><br />Oh, I’ve tried. Don’t think I haven’t tried. Just ask Pat or C.K. at the YMCA, or former swim team captains who teach at health clubs. They’ll remember me, no doubt. “Oh yes, that little lady who can’t swim without fins. The one who won’t go in the deep end?” <br /><br />But, after much prodding and encouraging from C.K., I did jump into 8’ (Or was it 12’? It doesn’t matter. When you’re sub-five-feet, anything over that is the deep end.) My goal was to rise to the surface --please God-- then tread water. After much flapping of arms, I did rise, but immediately flopped to a back float and peddled to the shallow end.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjMdIYTTsI/AAAAAAAAAUw/zU7gWxyN-ms/s1600-h/Carmen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjMdIYTTsI/AAAAAAAAAUw/zU7gWxyN-ms/s320/Carmen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379774555731742402" /></a><br />I’ll share one last Bad. Why in the world did I – who has a thin, wavery voice -- sign up for Vocal classes at <a href="http://oldtownschool.org/">Old Town School of Folk Music</a>, I’ll never know. Wait, I do know. While laboring through Rogers and Hart on the piano, I decided it would be fun to sing along. Fancying myself a lounge singer, I envisioned Elaine at the piano, notes of “Bewitched, Bothered, and Bewildered” in my singular voice accompanying herself. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjMy3POdpI/AAAAAAAAAU4/4Pai9HJFJWQ/s1600-h/Store_2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjMy3POdpI/AAAAAAAAAU4/4Pai9HJFJWQ/s320/Store_2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379774929087395474" /></a><br />Can we once again turn to Min and Irv, keepers of my childhood? Did we even have a record player? We were poor, remember? Lived in those three cramped rooms above our failing grocery store. A radio, yes; but a victrola? Okay, let’s say we did have one. Do you know what would likely be spinning? Famous Jewish cantors. Try and sing along with those guys.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjNR25zRZI/AAAAAAAAAVA/X3tLS-iBbDU/s1600-h/TimesSquare.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SqjNR25zRZI/AAAAAAAAAVA/X3tLS-iBbDU/s320/TimesSquare.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5379775461573477778" /></a><br />Perhaps I should lay off blaming my folks before my own children pick up the habit and decide Mother is the cause of any of their failings. But, <a href="http://jillsoloway.com">Jill</a> speaks Spanish, <a href="http://faithsoloway.com">Faith</a> sings and plays the piano, both swim. What could they possibly fault me for?<br /><br />Not to worry; they'll come up with something.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-22158920321055826922009-08-08T07:16:00.012-05:002009-08-14T07:45:22.919-05:00Of Summers Past<span style="font-style:italic;">Pack up! Come with us on trips to Fire Island, Hemingway Country, and Route 66. Along with my essay, "Am I Blah Blah?", guest bloggers Frances O'Cherony Archer and Elizabeth Liwazer share their adventures in "Looking for Hemingway," and "An Easy Ride."<br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Am I Blah Blah?</span><br />by Elaine Soloway<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFwx1NM4uI/AAAAAAAAATI/bHvzJCE3I9A/s1600-h/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFwx1NM4uI/AAAAAAAAATI/bHvzJCE3I9A/s320/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368696232200692450" /></a><br />“Am I female?” I asked my ex-husband.<br /><br />“Yes,” he said.<br /><br />I turned to my current husband. “Am I a movie star?”<br /><br />“No.”<br /> <br />I took a moment to ponder their responses. I was seated on a couch in the Fire Island beach house my daughter Jill rented in August of 2007. Along with her dad (my ex), my second husband, and me, Jill invited a dozen other relatives to share her vacation time. Since we all got along, there was no fear of unpleasantries interrupting the holiday.<br /><br />Like everyone else, I wore a melon-colored post-it note, with a name written on it, stuck to my forehead. We were playing the parlor game, “Am I Blah-blah?” and had to guess the identity of the person on our post-its.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFxASMr-5I/AAAAAAAAATQ/9ebynmEuW0Q/s1600-h/Shore.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFxASMr-5I/AAAAAAAAATQ/9ebynmEuW0Q/s320/Shore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368696480501332882" /></a><br />Stalling for time before my next question, I studied the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the beach. Rain had been falling steadily since our arrival and the shore was deserted save for a few people hunting for seashells and driftwood. The water rose in high waves, raced across the sand, then grabbed scoops as it slithered back into the ocean.<br /><br />I was ready for another stab. “Am I a politician?” I asked Jill.<br /><br />“Yes,” she said.<br /><br />“Hillary Clinton?” My daughter nodded and I leapt from my seat. I ripped the post-it from my forehead and shouted, “Yes!” Then I sat down, crossed my arms and tried to focus on the next player.<br /><br />But my mind was as busy as the sea. Who had suggested Hillary Clinton? Was it one of my husbands? The one who, after 30 years of marriage, left me for another woman? Or the one who relinquished longtime bachelorhood and was adjusting to the constraints of wedlock? Did either of them see a trait Mrs. Clinton and I shared?<br /><br />Instead of returning to the game, I replayed a scene in my head that might provide clues. The previous morning, my husbands and I were seated at the local diner when the conversation somehow veered to my shortcomings. “She’s so controlling,” one said. “Absolutely,” agreed his mate. <br /><br />“Controlling?” I shouted. “Where would you be without my organizing, my bookkeeping, my taking care of things?” I hurled the question at both of them. They looked startled, for outbursts like this one were rare.<br /> <br />I started to cry. Number two put a hand on my shoulder. Number one attempted, "we didn't mean to…." I dabbed at my eyes with a table napkin. "We appreciate you," they agreed. "Sorry we upset you." <br /><br />Not wanting to spoil the vacation, and admitting to myself I could be considered, well, controlling, I forgave them both and started eating. <br /><br />“Am I an athlete?” Husband number one’s question dragged me back to the game.<br /><br />“No,” another player answered.<br /><br />The post-it on my ex’s forehead read Luciano Pavarotti. But if I had had the chance to edit the name, I'd pencil in, Benedict Arnold. And for husband number two? Brutus? Et tu?<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Looking for Hemingway</span><br />By Frances O’Cherony Archer<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFxa98488I/AAAAAAAAATY/EUqPmt6QFdw/s1600-h/Road.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 210px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFxa98488I/AAAAAAAAATY/EUqPmt6QFdw/s320/Road.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368696938922832834" /></a><br />In the summer of ’76 I sublet an apartment in Evanston, turned 20 and fell in love. When we weren’t at our summer jobs, John and I read books, listened to music, swam in the lake after dark, and rode long distances on our ten-speed bikes. Radio stations constantly played “If You Leave Me Now” and by the end of July we dreaded hearing the song: in the fall John was going away to grad school. To distract ourselves from the impending separation, we decided to take a road trip to Horton Bay, Michigan, the town where Ernest Hemingway spent childhood summers and the setting for some of his Nick Adams stories. We were English majors and had many favorite books, but we idolized Hemingway because he was, like us, from Chicago and he wrote about the outdoors and because we were still hoping for lives as adventurous as his.<br /> <br />Although it was an ambitious journey, a seven-hour drive from Chicago, our preparations didn’t go beyond studying my high school copy of "In Our Time" as though it were a road map. We borrowed my father’s 1971 banana yellow Chevy Malibu convertible, a muscle car that screamed summer adventure but was, we thought, a little loud for a literary expedition. <br /> <br />On Highway 31, opposite the turnoff for Horton Bay, there was a dirt road. We took it, thinking we might find traces of an abandoned lumber mill, Indian camp, or other landmarks from Hemingway’s stories. The road was narrow and bumpy and overgrown with weeds and shrubs. As the waters of Little Traverse Bay shimmered into view, we heard an explosion and felt the car sink. I had driven over a half-buried cement boat launch and blown a rear tire.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFxonRB4iI/AAAAAAAAATg/WmDM7nTXsy4/s1600-h/GeneralStore.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFxonRB4iI/AAAAAAAAATg/WmDM7nTXsy4/s320/GeneralStore.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368697173351457314" /></a><br />We walked for about an hour under a cloudless sky toward Petoskey until we found a gas station. The attendant laughed at our story, then said the earliest he could tow the car was the following morning and it would cost fifty dollars. With leftover funds we bought food and supplies: cans of franks and beans, chips, a quart of beer, water, a box of Pop Tarts, bug spray and a flashlight.<br /> <br />In the late afternoon we walked along a railroad track looking for the swampy spot where Nick Adams lands after getting thrown off the train in “The Battler.” Towns mentioned in the story—Walton Junction, Kalkaska, Mancelona—were miles away but we thought we’d find something. Before dark we gathered branches and twigs and built a campfire on the rocky shore, a fire big enough to last until daylight. We stayed up all night, half hoping and half afraid a hobo with a scarred face, like Ad Francis in Hemingway’s story, would emerge from the woods.<br /> <br />After the car was repaired, we drove back to the road we should have taken, the one leading to Horton Bay. The only traces of Hemingway we found were a few old photographs mounted on the walls of the Horton Bay General Store. We weren’t disappointed, though. Marooned overnight in the wrong place, we had glimpsed the scrubby, hard-luck landscape of the Nick Adams stories.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">An Easy Ride</span><br />By Elizabeth Liwazer<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.</span> <br />Mark Twain<br /><br />“Remember the Route 66 trip I told you about?” Cindy asked.<br /><br />“Sure,” I nodded, sipping my hot tea during our monthly dinners together. It was January and the only thing that warmed me on another freezing evening. <br /><br />“My sister isn’t coming after all…do you want to go?” she asked.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFx_EJ2WuI/AAAAAAAAATo/WexDAFeMTmc/s1600-h/liz3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFx_EJ2WuI/AAAAAAAAATo/WexDAFeMTmc/s320/liz3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368697559063091938" /></a><br />Ever since I saw Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda straddle their bikes in "Easy Rider," I’ve wanted to head west from the Midwest on the iconic American open road. Now, the summer before 9/11, I had my chance. I could dump the job I hated and take off in the Honda. But, instead of a Honda motorcycle, we loaded her four-door Honda Civic with a refrigerator and Bud, a smiling bobble-headed porcelain doll we won at a friend’s bowling party. <br /><br />In preparation, we highlighted our maps and atlas and toasted each other Thelma and Louise-style while watching that movie, and reread our high school copies of "The Grapes of Wrath" because John Steinbeck’s Joad family sets out for California on Route 66. We planned our course, certain to get our kicks in every place the song mentioned. From downtown Chicago, we would drive from Springfield, Illinois, through Joplin, Missouri across the state line to Oklahoma City, where we would remember a different set of victims from a local radical at the Federal Building. <br /><br />Ours was a carefree attitude traveling cross-country, in the last innocent days before we understood that we, too, are vulnerable to attacks by international forces. "The Bad Girl’s Guide" to the Open Road, was invaluable to our 2,077 mile road-tripping adventure to the Pacific Ocean and we read it from cover to cover, taking note of wanderlust wisdom like other helpful uses for condoms such as snakebite tourniquet or ponytail holder and how to get out of speeding tickets. Our most difficult decisions were which diner to have lunch or what motel might be cleaner on the nights we weren’t staying in our friends’ guest rooms.<br /><br />From Amarillo, Texas, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, we headed for Winslow, Arizona, taking little Bud’s picture at every tourist attraction, laughing harder and harder as we waited for Asian and European travelers to move aside so we could strategically place him beside the sites. At the Grand Canyon, we stood in awe, holding Bud, who posed happily for pictures to fill our albums. We followed step after breathtaking step on the path taken by millions of others toward the stunning sunset, never once mentioning that we missed the office.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFycosgZfI/AAAAAAAAATw/7UCIAWUQibI/s1600-h/liz1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 314px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SoFycosgZfI/AAAAAAAAATw/7UCIAWUQibI/s320/liz1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368698067088336370" /></a><br />Driving up Highway One, where Bud, with his painted-on grin, was as excited as we were to have his picture taken at the Brady Bunch house, we took the northern route back home. Our high spirits were beginning to wilt at the prospect of returning to real life until we hit South Dakota and a flock of Hondas and Harley Davidsons cluttered the expressway. Our paths intersected with those headed for Sturgis, the Mecca for motorcycle enthusiasts and the people who sleep with them.<br /><br />“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Cindy asked. She shook Bud until his bobble head was nodding at such a frenzied pace that it threatened to catapult through the windshield.<br /><br />Had our Route 66 trip been planned after 9/11, our whole experience would have been very different. Instead, we gave each other the thumbs up Thelma and Louise-style, and joined our Honda with all the others.<br /><br />(The people in the photos are: Jill, Elaine, and Faith Soloway in the first story; and Elizabeth and Cindy in the last story.)She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-59657308139102365372009-06-24T10:04:00.012-05:002009-06-24T10:28:33.780-05:00There's An App For That<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCGdBel0I/AAAAAAAAARw/YfNT0Pit9Gk/s1600-h/Dad%2BSibs%2BUs.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 183px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCGdBel0I/AAAAAAAAARw/YfNT0Pit9Gk/s320/Dad%2BSibs%2BUs.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350911985907046210" /></a><br />Like all dutiful daughters, I called Dad on Father’s Day. Thanks to the iPhone's 3.0 update that includes the application, Celestial Calls, I was able to reach him with little effort.<br /><br />He wasn’t surprised at my call because ever since he died in 1958, he’s kept his eyes on me. I know this because there are times I feel his presence. Mostly, I’m happy he’s lurking, especially if I’m being honored, thanked, or otherwise celebrated. If I'm very quiet, I can just about make out, “<a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">Way to go, Princess.</a>”<br /><br />Other times, when I’m engaged in activities that he may have frowned upon when alive; i.e. lying, cheating, or taking a Gentile for a second husband, I pray (a longtime earth-to-heaven communication technique) that Dad discretely looks the other way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCyfR7qgI/AAAAAAAAASI/ApHmAcHpuP8/s1600-h/DadMecopy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 301px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCyfR7qgI/AAAAAAAAASI/ApHmAcHpuP8/s320/DadMecopy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350912742427175426" /></a><br />On my Father's Day call, Dad picked up after a few rings and said, “So nice to hear from you, Princess.” <br /><br />“Do you have an iPhone, too?” I asked, imagining he must have a similar device for our unusual chat to occur.<br /> <br />“No, just a regular rotary phone,” Dad said. “Nothing fancy.”<br /><br />“So where did I catch you?” I asked. (When Apple brings video chat to the iPhone, these types of questions will be irrelevant.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCOZ7lOEI/AAAAAAAAAR4/DwdCgVqMLLk/s1600-h/Coffee___Major_email(2)"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCOZ7lOEI/AAAAAAAAAR4/DwdCgVqMLLk/s320/Coffee___Major_email(2)" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350912122515961922" /></a><br />“The Pool Room. Where else? You remember the guys from Division Street? They’re all up here now.”<br /><br />In the background, I could hear the clinking of billiard balls, the TV with Jack Brickhouse announcing the Cubs game, and shouts of goniff from male voices I assumed were at card tables.<br /><br />“Sure I remember the Pool Room. Are you all still smoking?” I asked. I thought about those clouds that greeted me whenever I went to fetch Dad home for supper.<br /><br />“This is Heaven,” Dad said. “We get to do what we want. And we don’t have to worry about second-hand smoke killing anyone. We’re already dead!” He laughed at his inside joke.<br /><br />I heard chomping. "Are you eating, Dad?" Scorn rising in my voice.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCh6Pa21I/AAAAAAAAASA/G-VcBIgNq7M/s1600-h/cornedbeef.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 102px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJCh6Pa21I/AAAAAAAAASA/G-VcBIgNq7M/s320/cornedbeef.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350912457606617938" /></a><br />"Corned beef on rye, coleslaw,...”<br /><br />"But Dad," I said, "your diabetes, your…<br /><br />He interrupted with another laugh, "Princess, enough already."<br /><br />"Oh yeah, Heaven," I said. “Listen, I’ve been trying to think of a Father’s Day gift, but you understand postage would be prohibitive.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJF79qn5EI/AAAAAAAAATA/B8YELTg-byI/s1600-h/TDSPCover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJF79qn5EI/AAAAAAAAATA/B8YELTg-byI/s320/TDSPCover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350916203737506882" /></a><br />“Princess, you don’t need to buy me anything. Your book about me was enough.”<br /><br />“Dad, to be honest, it wasn’t only about you. It was about all of our lives on Division Street – you, me, Mom, Ronnie.”<br /><br />“I know, I know, everybody loved it.”<br /><br />“You all read it?” I asked.<br /><br />“I did a book signing,” Dad said. I was certain he was rolling his eyes at my naiveté. “Remember Stuart Brent Books in Chicago?” he continued. “When it left Michigan Avenue, it opened up here. We resurrect only independent booksellers. I was quite a hit.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJDWaGuF_I/AAAAAAAAASY/QmsK6ycSjwY/s1600-h/MomSisters.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJDWaGuF_I/AAAAAAAAASY/QmsK6ycSjwY/s320/MomSisters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350913359513262066" /></a><br />“Speaking about Mom, do you ever see her?” Although my parents were still married at the time of Dad’s demise, I asked because of their frequent earthly arguments. “We run into each other now and then, but she prefers hanging out with her family and friends; and, well you know where I am.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJFN-lUDbI/AAAAAAAAAS4/y9PsqJ4uhjo/s1600-h/CubsDecal.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 106px; height: 118px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJFN-lUDbI/AAAAAAAAAS4/y9PsqJ4uhjo/s320/CubsDecal.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350915413709688242" /></a><br /><br />“Dad, tell me about your beloved sports. I can hear the Cubs game, but what about boxing, wrestling. Do you still get to enjoy those matches?”<br /><br />“Are you kidding?” Dad asked. “We got a game on now; and we got Babe Ruth, Jake LaMotta, Gorgeous George. There’s a different sport every night. I can hardly keep up. Remember, Princess, this is Heaven.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJDFXp98PI/AAAAAAAAASQ/e55DPYNUb2s/s1600-h/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJDFXp98PI/AAAAAAAAASQ/e55DPYNUb2s/s320/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350913066798018802" /></a><br />“Say, Dad, I have this feeling that you’ve been keeping an eye on my <a href="http://faithsoloway.com">daughters</a>, even though you never got to meet them when you were alive. Aren’t <a href="http://jillsoloway.com">they</a> something?”<br /><br />“They take after me,” Dad said, pride likely puffing his girth further. “Their zest for life, their charm, friendliness, those big brown eyes. The talent part, I can’t take credit for. Maybe their father and you.”<br /><br />I laughed. Even without video, I recalled his face clearly. He was right; there are similarities.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJDplk1lQI/AAAAAAAAASg/X1HqYQ4AVUA/s1600-h/RonCover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJDplk1lQI/AAAAAAAAASg/X1HqYQ4AVUA/s320/RonCover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350913689009886466" /></a><br />"And Ron, how about him publishing his own book, 'Making Happy’? What do you think about that, Dad?"<br /><br />"Boy, did I get a laugh out of your brother's book! We got the galleys. It'll be a big hit here, too."<br /><br />“Listen Dad, I think my battery is wearing out, so I’m going to have to say goodbye. But your birthday is coming up, so I’ll try and reach you then.”<br /><br />“Sounds beautiful, Princess,” he said. "But don't worry about making calls. I'm in touch with you seven days a week."<br /><br />"We say 24/7 here."<br /><br />"Twenty-four seven? That one I didn't hear. I'll be honest; it's a little hard keeping up. Thank goodness for the Chicago Daily News and the other papers. Of course, we've got the top reporters working, too. Sports, politics, you name it. It takes a little longer than your computers, but quality, Princess, quality. We got it here."<br /><br />"Well Dad, I'm glad you're doing okay. Give my love to everyone. When you see Mom, tell her I can call her now, too."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJD8qMQswI/AAAAAAAAASo/6nP5jWX-KNs/s1600-h/MomElaineRenee+copy+copy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 264px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SkJD8qMQswI/AAAAAAAAASo/6nP5jWX-KNs/s320/MomElaineRenee+copy+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5350914016666497794" /></a><br />"She'll be happy to hear that."<br /><br />My father and I said our goodbyes. I clicked off the iPhone and plugged it into its charger. Just as I thought, the battery was nearly empty. But there was enough juice for a text message coming in. "So, when am I going to hear from you?" <br /><br />It was from my mother.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-53303897259524793802009-06-04T10:44:00.012-05:002009-06-09T08:31:39.524-05:00June Bride<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Si0SO70jalI/AAAAAAAAARc/ruBtT9YUz0s/s1600-h/ElaineHotel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 303px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Si0SO70jalI/AAAAAAAAARc/ruBtT9YUz0s/s320/ElaineHotel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344948380544232018" /></a><br />As the notes of "Here Comes The Bride" sounded, 75 guests interrupted their chatter to swivel in the seats of their white folding chairs. All eyes focused on the closed double doors behind them. Any moment, here in the Country Squire Room of the North Shore Hotel, on the 19th day of June in the year 1960, I was about to wed my groom.<br /><br />In my hiding place, I attempted a relaxing deep breath, as recommended by Modern Bride magazine. But my dress’s tight bodice prevented even a subtle sigh. How I hated this dress! Why had I let my mother talk me into this castoff? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilvJr_LEtI/AAAAAAAAAQc/EvVyeBRH21I/s1600-h/Fields.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 54px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilvJr_LEtI/AAAAAAAAAQc/EvVyeBRH21I/s320/Fields.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343924645069001426" /></a><br />“Christine wore it for the ceremony only,” my mother had said, describing her co-worker’s claim. “She swore she changed to a party dress right after her vows, and hung it in its Field’s garment bag." It was three months before the wedding. Mother and I were in the bedroom of our garden apartment; the door was closed so we could see our reflection in the full-length mirror nailed to its back. My mother’s hands circled my waist, pasting the dress to me as if I were her cutout paper doll. <br /><br />“Okay, I’ll try it on,” I said, stripping to my underwear and wriggling into the dress. “Zip me.” I held my breath, in case the metal’s teeth hungered for flesh.<br /><br />“Ugh,” I said at my image <br /><br />“You’re crazy. Try on the veil.”<br /><br />The veil did seem to lift a viewer’s eyes away from the unfortunate boat neckline (tugboat was more like it), but the hemline was wrong, too. Okay, full-length would’ve been over the top for an afternoon wedding, and mini – which would’ve displayed my legs, my best feature at age 22 – would’ve been tacky. But this dress cut me off mid-calf, a particularly ugly spot.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">Mother prevailed.</a> So here I was, waiting behind the paneled wooden doors, on the day of my budget wedding, in the cheap dress. I refused to let the dress or the modest venue bring me down. I was overjoyed to be standing where I was, fortunate to be rescued from an old maid future, and about to marry a man I truly loved. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilvYpAunnI/AAAAAAAAAQk/OqVTIcxYt6U/s1600-h/JuneBride.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilvYpAunnI/AAAAAAAAAQk/OqVTIcxYt6U/s320/JuneBride.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343924901968256626" /></a><br />I felt a mixture of excitement and butterflies as I began my march, walking slowly to match the music, sinking my white dyed-pumps into the runner with each pointy-toed step. All was a blur in my line of sight. To assure glamour photographs, both this bride and her groom ditched our spectacles. Somehow, he made it safely down the aisle. When his parents each grabbed an elbow of his white tuxedo jacket for the final three feet, they looked like elderly, over-dressed scouts shepherding a blind man across the street.<br /><br />The bridesmaids and their escorts were in place, too. As I neared the altar, I could see my mother coming into focus a few feet from the chuppah. Her oldest brother, Carl, had escorted her down the aisle and the two of them looked as solemn as sentries. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Silv2V7INbI/AAAAAAAAAQs/DV_iVr1nC6M/s1600-h/MotherCarl.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Silv2V7INbI/AAAAAAAAAQs/DV_iVr1nC6M/s320/MotherCarl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343925412240569778" /></a><br />The wedding guests likely pinned my mother's expression to my dad's death two years earlier, as well as the loss of her roommate daughter. But I knew there was something else that barred her usual lovely smile: She hated my about-to-be husband.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Silx2jxs-EI/AAAAAAAAARM/3wtoM-TvaKA/s1600-h/ring.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 247px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Silx2jxs-EI/AAAAAAAAARM/3wtoM-TvaKA/s320/ring.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343927614982387778" /></a><br />As I neared her on the cloth-covered path, I flashed to a scene that had taken place in our apartment six months earlier. "Aren't you happy I'm finally engaged?" I asked. I spread my left hand and lifted the quarter-carat diamond up towards her face. "You've nagged me about a ring my entire senior year. 'Everybody's engaged,' you said. 'When are you going to find someone?' you said. Isn't that what you wanted?"<br /><br />"I didn't mean you should steal someone else's fiancé. You couldn't find someone else?"<br /><br />"I didn't steal him. They were never engaged. Don't you remember, he left her." <br /><br />When the boy I was about to marry first confessed he had fallen out of love with one of my best friends and into love with me, I had been surprised, but also delighted. I had long thought I was a better match for him, but of course, never voiced this. <br /><br />“You’re sure about this?” I had asked him. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Please say you’ll go out with me. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilwdLTwTDI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/orqtzqtoQ-I/s1600-h/RuthMe.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 127px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilwdLTwTDI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/orqtzqtoQ-I/s320/RuthMe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343926079405968434" /></a><br />"Not until you break up with her, and we let a few weeks pass," I made him promise. Then, we dated secretly, but the word got out. Girlfriends took sides. Most of them damned me for my betrayal. Only one friend, Ruth, stood by me. <br /><br />Mother was on the side of my enemies. “How will I ever face her family again?” she said. “How could you do this to me?<br /><br />"I want you to be happy for me," I said. "I want you to love your future son-in-law."<br /><br />"Okay, I'm happy for you.” <br /><br />After my mother and uncle delivered me to my designated spot under the chuppah, I finally relaxed and took in the breath I had attempted at the start of the ceremony. My slow, blurry march, tense as a tightrope walker, had ended, and now I stood alongside my tall, handsome groom. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Si0Vg7USV9I/AAAAAAAAARk/CsCWIjB9GnE/s1600-h/Ruth.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 122px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Si0Vg7USV9I/AAAAAAAAARk/CsCWIjB9GnE/s320/Ruth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5344951988181424082" /></a><br />After the vows, my new husband lifted his rented black dress shoe and drove it down onto the napkin that covered the ritual wine glass. As his foot caused the glass to shatter, cries of Mahzel Tov rang out. With my veil above my head, and my vision clearer, my eyes circled the bridal party. The faces of the small group of relatives, plus my friend Ruth, lit up with smiles.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilwxqbMsXI/AAAAAAAAARE/3s53jKPHQcw/s1600-h/brokenglasssm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 295px; height: 190px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SilwxqbMsXI/AAAAAAAAARE/3s53jKPHQcw/s320/brokenglasssm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343926431356072306" /></a><br />All but Mother's, whose expression hadn't changed since her march down the aisle. Only her red-tipped manicured hands, which were twisting a soaked ball of Kleenex, showed any movement.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-60744857771090935642009-05-12T07:32:00.010-05:002009-05-12T07:41:25.699-05:00JEWISH MOTHER CYBER STALKS HER DAUGHTERS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SglscQOGGSI/AAAAAAAAAPU/3WE0Cfibd7Y/s1600-h/GertrudeBerg.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 87px; height: 111px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SglscQOGGSI/AAAAAAAAAPU/3WE0Cfibd7Y/s320/GertrudeBerg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334914466243287330" /></a><br />While other Jewish mothers may kvetch when their grown children don't keep in touch, or share more of their lives, I peek into my daughters' pursuits whenever I please.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SglskLB5CaI/AAAAAAAAAPc/8mLHNp5VW3U/s1600-h/Facebook.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 56px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SglskLB5CaI/AAAAAAAAAPc/8mLHNp5VW3U/s320/Facebook.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334914602288875938" /></a><br />Instead of sitting by the phone or waiting for an email to learn what they’re up to, I employ technology supposedly too tricky for my Social Security set. I joined the online social networking sites Facebook and Twitter and am now able to lurk on the sidelines of my kids’ lives. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sglsx5z3e-I/AAAAAAAAAPk/-gqwBIfzmek/s1600-h/FaithMac.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sglsx5z3e-I/AAAAAAAAAPk/-gqwBIfzmek/s320/FaithMac.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334914838184819682" /></a><br />There was my daughter, <a href="http://faithsoloway.com">Faith</a>, uploading videos of my granddaughter Betsy playing drums or sashaying with a hoola hoop. I hung around and watched as her Facebook Friends weighed in on the child's talent and adorableness. Then I, too, made an appropriate loving comment. No need for a guilt-edged, "You share these with friends? You couldn’t have shown them to me first?” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SgltECWFt7I/AAAAAAAAAPs/7FlKIw__sNg/s1600-h/JillPreMac.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SgltECWFt7I/AAAAAAAAAPs/7FlKIw__sNg/s320/JillPreMac.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334915149713487794" /></a><br />My other daughter, <a href="http://jillsoloway.com">Jill</a>, was the one who urged me to join Twitter, "It's fun," she said. "Just give it a try." Now I wonder if my youngest regrets her noodge, for after a day of not seeing any of her Tweets, I posted, "Where's Jill?" Within the hour, she returned with this snarky response, "Worst idea in the world, encouraging your Jewish mother to join Twitter."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SgltQseb6gI/AAAAAAAAAP0/ZukF6mAjJyE/s1600-h/Twitter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 55px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SgltQseb6gI/AAAAAAAAAP0/ZukF6mAjJyE/s320/Twitter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334915367181216258" /></a><br />Therein lies a bit of danger in my trespassing: Jill and I nearly got into a cyber squabble after I publicly shot back, "This from the child I spent 10 hours of labor with." She became worried. I received a private message, "We're only kidding, right Mom?" I let her stew for a bit and then answered, "Of course, I laughed when I read it." She begged me to repost my reply out of our private dialogue so her Twitter followers would know she and her mom were still buddies. <br /><br />Admittedly, some of my friends think my computer creeping is well, creepy. "Your daughters should call," one harrumphs, "after all, you're their mother. Why should you have to chase after them?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SglthTRTDwI/AAAAAAAAAP8/MDLwV5F5i80/s1600-h/MomFaith.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 169px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SglthTRTDwI/AAAAAAAAAP8/MDLwV5F5i80/s320/MomFaith.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334915652472999682" /></a><br />Her indignation sent me back to my young adulthood and conversations with my own mother about my lack of timely reporting in. "Oh, so it's you," she would say when I phoned, as if I was a black sheep who had gone missing for a decade and suddenly turned up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sgltt54HigI/AAAAAAAAAQE/5bKzTtEyoHk/s1600-h/MomJill.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 262px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sgltt54HigI/AAAAAAAAAQE/5bKzTtEyoHk/s320/MomJill.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334915868994800130" /></a><br />I knew my cue. "Sorry, Mom," I would say, I meant to call, but…" <br />"No, that's okay," she'd interrupt, "as long as you're alive."<br /><br />When I had kids of my own, I vowed not to employ guilt. My daughters would willingly keep in touch, I knew, especially after their moving to states on opposite sides of the country. There'd be no need for me to paint a picture of their pathetic mother sitting by the phone. If I wanted to hear their voices, I would make the calls. I wouldn't stare at the silent apparatus willing it to ring. <br /><br />Naturally, if more days went by -- than a mother who provided her children with perfect childhoods should expect to hear from them -- I'd leave a message something like, "I know you're busy, but when you get time…" <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sglt9BsP3aI/AAAAAAAAAQM/D5PcDE-0wNo/s1600-h/JillFaithBacks.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sglt9BsP3aI/AAAAAAAAAQM/D5PcDE-0wNo/s320/JillFaithBacks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5334916128790535586" /></a><br />Now, thanks to Facebook and Twitter, I don't have to resort to the phone or my passive-aggressive commentary. All I have to do is sign on to those two sites, hang out a bit and catch up on their whereabouts. So far, it seems to be working. But, I admit to a bit of worry. What if they have found another website, unbeknownst to me, where they reveal their more clandestine thoughts and behaviors. Hah! Give me some time, and this Jewish mother -- clever on the keyboard -- will soon be shadowing.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-2091510060875127412009-04-23T08:25:00.008-05:002009-04-23T08:36:26.124-05:00Sweet Tooth<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtEHjpRdI/AAAAAAAAAOU/lXabJ1Kfw-M/s1600-h/EnglishToffee.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 96px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtEHjpRdI/AAAAAAAAAOU/lXabJ1Kfw-M/s320/EnglishToffee.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327878276694754770" /></a><br />"You really have a sweet tooth, don't you?" my husband said. When he posed the question, I was on tiptoes stretching upwards to reach an 8 oz. container of <a href="http://www.traderjoes.com/">Trader Joe's</a> English Toffee. I hesitated before responding; my hand suspended midair. Then, I grabbed the plastic box and tossed it into our shopping car. "Yes," I said, marching down the aisle, a smirk enhancing my face.<br /><br />My husband's statement was not unfamiliar. I had heard similar comments about my sweet tooth from my mother and my first husband. In the earlier instances, I remained silent, caught their intent and sheepishly returned to the shelf or fridge the goody I was about to digest.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtSFWc7RI/AAAAAAAAAOc/RbU6s68EKdg/s1600-h/EngageRings.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 119px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtSFWc7RI/AAAAAAAAAOc/RbU6s68EKdg/s320/EngageRings.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327878516620717330" /></a><br />My mother, long deceased, was thin and pretty. She worried if I mimicked my father's appetite, I would grow fat and unwell. And, she had my father's fate nailed, for he died at age 47, overweight, diabetic, and a three-pack-a-day Camel smoker. Sadly, I doubt it was an untimely death Mother feared for her only daughter. Instead, I believe it was the prospect of me being unattractive, and ring-less while my college girlfriends flashed theirs.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtgqxj0_I/AAAAAAAAAOk/nwLF2cEixPE/s1600-h/Pills.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 90px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtgqxj0_I/AAAAAAAAAOk/nwLF2cEixPE/s320/Pills.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327878767184696306" /></a><br />I wasn't surprised when Mother urged me to see the Diet Doctor. At the time, I was probably 5 pounds over my ideal weight. But certainly, with my publicized love of sweets, those 5 could easily double, triple. Couldn't they? I’d visit the doctor weekly, twitch in a waiting room stuffed with patients, step on the scale while nervously eyeing the balance beam, and then accept 3 bottles of colored pills to be taken at various times of the day. <br /><br />And they worked! The pounds came off. I also became super fast at anything I attempted. Clean the house? Done in an hour. Homework? Zoomed through it. Sleep? Sorry, no. So, that medical miracle was abandoned. Instead, Mother used her Singer to open up my skirt waistbands and add a bit of matching fabric. (Swiped from the hem no doubt, as my young self never made it to 5’.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtxgSE-WI/AAAAAAAAAOs/Y9iUaPYxweE/s1600-h/Cake.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 83px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBtxgSE-WI/AAAAAAAAAOs/Y9iUaPYxweE/s320/Cake.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327879056426072418" /></a><br />When I married in 1960, my slim husband took over the parenting role. The line I most remember from our 30-year hitch was, "Mother loves her cake." He was referring to me (with two children, I was "Mother" and he "Father."). That statement about cake doesn't sound particularly threatening now, but at the time, I translated it to: "You have an uncontrollable appetite. You will get fat. I will leave you." So, I would interrupt my bite, replace the cake, and slink from the kitchen.<br /><br />When <a href="http://www.weightwatchers.com/templates/marketing/Landing_1col_nonav.aspx?PageId=1113941">Weight Watchers</a> came to Chicago, I was first in line. Its rules appealed to a list-maker like me. All I had to do was follow instructions and the extra pounds (about 10 by now) would disappear. Eventually they did, but along with them went any affection for fish. (In the early days, Watchers had to eat 5 fish meals per week.) <br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBuMN8IvqI/AAAAAAAAAO8/G7XWET83ON4/s1600-h/DietBooks.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBuMN8IvqI/AAAAAAAAAO8/G7XWET83ON4/s320/DietBooks.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327879515358674594" /></a><br />Besides Weight Watchers, I accumulated every diet book published. Their promises lined my bookshelves until later in my life when the sight of them and the memory of the pathetic woman I once was, made me toss the lot into the garbage. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBue2poBTI/AAAAAAAAAPE/x8RGA0wX3Y0/s1600-h/FoodScale.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 112px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBue2poBTI/AAAAAAAAAPE/x8RGA0wX3Y0/s320/FoodScale.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327879835524531506" /></a><br />In my second marriage, the urge to be thinner (my husband is a 3-times-a-week YMCA-er without an ounce of fat on his Gentile body) returned. I found a website, <a href="http://www.calorieking.com/">CalorieKing</a>, and by weighing, measuring, and recording everything I put in my mouth, managed to lose another 10 pounds.<br /><br />From below the neck, attired in Size 2 black <a href="http://bananarepublic.gap.com/?redirect=true">Banana Republic</a> blouse and slacks, I looked a fashion model. But up above, a grey-haired crone creaked into view. I never thought I'd ever utter these words, but: I was too skinny. I looked older, sicker, on my way out. So I abandoned my strict documenting, relaxed the portions, and added back 5 pounds.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBusEKddnI/AAAAAAAAAPM/fLnmE4vfVBA/s1600-h/AppleStrudel.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 116px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SfBusEKddnI/AAAAAAAAAPM/fLnmE4vfVBA/s320/AppleStrudel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327880062490211954" /></a><br />Now, if I want apple strudel (that's what Mother snatched from my fingers), cake, or English Toffee, I just go ahead and chomp. And if anyone -- spouse, relative, or onlooker -- has anything to say about my choice, I just smile and continue my sweet. Care for a bite?She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-49027217335055777932009-03-16T08:54:00.013-05:002009-03-16T10:36:07.491-05:00Music Appreciation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5aOLMb1mI/AAAAAAAAANE/zgADhMjCEjA/s1600-h/Carmen.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 118px; height: 118px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5aOLMb1mI/AAAAAAAAANE/zgADhMjCEjA/s320/Carmen.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313783809913378402" /></a><br />I'm seated at our Wurlitzer upright, staring at the sheet music for “I Can’t Get Started.” As I hesitantly ping on the keys, I attempt to sing its lyrics. In my head I’m hearing Carmen McRae’s lush vocals. In reality, my sounds are nowhere in her neighborhood. But still, I’m having a grand time. <br /><br />As I shakily play and sing, “I’ve been around the world…” my mind wanders back to the first time I discovered jazz and Carmen McRae. The year is 1959, and my widowed mother and I live in a garden apartment (really a basement) on Chicago’s north side. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5xQOHEBJI/AAAAAAAAAOM/E548pDceqME/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 115px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5xQOHEBJI/AAAAAAAAAOM/E548pDceqME/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313809133823329426" /></a><br />In this particular vision, I see the younger me lying in bed with Jeff L., a boy I dated during my college years. We were in his parents’ apartment on North Clarendon, fully clothed, when Jeff said, “I’m going to introduce you to Daddy-O Daley. You know ‘Daddio on the Raddio on WXFM.’ He invited me to his midnight show and said I could bring a friend.” <br /><br />“Midnight?” I repeated. “That means we won’t get home till morning. My mom will have a conniption fit.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5auKJbkPI/AAAAAAAAANU/W3vSgypkIFc/s1600-h/Mel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 116px; height: 113px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5auKJbkPI/AAAAAAAAANU/W3vSgypkIFc/s320/Mel.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313784359388156146" /></a><br />“Don’t tell her,” Jeff said. He brushed my hair back from my face and smiled. Although he was handsome, in a Paul Newman-sort of way, I knew I was one of several girls he took out. No way would this sexy guy tempt me to go all the way. After all, I was a good Jewish girl and chastity ruled. If Jeff really wanted to get laid, he could turn to the easy girls at school, or to the rumored cathouses in Peoria. <br /><br />“Just say we’re going out on a date. She’ll be asleep when you get home and won’t know the difference.” <br /><br />I looked up into Jeff’s blue eyes, pictured myself cuddling next to him in his dad’s Chevy Impala, and shoved the image of my mother out of my head. “Okay,” I said. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5a_aPz47I/AAAAAAAAANc/qjpI3p7BlH8/s1600-h/JoeW.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 123px; height: 131px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5a_aPz47I/AAAAAAAAANc/qjpI3p7BlH8/s320/JoeW.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313784655767659442" /></a><br />That evening, after fudging about my plans, I joined Jeff. When we arrived and entered the studio, I held tightly to his hand. “Hello sweetheart,” Daddy-O said when we were introduced. Flirty, and grinning widely, “Is this guy corrupting you?” <br /><br />“With my permission,” I answered, smiling back. “Thanks for letting me sit in.” <br /><br />“Pretty ladies are always welcome here,” Daddy-O said. He leaned over to kiss my cheek, and I could smell his hair’s pomade and cologne. <br /><br />Then, Daddy-O seated Jeff and me on two chairs outside his glass-enclosed booth. As we watched, Daddy-O played his records and purred to his radio audience as if they were next to him instead of in their homes, cars, and workplaces. I imagined his listeners – couples making love in dim-lit bedrooms, sweethearts returning home from a date, and night cleaning crews carting their portables along with a mop bucket. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5beAEDMxI/AAAAAAAAANs/QumIXTVlgB4/s1600-h/Billie.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 102px; height: 101px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5beAEDMxI/AAAAAAAAANs/QumIXTVlgB4/s320/Billie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313785181314954002" /></a><br />That night at Daddy-O's, I learned the names and popular tunes of jazz singers and became a fan of all of them. The women: Carmen McRae, Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington, Nancy Wilson, and Sarah Vaughn. And the men: Joe Williams, Barry White, Johnny Hartman, Frank Sinatra, and Mel Torme. <br /><br />As we listened to the recordings, Alex pulled my chair next to his and put his arm around my shoulders. From inside his booth, Daddy-O winked, as if to say, Enjoy. <br /><br />“Hmm,” Jeff murmured, putting his free hand on my knee. <br /><br />“Hmm,” I agreed, and put my own hand on top of his – to feel the connection, but also to impede its progress. I was grateful we were in a public place, rather than in Jeff’s bedroom, because the late-night hour, the low-pitched crooners, the syrupy songs, and Daddy-O’s thumbs up might’ve been just enough to move me from my firm position to one horizontal and compliant. Or not. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5wKf09ayI/AAAAAAAAAN8/RRy0IGhs18c/s1600-h/Vaughn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 120px; height: 120px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5wKf09ayI/AAAAAAAAAN8/RRy0IGhs18c/s320/Vaughn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313807935988394786" /></a><br />At the end of the broadcast, Daddy-O removed his headphones and emerged from the booth. Jeff’s fingers gave a final squeeze to my thigh, and then we both rose to take the disk jockey’s offered palm. Ignoring Jeff, Daddy-O turned to me and asked, “So, sweetheart, how was your jazz immersion? Do we have a fan?” <br /><br />Instead of stopping at the handshake, I stood on tiptoes to kiss Daddy O’s cheek. I wasn’t sure why I added the affectionate gesture; perhaps it was the jazz music that flowed through my body and was still playing on an endless loop. Or perhaps, it was because I just felt wonderful. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5bQHHVuFI/AAAAAAAAANk/rILxI6rMYiw/s1600-h/JohnnyH.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 124px; height: 124px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5bQHHVuFI/AAAAAAAAANk/rILxI6rMYiw/s320/JohnnyH.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313784942689630290" /></a><br />After Jeff and I left the studio, we drove silently while he tried to find similar music on the car radio. When we pulled up to my building, we capped the evening by making out in the front seat. Of course, my version of making out involved kissing, but no unbuttoning or unzipping. Although the music had affected me, the drive home with the windows open, and the dashboard clock that showed the late hour, quickly rescued me from the danger zone. <br /><br />“Thank you,” I told Jeff when he switched off his motor. “I’ll never forget this night. I loved every minute of it.” <br /><br />“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Jeff said. He used the back of his hand to wipe away my lipstick. When he glimpsed his wristwatch's time, he added, “Good luck with your mother.” Then, he reached across to unlock the car door and watched as I rushed to my apartment building. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5cEQ1n2_I/AAAAAAAAAN0/dyQCwqEOsNw/s1600-h/Nancy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 112px; height: 141px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5cEQ1n2_I/AAAAAAAAAN0/dyQCwqEOsNw/s320/Nancy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313785838652873714" /></a><br />I was quiet as could be when I unlocked the deadbolt to our flat. After tiptoeing down the two steps to the living room, I spotted my mother. She was in her chenille robe curled up in a corner of the couch, twisting a Kleenex in her arthritic fingers. <br /><br />“Where have you been?” she asked. She used the tissue to wipe away still-flowing tears. “I’ve been worried sick. Do you know what time it is? I thought you were dead somewhere in an alley. How could you do this to me? It’s not enough your father drops dead and leaves me alone? You’re going to kill me, too.” <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5aapew3HI/AAAAAAAAANM/UJy16fO_EyA/s1600-h/Ella.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 101px; height: 120px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/Sb5aapew3HI/AAAAAAAAANM/UJy16fO_EyA/s320/Ella.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313784024201747570" /></a><br />“Mommy, I’m sorry,” I said. I dumped my purse and jacket on the steps and rushed to her on the couch. “I went to a radio show with Jeff. I was going to call you when I saw how late it was but I didn’t want to wake you up.” <br /><br />“I don’t deserve this,” my mother said, “I don’t deserve this.” <br /><br />The memory of my mother’s long-ago lament woke me from my reverie. I shook away her words and instead concentrated on the tune on the songbook. “I’ve been around the world…” I sang, this time a little louder, a bit bolder, and somewhat nearer the key.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-51267218422369078332009-02-18T03:39:00.009-06:002009-02-18T03:52:43.909-06:00Making Babies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvYQRO72FI/AAAAAAAAALc/wCnwF7MbSNo/s1600-h/Octuplets.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 107px; height: 82px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvYQRO72FI/AAAAAAAAALc/wCnwF7MbSNo/s320/Octuplets.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304070760174442578" /></a><br />When news of the <a href="http://thelede.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/02/09/octo-mom-names-fertility-clinic/?scp=2&sq=octuplet%20mom&st=cse">octuplet mom</a> hit the airwaves, my thoughts flashed back to my own experience with pregnancy. You see, before in-vitro fertilization and other high-tech methods increased the odds, I was among the wretched group of women who had trouble conceiving. <br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvYbovFYsI/AAAAAAAAALk/iNB32aaSVjs/s1600-h/carriage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 125px; height: 90px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvYbovFYsI/AAAAAAAAALk/iNB32aaSVjs/s320/carriage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304070955461862082" /></a><br />The year of my misery was 1963, I was 25 years old, and in my third year of marriage. At the time, I remember thinking how unfair the world was for it seemed as if every woman who came into view was either pregnant, pushing a baby carriage, or dragging a bawling infant by its pudgy arm. Bellies that looked as if they were concealing pillows, or stomachs resembling basketballs, were at bus stops, in supermarket checkout lines, or on the school faculty where I was teaching at the time. <br /><br />When we married three years earlier, my husband and I thought it wise to postpone pregnancy so I could work while he finished medical school. First, the diaphragm had been my attempt at barring the door. Next, the miracle of science brought us spontaneity and peace of mind. Oral contraceptives -- <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Pill">The Pill</a> -- changed the landscape. All I had to do was twist the plastic circle, align the calendar disc with its designated 10 mg. dose, drop the tiny pill into my hand, swallow, and let the chemical set up its blockade. <br /><br />But once my husband completed his internship and residency, I tossed contraceptives into the garbage, coaxed him to bed earlier than usual, and added parenting magazines to my pile of reading material. But. Nothing. Happened. Month after month went by. No swelling of the tummy, no morning nausea, no little boy the image of his father, or bitty girl with her mother’s black hair. <br /><br />"Maybe it was all the contraceptives I used." I said to my husband. "Maybe the combination of science and technology messed up the natural order of things?"<br /> <br />"Don't be silly," he answered. "Give it more time. You were meant to be a mother, it'll happen."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvYtKAnPWI/AAAAAAAAALs/u6oPgkQ8hQw/s1600-h/kids_grid.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 223px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvYtKAnPWI/AAAAAAAAALs/u6oPgkQ8hQw/s320/kids_grid.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304071256451530082" /></a><br />Meanwhile, although my body declined my quest, I was able to sublimate with the children in my third grade class at a Chicago Public School. It was located in a tough west side neighborhood, but I overcame misgivings with a desire to instill in my adorable tykes a passion for learning. <br /><br />In my first years of teaching, I used affection, gentle persuasion, and copious praise to tame my 35 students. But everything seemed to change by my third year. The incoming kids seemed to have gotten rowdier, tougher, and less moved by hugs or praise. Some challenged me from the Pledge of Allegiance to the ending bell. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvZDWcFetI/AAAAAAAAAL0/ykuToBml2Kk/s1600-h/bully.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 79px; height: 146px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvZDWcFetI/AAAAAAAAAL0/ykuToBml2Kk/s320/bully.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304071637745105618" /></a><br />While the majority of my students were age eight or nine, one boy, having flunked several grades, was eleven. "Please sit down," I'd say to him, safe behind my desk. When he'd ignore me and continue to roam the aisles, slamming shut children's books, pushing pencils off desks, or shoving a kid from his seat, I’d catch up to him and attempt a tougher tone. Looking up as he towered over me, I'd growl, "Go back to your seat right now!" <br /><br />"Who's gonna make me?" he'd say, staring down with his thick arms crossed against his chest. Then he'd laugh, and a few of his cohorts would join in. It was a comical sight, a teacher who'd need a stepstool to reach his height. I was clearly outmatched. Eventually he’d weary of the standoff and saunter back to his seat. Some of the children, clearly disappointed there'd be no bloodshed, could be heard uttering, "Shit." <br /><br />That was another problem with that year's crop, many of them cursed. Third graders! Children! Often when I lined my class up for a trip -- let's say to the assembly hall -- I could easily hear, "step lively, motherfucker," or "get your big-assed feet off my shoes." <br /><br />One night during that grim year, as I was getting ready for bed, I looked into the bathroom mirror to see red spots decorating my torso. “Honey, take a look,” I said to my husband. I lifted my nightgown and exposed the bright design that was now beginning to itch. <br /><br />“Whoa,” he said. “Measles?” <br /><br />“No, can’t be, I’ve been immunized. I have an appointment with Dr. Hankin, on Saturday. I’ll ask him to take a look.” <br /><br />“Definitely not measles,” Dr. Hankin said. “Looks to me like it could be stress related. Anything bothering you lately?” <br /><br />“Well, besides the fact I’m not getting pregnant, and the kids at school are driving me crazy, and more guys my husband’s age are being drafted, I guess I’m doing okay.” <br /><br />“I think you’ve made the diagnosis,” he said. “We’ve done all the tests on you and your husband, and they’ve all confirmed there’s no physical reason you’re not conceiving. I bet if you quit teaching, you’d get pregnant.” <br /><br />"From your lips to God's ears," I said. As I reached for my clothing that was hung on the back of the examining room's door, I wondered if I'd ever be blessed to see on that hook a pair of slacks with an elastic waistband, plus a tent-like top that would flow over a swelling stomach. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvZVwwAaVI/AAAAAAAAAL8/nHFAmFkvSVk/s1600-h/HarryDeven.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 305px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvZVwwAaVI/AAAAAAAAAL8/nHFAmFkvSVk/s320/HarryDeven.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304071954045626706" /></a><br />Soon after that exam, my husband enlisted in the Army, and as an officer drew a choice assignment at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. I quit teaching to accompany him. The moment we arrived, I learned my obstetrician had been spot-on. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvaIr-7hnI/AAAAAAAAAMU/KCKVgaJ08Ls/s1600-h/BabyEssay.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 285px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SZvaIr-7hnI/AAAAAAAAAMU/KCKVgaJ08Ls/s320/BabyEssay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304072828939372146" /></a><br />Within nine months, I delivered a beautiful baby <a href="http://faithsoloway.com">daughter</a> with black hair the same as her mother and if not the image of her father, close enough to make him ecstatic. And eighteen months later, another <a href="http://jillsoloway.com">daughter</a> easily followed her sister. <br /><br />So without the aid of fertility clinics, in-vitro, or other laboratory settings, dear Dr. Hankin (now deceased) provided the perfect prescription. I’m not certain it would work for others, but, here’s what I recommend: quit your high-stress job, find some calming activity (yoga perhaps, not the military), and oh yes, send me a birth announcement.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-86836267289613462252009-01-21T11:04:00.017-06:002009-01-22T08:56:40.457-06:00WHAT WILL OTHER PEOPLE THINK<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdW94Co9SI/AAAAAAAAAKE/6geHihKt5xA/s1600-h/MVP2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdW94Co9SI/AAAAAAAAAKE/6geHihKt5xA/s320/MVP2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293795508012774690" border="0" /></a><br />The theater is dark and quiet. All eyes focus on the stage, then turn to follow a spotlight that appears, sweeps past the scenery and lands on a series of five black-and-white, poster-sized photographs positioned stage right. They are pictures of women’s crotches. The audience explodes with gasps and laughter. A number of heads swivel towards me. I slowly raise my hand, wave feebly, like an aging celebrity acknowledging fans, then hunch my shoulders in a don’t-ask-me gesture.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdXNj1IZhI/AAAAAAAAAKM/2Aj2kVZzdaA/s1600-h/MVPcrew_0002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 260px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdXNj1IZhI/AAAAAAAAAKM/2Aj2kVZzdaA/s320/MVPcrew_0002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293795777465312786" border="0" /></a><br />The year is 1991 and the show is “The Miss Vagina Pageant” conceived, written, and produced by my daughters, Faith and Jill Soloway. The piece is a hilarious, feminist – and raunchy – spoof featuring Miss South Side of Chicago, Miss Pennsylvania, Miss Tennessee, Miss New York, and Miss Trinidad and Tobago. The crotch shots (of the actresses) are codas topping off each contestant’s heartfelt wishes for an ideal America.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdXcDg4KEI/AAAAAAAAAKU/Usgr7vCtAIw/s1600-h/MVPcast.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 268px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdXcDg4KEI/AAAAAAAAAKU/Usgr7vCtAIw/s320/MVPcast.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293796026488465474" border="0" /></a><br />The eyes turning towards me are eager to learn how I’ve reacted to the photographs. Am I slinking low in my seat, covering my face to block the images, or laughing with the rest of the crowd? I laugh, but inside, I feel a mix of emotions.<br /><br />First, I'm embarrassed, for at the time, I was a 53-year-old middle-class woman with nary a hint of artistic rebellion. I worried what others would think of a mother who raised such ribald daughters.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdXuZBDFKI/AAAAAAAAAKc/SUuGqcyg2oU/s1600-h/Bars.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 98px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdXuZBDFKI/AAAAAAAAAKc/SUuGqcyg2oU/s320/Bars.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293796341498188962" border="0" /></a><br />Next, I felt fear. Surely my kids will get into trouble for violating Chicago's decency standards. Then, my feelings switched to pride. How could I not puff up for these two young women, 26- and 27-1/2-years-old back then, who had already found national fame with their <a href="http://www.annoyanceproductions.com/">“The Real Live Brady Bunch”</a> production?<br /><br />My final emotion was jealousy, for deep in my heart, I wished, how I wished, I could be as audacious as they.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdX926w5hI/AAAAAAAAAKk/uWXzFbnlzQw/s1600-h/Coed.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 103px; height: 131px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdX926w5hI/AAAAAAAAAKk/uWXzFbnlzQw/s320/Coed.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293796607222933010" border="0" /></a><br />"The Miss Vagina Pageant" wasn’t the first or only irreverent or risqué Soloway sisters’ production. Prior to that show, <a href="http://faithsoloway.com/">Faith</a> wrote "Co-Ed Prison Sluts," a musical that poked fun at censorship and B-movies, and included Sh*t and Moth*r F*cker as lyrics. When Faith settled in Boston, she unsettled the American Society for the Defense of Tradition, Family and Property with her zany rock opera, "Jesus Has Two Mommies."<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdYNJDMgLI/AAAAAAAAAKs/9JQV5psUlAI/s1600-h/6FU.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 130px; height: 117px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdYNJDMgLI/AAAAAAAAAKs/9JQV5psUlAI/s320/6FU.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293796869788172466" border="0" /></a><br />Meanwhile, <a href="http://jillsoloway.com/">Jill</a>, who moved to Los Angeles, created her own upheaval with the short story, "Courteney Cox's Asshole," supposedly written by a tattle-telling personal assistant. Instead of getting her into trouble, the satire propelled Jill to a writing, producing slot on HBO’s "Six Feet Under." She followed that with her nonfiction book, "Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants."<br /><br />Just the fact I can list my daughters’ works is testimony -- in the 18 years since "Miss Vagina Pageant" -- how pride has trumped fear and embarrassment. More importantly, at age 70, having benefited from Faith and Jill’s chutzpah, I can now claim some of that long-wished-for attribute as my own.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdYcKlXbNI/AAAAAAAAAK0/5F5Y6DKiJ2w/s1600-h/Engage+copy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdYcKlXbNI/AAAAAAAAAK0/5F5Y6DKiJ2w/s320/Engage+copy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293797127897967826" border="0" /></a><br />My transformation was a long time coming because I grew up compliant, and constricted by my mother's What Will Other People Think (WWOPT) rule. For beautiful, traditional, Min Elkin Shapiro that meant staying married to my father for 25 years (until his death), despite never feeling love for him one day of that quarter century union.<br /><br />For her daughter, it meant never leaving the house without my hair combed, keeping my hands off the cookie jar lest I turn into a chubby like my father, not objecting when her criticism wounded me, and never telling anyone (including my parents) about the neighbor who molested me.<br /><br />In high school and college, WWOPT continued to guide me. I wore wedge-heeled shoes to make myself taller, a girdle to do the job dieting failed, and used makeup and charm to assure some boy would save me from spinsterhood.<br /><br />Fortunately, at 22, I made the cut, married a future doctor, and bore the two daughters I champion in this essay. Although I still mirrored my mother in wardrobe and appearance, I chucked the rules when it came to Faith and Jill. From the time they were toddlers, I encouraged them to choose their own outfits. That frequently meant matched sets becoming unmatched and other combinations that displayed creativity rather than neatness. When Mother visited and complained, “How can you let them go out like that?” I’d shrug my shoulders.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXd-So8m9vI/AAAAAAAAALU/MPEOBt_VgN0/s1600-h/ElaineTattoo.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 127px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXd-So8m9vI/AAAAAAAAALU/MPEOBt_VgN0/s320/ElaineTattoo.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293838745691682546" /></a><br />In my mind, the first visible symbol of my crawling out from under WWOPT was a sizable tattoo inked on my left biceps as a 60th birthday present to myself. By then, I had divorced, remarried, let my hair go gray, and adopted a uniform of black t-shirts and blue jeans. Quite the rebel.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdZ7le0n0I/AAAAAAAAALM/rQQi68WH-Lg/s1600-h/TDSPCover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 207px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdZ7le0n0I/AAAAAAAAALM/rQQi68WH-Lg/s320/TDSPCover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293798767205850946" /></a><br />But with each passing year, I emerged a bit further away from Min's worry (she died in 1981 at the age of 67 while in her second unhappy marriage). I wrote a childhood memoir, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">"The Division Street Princess,"</a> that put me front and center at book signings, college classrooms, and other public events. Although there was nothing in those pages to match the ideology, or bawdiness, of my daughters' productions, I finally did describe the scene when I was seven years old and Vic lured me into his apartment.<br /><br />With my daughters' moxie as my mantra, I began to reveal more personal stories online and then wrote a second book, "She's Not The Type." This novel, about a married woman with two children whose unhappiness propels her into, um, situations not typically associated with good Jewish wives, is now making the rounds of agents.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdZCkBg4PI/AAAAAAAAALE/zOHoS4HKhro/s1600-h/SNTT.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 132px; height: 84px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SXdZCkBg4PI/AAAAAAAAALE/zOHoS4HKhro/s320/SNTT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293797787561943282" border="0" /></a><br />If and when the book hits store shelves, and friends and relatives beg to learn if there's any truth in its pages, they may turn to my daughters for clues. I imagine Faith and Jill will hunch their shoulders in a don't-ask-me gesture and perhaps feel a mix of emotions. I'm keeping my fingers crossed their pride for their mother's newfound nerve -- gleaned from their own examples of honesty and courage -- will outshine everything else.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-82869913334656525882008-12-16T10:37:00.013-06:002008-12-16T10:56:11.012-06:00Sitting on Top of the World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfZlmOZOGI/AAAAAAAAAIc/mOAKc3X85Gg/s1600-h/Blagojevich.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 131px; height: 97px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfZlmOZOGI/AAAAAAAAAIc/mOAKc3X85Gg/s320/Blagojevich.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280428328054503522" /></a><br />Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich and I have something in common: ambition and hubris knocked us both off lofty perches. Although his tumble was from a Mount Everest-sized peak, and mine closer to, well, a molehill, our anguish has similarities.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfZw9svTSI/AAAAAAAAAIk/gGYI0mQSIKQ/s1600-h/JaneByrne.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfZw9svTSI/AAAAAAAAAIk/gGYI0mQSIKQ/s320/JaneByrne.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280428523334356258" /></a><br />I’ll explain. Back in 1981, I was hired as a press aide to then-mayor Jane Byrne. I couldn’t have been happier, or prouder of my new assignment. As a lifelong Chicagoan, I relished local politics with all of its Shakespearian drama: treachery, jealousy, greed, and also noble works. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaCCIEl0I/AAAAAAAAAIs/2TiZ0-P-EPs/s1600-h/iWorld.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 103px; height: 120px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaCCIEl0I/AAAAAAAAAIs/2TiZ0-P-EPs/s320/iWorld.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280428816580515650" /></a><br />Now, here I was, not on the sidelines, but in the middle of the action. My glee became insufferable, though, as I blathered on about writing speeches, escorting the mayor to groundbreaking ceremonies, dropping off news releases to City Hall reporters (several pictured on this post), riding in the mayor’s limo, and actually entering her inner office after joshing with the security guards posted outside her paneled doors.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaRokkXTI/AAAAAAAAAI0/tIArurU0Ha4/s1600-h/RayHanania.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 100px; height: 112px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaRokkXTI/AAAAAAAAAI0/tIArurU0Ha4/s320/RayHanania.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280429084598623538" /></a><br />And when my workday ended and I was at home watching the evening news, and heard the mayor read my words as she stood at the podium, or at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, my swelled head threatened to topple my 5’ frame. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaeUwlncI/AAAAAAAAAI8/wa833-zDJVc/s1600-h/AndyShaw.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaeUwlncI/AAAAAAAAAI8/wa833-zDJVc/s320/AndyShaw.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280429302618627522" /></a><br />Alas, from such a high opinion of myself, a downfall was inevitable. My Blago-moment occurred when I was assigned to accompany the mayor to some benign event. Unfortunately, that very morning, a bigger story broke and reporters swarmed the ceremony determined to capture one of the mayor’s infamous quotes.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaqdzG0EI/AAAAAAAAAJE/Ep3j1aDTNbo/s1600-h/FranSpielman.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 85px; height: 91px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfaqdzG0EI/AAAAAAAAAJE/Ep3j1aDTNbo/s320/FranSpielman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280429511203541058" /></a><br />Along with my writing tasks, another of my roles was to buffer the boss from the tide of microphones, tape recorders, photographers, television cameras, and reporters threatening to flood the city’s diminutive first executive. Problem was, at my wee height, I got shoved aside as easily as a rubber ducky. I stood helpless as Mayor Byrne became engulfed and bombarded with unwelcome questions.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfa23CgxvI/AAAAAAAAAJM/AMj51n9nfn0/s1600-h/GaryWashburn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 251px; height: 201px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfa23CgxvI/AAAAAAAAAJM/AMj51n9nfn0/s320/GaryWashburn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280429724137473778" /></a><br />I returned to City Hall dejected, sat hunkered at my desk as she walked into the Press Secretary’s office and closed the door behind her. When I crept up to eavesdrop, I could hear her angry words, “Don’t send Elaine out with me anymore.”<br /><br />My boss (Was it Ray McCarthy or Steve Crews? I can’t remember.) never actually relayed her decision, I just wasn’t assigned to outside events anymore. Despite that episode, I loved every minute I was a press office employee. And I never blamed the mayor for her ruling. She was right – I couldn’t handle it. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfbF2SK3XI/AAAAAAAAAJU/djnSEFYC4ls/s1600-h/ElaineSunglasses.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SUfbF2SK3XI/AAAAAAAAAJU/djnSEFYC4ls/s320/ElaineSunglasses.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280429981632748914" /></a><br />So if I don’t join the crowd damning Gov. Blagojevich’s obnoxious behavior, you’ll understand. I hope he takes this experience as one of life’s lessons. For my part, I learned that a seat at the top of the world could easily be upended when haughtiness overtakes humility. For Rod (since we’re linked, I can use this familiarity), his warning is simpler: stay off the f*@#$%^ phone!<br /><br />(Pictured are some of the City Hall reporters during the Byrne administration: Ray Hanania, Andy Shaw, Fran Spielman, and Gary Washburn.)She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-18094319681660841852008-11-11T14:04:00.011-06:002008-11-11T16:11:22.561-06:00Parallel Parking<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnmEgCFGCI/AAAAAAAAAHM/j-PP5EC2C6c/s1600-h/HarvardSquare.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnmEgCFGCI/AAAAAAAAAHM/j-PP5EC2C6c/s320/HarvardSquare.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267494204179028002" /></a><br />I'm in the back seat of my daughter's Mazda and delighted she’s found a parking space on a narrow street in <a href="http://www.harvardsquare.com/">Harvard Square</a>. I’m visiting Faith from Chicago and we're about to stroll one of my favorite Boston neighborhoods.<br /><br />I sit silently as I watch <a href="http://www.faithsoloway.com/">Faith</a> line up her car with one that is parked at the curb. Slowly, she backs up, then turns the steering wheel to the right as she slips the car into the empty space. Her eyes are fixed on the right headlight of the car parked behind. She aims for her target, then reverses the direction of the steering wheel. Finally, she tucks her car into the tight parking space.<br /><br />"Perfect," my 44-year-old daughter says as she turns the key and shuts off the ignition.<br /><br />"Who taught you how to parallel park?" I ask, preening because I already know the answer.<br /><br />"You, mommy, you." <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRoC5B5TWmI/AAAAAAAAAIU/FxCluQVYIAg/s1600-h/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 254px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRoC5B5TWmI/AAAAAAAAAIU/FxCluQVYIAg/s320/ElaineDaughtersFI.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267525892947794530" /></a><br />I didn't teach Faith, or her 43-year-old sister <a href="http://www.jillsoloway.com/">Jill</a>, how to drive. But I was their passenger when they practiced on Chicago streets. I clutched door handles, stomped imaginary brakes, and shut my eyes to avoid collisions I thought inevitable. <br /><br />Today, when I’m their passenger in Boston or Los Angeles, I relax and enjoy the scenery. If I'm lucky, they'll be required to parallel park, and I'll have another chance to gloat. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnvx35wMrI/AAAAAAAAAIE/zazEY7Q8WE0/s1600-h/Buick.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 125px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnvx35wMrI/AAAAAAAAAIE/zazEY7Q8WE0/s320/Buick.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267504879285318322" /></a><br />My father taught me how to do it in 1952 in his four-door Buick. I had already mastered how to operate the stick shift, play the clutch, and inch down the brake. I'd grasp the steering wheel in the ten and two positions, and when turning, execute the hand-over-hand ballet maneuver. I was cautious, kept eyes on the road, and obeyed the speed limit. But I'd long for the day when I could drive brazenly, with only one hand on the wheel, just like him. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnwAAoHG8I/AAAAAAAAAIM/Sqipn-qQ9IU/s1600-h/DadWindow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 299px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnwAAoHG8I/AAAAAAAAAIM/Sqipn-qQ9IU/s320/DadWindow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267505122145409986" /></a><br />I could see myself leaning my left arm out the driver's side window and watch it grow tan in the same odd way as Dad's arm, blooming brown from elbow to fingertip. From shoulder to elbow, though, the part of his arm that remained inside would stay a sickly white.<br /><br />When he sped -- which he almost always did -- Mother would cry, "Irv, you're going too fast. You'll kill us all." In the back seat, I'd rise up to look over his shoulder and watch the speedometer climb past 50, but never say a word that might reveal distrust of his caretaking. "Relax, relax," Dad would say, then ease up on the gas pedal until both his wife and daughter would lean back in their seats. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnnr9eY9CI/AAAAAAAAAH0/nBlNuUcQNDI/s1600-h/ChevyImpala.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 62px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnnr9eY9CI/AAAAAAAAAH0/nBlNuUcQNDI/s320/ChevyImpala.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267495981608924194" /></a><br />Mother didn't know how to drive <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">back then</a>. She was one of those women who grew up not expecting to be a driver; instead depending upon a husband to take the wheel. When Dad died of a heart attack at the age of 48, Mom recruited her youngest brother, Hy, and his 1957 Chevy Impala for driving lessons. <br /><br />"You can do it, Min," Uncle Hy would say on the Sundays of her lessons. <br /><br />"I'm proud of you, Mom," I'd add. But I could see her hands tremble and notice her usually sparkling blue eyes grow dark. <br /><br />On the third Sunday, I jumped up from the living room couch when I heard her key in the door. “Min, don’t give up yet!” I heard my uncle plead as he followed behind her. “No, no, I can’t do it,” she said. She went straight to the bedroom and slammed the door. Her brother shrugged his shoulders. “I tried,” he said.<br /> <br />I don’t remember following my mother to give her a pep talk that might’ve returned her to the driver’s seat. Perhaps I worried she was right; the skill was beyond her -- too old at 45. Maybe I couldn't tolerate the image of my mother defeated, a young widow dependent on others to drive her around. Perhaps, like her, I wished for some man to enter her life who would do the driving for her.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnnGXoC_HI/AAAAAAAAAHk/wfjY4omC9Zk/s1600-h/MomJoe.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnnGXoC_HI/AAAAAAAAAHk/wfjY4omC9Zk/s320/MomJoe.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267495335793720434" /></a><br />When she married Joe, 20 years her senior, she believed he was wealthy and would relieve her children of having to care for her in her old age. Joe did serve as her driver until his creeping Alzheimer’s scared her when he took the wheel. But Mom didn’t have to endure many months of his forgetfulness; she died at 67 -- years before him, and years before my brother or I had to worry about her becoming a burden.<br /><br />In 1960 I married. My husband bought a beige Volkswagen Beetle that was perfect for someone my barely 5’ size. The only problem I encountered was when I was pregnant with Faith. My basketball belly forced me to push the drivers’ seat backward and then my feet could barely reach the pedals. <br /><br />I’m sure it was those awkward trips that inspired my recurring dreams in which I’m driving huge cars, so big I can’t see above the steering wheel. My nightmare cars are double the length of ordinary ones. I know I’ll never be able to squeeze them into parking spaces, despite knowing Dad’s parallel parking trick. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnnbH7rYAI/AAAAAAAAAHs/juExzZT3094/s1600-h/1960VWBeetleDeluxeSunroofSedan-a3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 156px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnnbH7rYAI/AAAAAAAAAHs/juExzZT3094/s320/1960VWBeetleDeluxeSunroofSedan-a3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267495692358344706" /></a><br />Eventually, in real life, I had my own car – an orange VW that was a make-up present from my husband. We had had a particularly painful argument, whose content I can’t remember, which is odd because my husband and I rarely argued, preferring instead to bury our unhappiness under the hood.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnmrEKrcDI/AAAAAAAAAHc/rFeey9F_l3k/s1600-h/HondaCivic.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 166px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnmrEKrcDI/AAAAAAAAAHc/rFeey9F_l3k/s320/HondaCivic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267494866713800754" /></a><br />By the time our marriage ended, I had moved on from the VW, to a Toyota, and then to a Honda. Eventually, I passed the Toyota on to Faith and the Honda to Jill. In 1990, I bought a silver-gray Honda Civic hatchback, which I still drive. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnvFZCvOOI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Rh--w2RvFkw/s1600-h/SoloMadWed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 310px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SRnvFZCvOOI/AAAAAAAAAH8/Rh--w2RvFkw/s320/SoloMadWed.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5267504115087259874" /></a><br />In 1998, I married a non-driver. Tommy learned how to drive as a teenager, but because he never had his own car, his driving ability atrophied. Soon though, I grew tired of chauffeuring and insisted he take driving lessons. When he passed his test, he bought a Honda Accord.<br /><br />Although I was the one urging Tommy to become a driver, I’m a poor passenger in his car. I prefer my Civic where I can take the wheel. When he does drive, I close my eyes until we reach our destination. I open them when he’s about to park because I’m relaxed, now that he's concluded the treacherous part of the journey. <br /><br />Once we’re safely tucked into the curb, I ask brightly, “Who taught you how to parallel park?”<br /><br />“You, honey, you,” he says.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-1317178802275439582008-10-17T07:26:00.009-05:002008-10-17T09:05:13.828-05:00A Taste For Brisket<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiF3KHRX5I/AAAAAAAAAGc/zNtcycFPjmY/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiF3KHRX5I/AAAAAAAAAGc/zNtcycFPjmY/s320/images.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258099747609206674" /></a><br />So? How many are you having for dinner?”<br />“About twenty.”<br /><br />That's part of a telephone conversation between mother (me in Chicago) and daughter (<a href="http://jillsoloway.com">Jill in Los Angeles</a>) regarding plans for Rosh Hashanah '08. The only thing odd about the dialogue was the reversal of traditional roles. For it was my kid doing the balabusta-ing and me making plans to go to <a href="http://www.myronandphils.com/">Myron and Phil's restaurant</a> for dinner.<br /><br />As I listened to my daughter’s menu, I wondered how this came to be. How did I – a woman who placed cooking Jewish for a crowd at the bottom of her list of favorite things, who was not a member of any synagogue, and who took a goy for a second husband – spawn a child about to shove a multi-pound brisket in the oven?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiaFdLDgxI/AAAAAAAAAG0/1qj9xfwqOds/s1600-h/super+jew+shirts+jill+and+i+copy.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiaFdLDgxI/AAAAAAAAAG0/1qj9xfwqOds/s320/super+jew+shirts+jill+and+i+copy.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258121983476073234" /></a><br />Jill’s embrace of her religion is easy to explain. She has a son, and since public schools in Los Angeles are chancy, she enrolled him in <a href="http://www.tioh.org/">Temple Israel of Hollywood</a>. A natural networker and compulsive organizer (that, she got from me), Jill was recruited to head committees and produce events. News of her output spread, and Reboot, an organization for creative young Jews, invited her in. She soon found the Jewish thing – its positive influence on her son, the camaraderie, and the stamp of identity comfortable and positive.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiGLnyqLfI/AAAAAAAAAGk/pnnIj7OO8ro/s1600-h/birth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiGLnyqLfI/AAAAAAAAAGk/pnnIj7OO8ro/s320/birth.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258100099173199346" /></a><br />Her sister, <a href="http://faithsoloway.com">Faith</a>, on the other hand, who lives in Boston, is Jewish in the way I am -- culturally (we like Jewish food and humor) -- but is absent from organized worship. In fact, Faith is so relaxed with her religious identity that she worried not a whiff when creating her infamous rock opera “Jesus Has Two Mommies.”<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPia-hR1ARI/AAAAAAAAAHE/_ThTu0cOVkw/s1600-h/StreetScene.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPia-hR1ARI/AAAAAAAAAHE/_ThTu0cOVkw/s320/StreetScene.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258122963830767890" /></a><br />Enough about the kids. I grew up in the 1940s in an immigrant Chicago neighborhood (see my memoir, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">“The Division Street Princess”</a>). My Zadie and Bubbie lived down the block and aunts and uncles were also a stone’s throw. (Of course, stones were never lobbed back then as you could knock somebody’s eye out!) And like many who were part of the mass migration from Russia in the 20s, my parents cared more about making a living than worshiping a God who neglected them back in the Old Country.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiaTvIfaWI/AAAAAAAAAG8/L78R21kbdkk/s1600-h/Synagogue.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiaTvIfaWI/AAAAAAAAAG8/L78R21kbdkk/s320/Synagogue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258122228815325538" /></a><br />We had a shul, the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Doors-Redemption-Forgotten-Synagogues-Chicago/dp/1419617230/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1224251141&sr=1-1">Galician</a> on California Blvd., but my family attended only during High Holidays. In the woman’s section, I'd give my Bubbie’s papery cheek a kiss before rushing outside to run wild with my cousins. I did try <span style="font-style:italic;">cheder</span> because my brother was attending bar mitzvah classes and didn’t want to be left out. I lasted one week.<br /><br />My high school years' High Holidays were spent with my Roosevelt classmates standing outside a temple on the northwest side of Chicago. I recall perspiring in a lamb's wool sweater, woolen skirt, matching jacket, and pantyhose. My family held no membership there, which was fine, as I didn’t plan on entering. Kibitzing on the steps with friends was <span style="font-style:italic;">genug</span>.<br /><br />Despite my lack of religious cement, at twenty-two, I did marry a Jew. He grew up in a conservative household, and was bar mitzvahed, but had no desire to return to the synagogue. And since our daughters never expressed any wish to become affiliated or study Torah, we didn’t join.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiIFkaWF0I/AAAAAAAAAGs/0_zzwPfpp3w/s1600-h/BatMitz.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SPiIFkaWF0I/AAAAAAAAAGs/0_zzwPfpp3w/s320/BatMitz.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5258102194209953602" /></a><br />It wasn’t until our chicks left the nest that I felt bereft and believed a connection to Judaism would help me repair. My husband cooperated and we landed at the <a href="http://www.jrc-evanston.org/">Jewish Reconstructionist Congregation</a> in Evanston, IL. It was there I met its charismatic rabbi, Arnie Rachlis, who recognized my hunger and encouraged me to join the board. My husband and I attended Saturday morning services and I began to study for a bat mitzvah. At fifty-one, I stood before 300 friends and relatives to read from the Torah.<br /><br />This is where the colorful memories switch to black-and-white. The first hint something was amiss was when I saw the tape of that memorable experience. My husband, who has a beautiful tenor voice, participated in the service. When he was at the bimah, he appeared confident and happy, but when I took center stage, his eyes focused on the ground. He seemed to be lost in his thoughts.<br /><br />All the time I believed we were bonding on Saturday mornings, he was trying to figure an escape route. As much as I'd like to make him the bad guy, I was as much to blame for the failure of our thirty-year-marriage. I preferred to push our problems under the rug, while he was gutsy enough to destroy the covering.<br /><br />We separated, divorced, and today remain friends. Although our relationship repaired, my connection to JRC was still frayed. When I returned to the synagogue as a single woman, I felt weepy. The congregation continued to welcome me, but I didn't like being a third wheel and my predicament was an unspoken <span style="font-style:italic;">shonda</span>.<br /><br />My current husband, a lapsed Lutheran, has no interest in his religion or mine. He's accompanied me to bar mitzvahs, and he'd have no problem if I wanted to join a synagogue on my own. But for me, the thrill is gone. This I can't blame on Husband #1 for if I had enough desire, I could surely trump those sad memories.<br /><br />Perhaps the hunger will return at some point in my life. After all, at age 70 I'm on the down side of the mountain and a connection to spirituality might be a worthy companion. But for now, I can get a vicarious thrill from Jill's Jewishness. And, if I'm lucky, she'll freeze a <span style="font-style:italic;">bissel</span> of brisket for my next visit.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-18077116466701920362008-10-08T14:30:00.008-05:002008-10-08T14:42:53.420-05:00Under House Arrest<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0LPsxNAsI/AAAAAAAAAFk/e6ntBhSkWPk/s1600-h/DiamondBracelet.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0LPsxNAsI/AAAAAAAAAFk/e6ntBhSkWPk/s320/DiamondBracelet.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254868704554713794" /></a><br />While some women may lust for a diamond bracelet, like the $5,000, 14K, white gold cable number pictured on the left, I have my eye on a less flashy cuff. It’s that gunmetal gray ankle monitor also pictured on this page.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0Lp3K6QvI/AAAAAAAAAFs/ScBpGHtQTr0/s1600-h/ankle.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0Lp3K6QvI/AAAAAAAAAFs/ScBpGHtQTr0/s320/ankle.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254869154023490290" /></a><br />Why, you may ask (and you’d be dotty and uncooperative if you didn’t), would I prefer a radio transmitter unit fastened to my foot when the diamonds would look fetching on my wrist? And, the bobble would surely elicit gasps of “Oooh, let me see!” or “How gorgeous!” or “What’s the occasion?” <br /><br />Here’s my explanation: if I wore the ankle monitor, I could truthfully respond to invitations with a shrug, a finger pointing down to the band, and the line, “Sorry, not allowed to leave the house.” Of course, I’d have to come up with some reason I was under house arrest. But surely, with my imagination, and my love for tech products, I could suggest something pilfered at the Apple Store and no one would question me further. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0MWC1YjtI/AAAAAAAAAF8/v8TWoGC_Ufg/s1600-h/300px-Marlon_Brando_in_Steetcar_Named_Desire_trailer.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0MWC1YjtI/AAAAAAAAAF8/v8TWoGC_Ufg/s320/300px-Marlon_Brando_in_Steetcar_Named_Desire_trailer.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254869913068670674" /></a><br />If I told the truth to potential hosts – that I’d prefer never to leave the comfort of my own home – they might think me a recluse and classify me with some of the famous sequesters pictured on this page; i.e. Marlon Brando, Joan Crawford, Greta Garbo, Howard Hughes, and J.D. Salinger.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0MEkuwFVI/AAAAAAAAAF0/uwt6eWdz0FE/s1600-h/225px-JoanCrawfordByYousufKarsh.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0MEkuwFVI/AAAAAAAAAF0/uwt6eWdz0FE/s320/225px-JoanCrawfordByYousufKarsh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254869612930012498" /></a><br />Of course, those celebrities had their own reasons for preferring isolation. They may've wished to escape the attention of fans (not my problem), unable to tolerate other humans (don’t take it personally), or have some psychological disorder that causes them to hide away (let's not go there).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0Mq0H0eiI/AAAAAAAAAGE/KB0MTUXdRd4/s1600-h/180px-Greta_Garbo_1925_by_Genthe-retouched.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0Mq0H0eiI/AAAAAAAAAGE/KB0MTUXdRd4/s320/180px-Greta_Garbo_1925_by_Genthe-retouched.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254870269896718882" /></a><br />For me, it’s quite simple. Within the walls of my casa, I possess every amusement, convenience, and food to make me happy. Why would I ever want to leave? Come; take a tour (then promise you’ll skedaddle because if I have to chat with you, I won’t be able to enjoy my toys). See, there’s my iMac desktop and PowerBook laptop. If I get bored with one, I can trot over to the other. In the wicker basket adjacent to the couch are copies of the New York Times and paperback of the day (<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Talk-T-C-Boyle/dp/B0015VT2MA/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1223493924&sr=1-1">"Talk Talk"</a> by T.C. Boyle). The TV remote can put me in touch with my on-air news source, <a href="http://www.cnn.com/">CNN</a>, the entire <a href="http://www.nbc.com/Law_&_Order/">Law & Order</a> franchise, and premium channels. A short walk to the kitchen finds enough goodies in the fridge and pantry to keep my tummy satisfied for the rest of the year. And if we run out, there’s always <a href="http://www.peapod.com/?_requestid=279515">Peapod</a> to truck on over. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0M5ek6uCI/AAAAAAAAAGM/IvTH8QsAX_w/s1600-h/225px-Howard_Hughes.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0M5ek6uCI/AAAAAAAAAGM/IvTH8QsAX_w/s320/225px-Howard_Hughes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254870521811220514" /></a><br />I’ve even eliminated the need for a health club with my treadmill and weights, plus earphones that hook to the basement TV. Okay, so my downstairs gym is absent of socialization; but it also removes the vision of all those young, toned bodies that frequent the locker room and cardio studio of my former club. Now, it’s just little ole me huffing and puffing. And when I check myself out in the full-length mirror, I look okay compared to, let's see, the wood-beam columns in the space. (Actually, now that I’m measuring, those timbers are looking pretty slim.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0NEdrG6GI/AAAAAAAAAGU/g6JvE_LWykU/s1600-h/200px-JD_Salinger.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SO0NEdrG6GI/AAAAAAAAAGU/g6JvE_LWykU/s320/200px-JD_Salinger.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5254870710547310690" /></a><br />No matter -- you get the picture. So the next time you’re inclined to invite me out for an evening of enlightenment, dining, or companionship, save yourself the effort. I sincerely appreciate the thought, but you see, I’ve got this thing on my ankle…She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-29229771422343966612008-09-02T08:14:00.009-05:002008-09-02T08:25:55.908-05:00If At First<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL08lL4V5lI/AAAAAAAAAEs/zTl4qHodXZ0/s1600-h/Barak.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL08lL4V5lI/AAAAAAAAAEs/zTl4qHodXZ0/s320/Barak.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241412150871058002" border="0" /></a><br />Between the Olympics and the presidential campaign, we've learned of ordinary folks who overcame humble beginnings and other obstacles. While their tales can be uplifting for some, for others -- still trudging towards long sought-after goals -- their sagas can seem as harassment. I'm here to help.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL08wJ8NL4I/AAAAAAAAAE0/Mdlpl96hdtQ/s1600-h/Small+Cover.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL08wJ8NL4I/AAAAAAAAAE0/Mdlpl96hdtQ/s320/Small+Cover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241412339328954242" /></a><br />Although I've been fortunate to see my memoir published, and am nearing the final pages of my novel, I admit to three unmet goals that continue to taunt me. Perhaps you have a few in your sights.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL0-jazTJjI/AAAAAAAAAFc/e-2ttlY48Xw/s1600-h/YoCover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL0-jazTJjI/AAAAAAAAAFc/e-2ttlY48Xw/s320/YoCover.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241414319539955250" /></a><br />Over the years, I’ve enrolled in Spanish language classes at DePaul University, the Institute of Cervantes, and Digame Chicago. I possess enough textbooks, workbooks, audiotapes, and CDs to equip the entire student body of a Columbian school.<br /><br />A One-A-Day Berlitz calendar sits on a kitchen counter, adjacent to my coffeemaker, so I can easily capture a new phrase each day. And yet, when I attempt a conversation with a native speaker, I get eye rolls from my daughters, a puzzled expression on the face of the fluent person, and a notion to chuck the whole pursuit and save myself embarrassment. And yet, I soldier on.<br /><br />Spanish isn’t the only goal I shoot for every now and again: Swimming and Playing The Piano (not simultaneously) are also battles that find me trudging uphill, reaching a third of the way, and then find me sliding downhill on my tush.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL09U-qpZMI/AAAAAAAAAFE/1IhvEq-V-eA/s1600-h/OLYMPICS-SWIMMING:US.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL09U-qpZMI/AAAAAAAAAFE/1IhvEq-V-eA/s320/OLYMPICS-SWIMMING:US.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241412971957675202" /></a><br />Similar to my accumulation of equipment para habla espanol, my closet holds a gym bag containing flippers, goggles, lessons encased in plastic, and a waterproof watch; and naturally, half-dozen How To Swim manuals. (Truthfully, I find the gathering of gear to be the most fun in my pathetic pursuits.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL09y4Yp6cI/AAAAAAAAAFU/S4hbq2VUmUM/s1600-h/RogersHart.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL09y4Yp6cI/AAAAAAAAAFU/S4hbq2VUmUM/s320/RogersHart.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241413485667674562" /></a><br />Our Wurlitzer upright sits on the wall of our dining room with a musical score opened to Rogers and Hart’s “Blue Room.” The book hasn’t moved since 2006. A pencil sits alongside the book, as if to suggest the pianist will scribble instructions to herself; i.e. count, quarter note gets one beat, or EGBDF.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL09hwF4T6I/AAAAAAAAAFM/YOExFpZMwYQ/s1600-h/FaithPiano.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SL09hwF4T6I/AAAAAAAAAFM/YOExFpZMwYQ/s320/FaithPiano.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5241413191383666594" /></a><br />Every so often, I feel a pull toward the abandoned instrument, lug the bench out – which has grown leaden with Adult Beginner books and Large Type Broadway Musicals– and sit myself down. After a few measures, I’ll get to one of those mysterious symbols, then spend the rest of the hour trying to find the meaning of pianissimo. But the idea of giving up my Piano Bar Dream, the one that includes a snifter stuffed with dollar bills, boozers begging for “Blue Room,” and yours truly bopping her gray head at the keys? Never.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-3816582453778262222008-08-03T09:16:00.011-05:002008-08-03T09:29:53.278-05:00Happy THAT Birthday!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW96TzBV_I/AAAAAAAAADs/FcH5G66b2f0/s1600-h/BirthdayCal.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW96TzBV_I/AAAAAAAAADs/FcH5G66b2f0/s320/BirthdayCal.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230295351705032690" border="0" /></a><br />On the 10th of this month, I’ll be celebrating a significant birthday. I’m giving you advance notice -- not to ease your gift giving dilemma (though anything Apple will be fine) – but to alert you to the response I expect to receive when I reveal my soon-to-be age. (Photographs on this page include celebrities who share my year of birth.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-BkphljI/AAAAAAAAAD0/rwPrKmamaQQ/s1600-h/ElliottGould.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-BkphljI/AAAAAAAAAD0/rwPrKmamaQQ/s320/ElliottGould.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230295476487689778" border="0" /></a><br />I figure if I give you fair warning, there'll be less disappointment on my end, and you might even get a kick out of making my day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-O7gfPeI/AAAAAAAAAD8/vJYi21oqo4s/s1600-h/ConnieFrancis.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-O7gfPeI/AAAAAAAAAD8/vJYi21oqo4s/s320/ConnieFrancis.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230295705962102242" border="0" /></a><br />I'm taking this nervy route because I've already been blurting my upcoming digits and notice the reactions of others depends upon the age, occupation, and gender of the person hearing it. Ideally, the reply should be, “No! I don’t believe it! You look terrific! I took you for 10 years younger!” And indeed that often spills from the mouths of kindly middle-age waitresses whose tip, I admit, depends on my good nature.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-cIUCq6I/AAAAAAAAAEE/H-FEzY7ZHrY/s1600-h/BrianDennehy.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-cIUCq6I/AAAAAAAAAEE/H-FEzY7ZHrY/s320/BrianDennehy.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230295932737858466" border="0" /></a><br />But, I've found that younger women who overhear the occasion and its tally offer a tepid “Happy Birthday” and continue passing my groceries down the conveyer belt or searching for the book or article of clothing I was seeking.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-61AsdRI/AAAAAAAAAEU/0AJYQt6NO3Y/s1600-h/ChristopherLloyd.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-61AsdRI/AAAAAAAAAEU/0AJYQt6NO3Y/s320/ChristopherLloyd.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230296460132381970" border="0" /></a><br />As for the male species, it has been my experience that no matter where they land on the age or job continuum, they have no clue as to the match-up of appearance and age and only prefer the woman they are facing be younger.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-otQ4ERI/AAAAAAAAAEM/666cZUUc0PI/s1600-h/EttaJames.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW-otQ4ERI/AAAAAAAAAEM/666cZUUc0PI/s320/EttaJames.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230296148815122706" border="0" /></a><br />If you think this is a rant, and want to offer phrases meant to ease my birthday passage; i.e. It’s Only A Number, Think Of The Alternative, You Could Live Another Twenty Years, don’t bother.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW_k51BVUI/AAAAAAAAAEc/POHKfAEUgFU/s1600-h/KofiAnnan.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW_k51BVUI/AAAAAAAAAEc/POHKfAEUgFU/s320/KofiAnnan.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230297182980101442" border="0" /></a><br />Or if you plan on scolding me for being ungrateful for my good fortune in reaching this age intact; I am aware of my blessings and thank Her every morning for Her generosity.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW_yLyKExI/AAAAAAAAAEk/XKmxzwzAS5M/s1600-h/ElaineTattoo.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SJW_yLyKExI/AAAAAAAAAEk/XKmxzwzAS5M/s320/ElaineTattoo.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5230297411138229010" border="0" /></a><br />All I’m asking, when we meet face-to-face, and I disclose the birthday number (you can find it in my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">memoir</a> or on my <a href="http://facebook.com/">Facebook</a> profile, but you’ll have to do the math), just remember the response I've requested in paragraph three. (A reminder: “No! I don’t believe it! You look terrific! I took you for 10 years younger!”) Then you can forget about a wrapped and beribboned present. Your sincere look of surprise and awe will be more than enough.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-16208945383968145612008-07-17T08:26:00.022-05:002008-07-20T14:32:58.368-05:00Can't Hear You!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9JFmKuczI/AAAAAAAAACs/Vzkn1gqq5y0/s1600-h/FamilyAprons.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9JFmKuczI/AAAAAAAAACs/Vzkn1gqq5y0/s320/FamilyAprons.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223974453266772786" border="0"></a><br />First-time authors are like the unpopular kids in high school, eager to accept any invitation that comes their way. Sometimes, the event turns out spectacular, like my May 2006 book launch of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0929636635/103-9753079-7692606?%5Fencoding=UTF8&s=books">The Division Street Princess</a> at <a href="http://womenandchildrenfirst.com/NASApp/store/IndexJsp">Women and Children First bookstore</a>.<br /><br />On that occasion, just as I had dreamed, my family joined me on stage to take turns reading excerpts from my memoir. The 100 or so people who attended – old friends, and new ones drawn from long-ago Division Street, Humboldt Park, and other old neighborhoods -- stuffed the store from front to back.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9JvcYG2YI/AAAAAAAAAC0/B67BYVdaZWA/s1600-h/Hill2Balls.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9JvcYG2YI/AAAAAAAAAC0/B67BYVdaZWA/s320/Hill2Balls.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223975172193048962" border="0"></a><br />There were other stellar readings where I shared the stage with more prominent authors: <a href="http://jillsoloway.com/">Jill Soloway</a> (Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants) and <a href="http://www.hillarycarlip.com/">Hillary Carlip</a> (Queen of the Oddballs) at Women and Children First (pictured), <a href="http://guthagogo.com/">Amy Guth</a> (Three Fallen Women) and <a href="http://www.rickkarlin.com/">Rick Karlin</a> (Show Biz Kids) at the <a href="http://www.bookcellarinc.com/">Book Cellar</a>, <a href="http://charlesblackstone.com/">Charles Blackstone</a> (The Week You Weren't Here) and Rick Karlin (Show Biz Kids) at the <a href="http://amoveablebit.com/fsarchive.aspx">Fixx Bar</a>, and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Logic-Rose-Chicago-Stories/dp/1886157502/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1215530393&sr=1-1">Billy Lombardo</a> (The Logic of a Rose) and <a href="http://www.frankjoseph.com/">Frank Joseph</a> (To Love Mercy) at <a href="http://www.newberry.org/">Newberry Library.</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9KAHC9MCI/AAAAAAAAAC8/mKpyaPTIOMU/s1600-h/BanquetHall.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9KAHC9MCI/AAAAAAAAAC8/mKpyaPTIOMU/s320/BanquetHall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223975458524966946" border="0"></a><br />But other occasions, (although I remain grateful for the invitations) turned out, well, not so great. Topping my list is the event held at a Polish banquet hall where my hosts had to share the dining room with another party. At that reading, I stood on a box to reach the microphone, used one hand to hold my open book, and tried to ignore the piercing chatter on the other side of a three-paneled screen. As I raised my voice to send the words to my audience -- who were returning to their seats after circling the buffet table -- the group behind the screen increased their decibels, too, as if outbidding me for a signed first edition.<br /><br />I soldiered on for a few pages, while my hosts sought remedy from the catering manager, who raised her shoulders and opened her hands in a “What can I do? gesture. Once seated with their full lunch plates, my audience offered me their own suggestions: “Louder!” they yelled. “Can’t hear you!” they confirmed.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9Ks7e5OSI/AAAAAAAAADM/f594pEiaGhk/s1600-h/Kielbasa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SH9Ks7e5OSI/AAAAAAAAADM/f594pEiaGhk/s320/Kielbasa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5223976228515035426" border="0"></a><br />Sensing defeat, I closed my book – its pages carefully marked by Post-it flags and highlighter -- took a seat, and dug into the kielbasa plate someone had thoughtfully fetched for me.<br /><br />There were other inappropriate sites and distracted audiences, like the field house gymnasium and career day at a Chicago high school. But rather than further spotlighting my follies, I’ve asked Charles Blackstone to share his own best and worst book appearances.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Charles Blackstone</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SICVso0B7fI/AAAAAAAAADU/uTKrr1YEfKA/s1600-h/IMG_0166.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SICVso0B7fI/AAAAAAAAADU/uTKrr1YEfKA/s320/IMG_0166.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224340161852206578" /></a><br />When I began a book tour, in Chicago, for <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Week-You-Werent-Here/dp/0972336346/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1216386765&sr=8-1">"The Week You Weren’t Here,"</a> the first reading was jammed with attentive fans (okay, friends and friends of friends), and I kept things moving and had enough vodka before (and during) to keep jittery panic from causing me to read too quickly, or self-edit, or stumble too much because I was nervously self-editing. <br /><br />Other cities I visited would have fewer “fans” in the seats, or maybe the fans were there for the opening reader, who was often known in the town. There was no way to control this; I could only make sure my passage Post-it flags were secure, and try to give the best performance up there that I could. The highs and lows were numerous, but being open to an outcome falling into either category always kept things interesting: <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SICV9N2qFWI/AAAAAAAAADc/XHqfeDyDDK8/s1600-h/the_week_us.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SICV9N2qFWI/AAAAAAAAADc/XHqfeDyDDK8/s320/the_week_us.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224340446673245538" /></a><br />My favorite reading was in a record shop in Cedar City, Utah, where they put my name on a giant marquee outside, and the story I read, after my obligatory bit about the novel, about a young woman whose ex-boyfriend just wouldn’t let her go, despite having abandoned her for a couple of years, made some girls in the audience cry. <br /><br />The power in that room made up for previous years of latte ordering and brewing and toddler cawing and angry confrontation by a fan (after a reading in a Lafayette, Colorado coffee house, a guy chased me out to excoriate me: I’d gone on for too long and abbreviated the open mic that was to follow me; he didn’t seem to agree that my being invited as featured reader should somehow afford me a little temporal leeway).<br /><br />I still accept every reading invitation, no matter near or far, no matter if I think the audience promised will get me or what I write or if they won’t (if anything, I usually have the crowd wrong; the least likely in my mind tend to be the most appreciative, the most giving, once I’m there). <br /><br />To my mind, after all of these experiences, it’s almost as important as a writer (def.: one isn’t satisfied to simply write away in a journal in a vacuum) to perform, as it is to generate content. And performing isn’t just mumbling your way through a draft you find momentarily acceptable on the page. If you want to be a writer, or if you are an evolving writer, you need to consider this an ineluctable component of the game (to say nothing of performing on the radio, which I also do), and write and revise accordingly. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SICWQasxqlI/AAAAAAAAADk/4MtG1mjCTDI/s1600-h/BlackstoneReading.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SICWQasxqlI/AAAAAAAAADk/4MtG1mjCTDI/s320/BlackstoneReading.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5224340776538974802" /></a><br />I like readings and book tours because I want to engage with readers, and in order not to lose them at hello, I need to never stop honing my performance skills, with any luck, without compromising the writing itself. I must always try to determine what an audience wants and needs and how I can make my prose-on-the-page live up to those expectations, if not fully, at least half way.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3561696252435644130.post-48927222629184250042008-07-09T10:48:00.022-05:002008-07-09T14:00:04.841-05:00Writing Away From Home<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTte7c86WI/AAAAAAAAAB0/1FcctR1P0RY/s1600-h/ElaineMac.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTte7c86WI/AAAAAAAAAB0/1FcctR1P0RY/s320/ElaineMac.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221058983640230242" border="0" /></a><br />I had laptop envy. It percolated whenever I entered a Starbucks and saw customers at an eensy table, paper cup in midair, a laptop dimming as its owner leaned back in her chair contemplating a next word.<br /><br />In libraries, when I perused stacks to learn if my <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Division-Street-Princess-Memoir/dp/0929636635/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1197066343&sr=8-1">memoir</a> was still shelved, and I spotted a laptop owner, eyes right, fingers poised, about to borrow from the open book at her side, I'd grow jealous.<br /><br />In airport security lines, envy took off once again as I witnessed passengers removing laptops from bags, placing them on conveyor belts, then rushing to meet them on the other side of the security trellis, like lovers reunited after an ocean’s distance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTtog4luwI/AAAAAAAAAB8/k9JbxieSjwk/s1600-h/LaptopBags.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTtog4luwI/AAAAAAAAAB8/k9JbxieSjwk/s320/LaptopBags.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221059148307086082" border="0" /></a><br />I already possessed a 17-inch iMac, but now coveted something portable, a companion to carry to coffee shops, libraries, and on my travels. So I ordered myself up a PowerBook G4 and while awaiting its arrival, purchased a variety of bags to carry the laptop and its accessories.<br /><br />How was it I never noticed the loud music playing in Starbucks? What’s with all that chatter among customers? Multiple cups of coffee require frequent bathroom breaks and bring a dilemma: Leave my little Mac unattended? Ask the stranger at the other table to act as watchdog? Schlep the laptop with me to the Ladies Room?<br /><br />Libraries are quiet, but coffee is verboten. Even without my caffeine, bathroom visits and stack searches pose the same security problem as noted above.<br /><br />As for in-flight? One trip with my PowerBook and its plug-ins weighted me down so much, I gratefully flung it on the conveyor belt and regretted it its bulky return on the other end of the guard gate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHT06x3quSI/AAAAAAAAACU/qL0AsjT1jec/s1600-h/Laptop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHT06x3quSI/AAAAAAAAACU/qL0AsjT1jec/s320/Laptop.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221067158685661474" /></a><br />So, I permanently installed my laptop on a small table in my bedroom and visit her every day for writing sessions. My coffee cup is at my right, bathrooms are several feet away, and except for my dog's heavy breathing, the room is completely still.<br /><br />But other scribes, with <span style="font-style:italic;">kinder</span> in the house, or addictions to daytime soaps, or a desire for a community of writers, would do well to investigate Chicago's <a href="http://uptownwritersspace.com/">Uptown Writer's Space.</a> I've asked its owners, Julie Saltzman and Susan McLaughlin Karp to describe their establishment and their own journeys with their writing, and their laptops.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHT998SY4BI/AAAAAAAAACc/R5segvHba0k/s1600-h/saltzman_karp-2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHT998SY4BI/AAAAAAAAACc/R5segvHba0k/s320/saltzman_karp-2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221077108626350098" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Julie Saltzman (left)</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTlTZWkwAI/AAAAAAAAABs/CM4aeit_neA/s1600-h/space_48.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTlTZWkwAI/AAAAAAAAABs/CM4aeit_neA/s320/space_48.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221049989415092226" border="0" /></a> It doesn’t get much better for a laptop then at the Uptown Writer’s Space. First, you get to meet all kinds of other laptops: Dells (poets and novelists), Macs (professors and grad students), IBM’s (tech writers) and even the occasional second-hand Gateway (grad students). Plus, you get access to our secure wi-fi network and free printing. No unsafe trips down the information highway from 4802 N. Broadway, Chicago.<br /><br />You rest comfortably on the smooth, wooden grain of a sturdy wooden cubicle hand constructed by Chicago Furniture Designer John Lindsay. Or you can sink with your owner into the pillows of the comfy Shabby Chic sofa. Your electronic eyes will bask in the natural sunlight and enjoy the view of some iconic Chicago landmarks including the Broadway Bank Building, The Green Mill, and The Aragon Ballroom.<br /><br />Your caffeinated, well-fed owner (Uptown Writer’s Space provides coffee, tea, and snacks) treats you with loving-kindness because you allow her or him to escape the clutter of home. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTex76a-JI/AAAAAAAAABc/ys4qltBn-yU/s1600-h/images.jpeg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHTex76a-JI/AAAAAAAAABc/ys4qltBn-yU/s320/images.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221042817506932882" border="0" /></a><br />And you fit so smartly and look so swell in that cute messenger bag; unless of course you’re my laptop. You started out all stainless and shiny, but after five long years in the hands of a reckless blonde, your Apple sleekness has been marred with duck tape and dents. Plus, you won’t work unless I prop my “Jesus is my coach” figurine -- a ceramic replica of the savior with two cherubic hockey players, an ironic gift from fellow Jew, Josh Karp -- on top of the faulty power cord socket. (Totems, and other lucky charms, are welcome at Uptown Writer's Space.)<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Susan McLaughlin Karp (right)</span><br />In 2005, I had a six-month-old baby and soon found working at home with three dogs, three small children, my husband, and a baby sitter fairly challenging. That's when my like-minded friend Julie and I decided to open a writers' space, which would be a great place for us, and others, to write outside our homes.<br /><br />We rented a suite of offices in Uptown with a beautiful view, we bought handmade desks, and painted the walls and basically tricked everything out to our writerly specifications and opened the space to other writers to enjoy for a small monthly fee.<br /><br />The first year was amazing, we had about three customers, and I would go every day and sit in this quiet sanctuary and drink jasmine tea and write in my room of my own. It was pure heaven for me, though it gave Julie the willies, because she likes to be busy.<br /><br />Now we have about 30 writers who regularly use the space, as well as workshops and classes, a reading series, and Thursday movie nights. Happily the business is sustaining itself, if not making Julie and I rich. When I am there, the place is quietly bustling with other writer’s productivity, and the conference room finds two or three folks catching up with each other and having a chat.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHUA251A83I/AAAAAAAAACk/PhuNhl9UeE0/s1600-h/MackFamily.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_-_Fvn8OZi2k/SHUA251A83I/AAAAAAAAACk/PhuNhl9UeE0/s320/MackFamily.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5221080286242075506" /></a><br />This summer of 2008, with a new six-month-old baby, three dogs, four small children, and the babysitter and the husband, I write when I can, where I can. But whenever I need a change of scenery, or a serene spot to compose, I know exactly where to take my laptop. Uptown, of course.She's Not The Typehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00857021584038203377noreply@blogger.com2