Having just finished the most gluttonous holiday on the calendar, I wanted to give a Thanksgiving followup message.
I hope you all had a great day, spent with folks you love, and had plenty to eat. I also hope everyone actually spent some time being thankful.
Did you had loved ones near? If so, you are blessed. If you have pretty good health, that's another blessing. Have a job right now? You're doing better than a LOT of people. A home of your own, or even just a reliable roof overhead? That's another reason to give thanks. If you ate enough to be miserable, you're ahead of a lot of the world's population. Guilty of gluttonous indigestion? C'mon, be honest...
During the next few weeks, charity organizations like The Salvation Army and Toys for Tots will be seeking donations of cash, food and gifts for those who didn't answer "yes" to some of those questions above. Please do what you can to help a child or a family have a bit of holiday cheer this Christmas season. Give what cash you can, or donate a gift. Drop a few items in a community grocery box. Donate your time to a soup kitchen or foodbank.
Anything you can contribute will give others a chance to feel blessed, and give you a chance to feel good about the holidays.
We're trying to usher in a time of "change" for our nation, and I think dropping the change in your pocket into a Salvation Army bucket is a good place to start.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
March Madness (short, short story)
When the whistling stopped, Dan knew the marching would begin. It had been this way every night for a week now. Loud, even thuds on the ceiling, the rhythmic pace always following the same course. Down the south side of the room for about 10 feet, then a sharp turn to the right for six feet where the marching went from thuds to clatters as the carpeted bedroom in the apartment above him joined the tile of the bathroom floor.
He knew this because all the apartments in this building had the same layout. This was the B building, and in B building, everyone’s apartment looked pretty much like his. His friend Walter lived in A building, where the floor plans were reversed, but that really has nothing to do with this story. It’s just that all sorts of information was marching through Dan’s head right now, marching to the same rhythm as the determined foot soldier above him.
He turned up the volume on his television and tried to concentrate on an episode of “Seinfeld”. It was a good one. Jerry and George were riding in a limousine, and the driver thought they were Neo-Nazis. He was taking them to Madison Square Garden to make a speech to a crowd of other Neo-Nazis. Boy, were they sweating, trying to get out of this mess…
The marching above Dan changed course, moving diagonally toward the kitchen, where more tile amplified the sound. The whistling had been revived, some off-key tune he didn’t recognize, and occasionally a few words were sung. It sounded German.
On the television, Elaine and Kramer were standing on a street corner, waiting for Jerry and George to pick them up in the limousine. Dan usually got a good laugh or two from this episode, but tonight it was impossible to concentrate on what was being said. His hand tapped the arm of the recliner to the beat of the stamping feet above, and his anger began to build.
What right did this jerk have to interrupt someone’s life every single night with his jack-booted insanity? Didn’t he realize there was someone living below him, someone who might not appreciate the damned marching and whistling? Maybe this guy really was a Nazi! Dan had never met the occupant of the apartment above, and, for all he knew, this guy could be some Skinhead or Aryan Supremacist. That would explain the German gibberish he was sure he’d been hearing in those moments when the marching subsided.
He turned off the television. Sorry, Jerry, but some anti-Semite neighbor of mine doesn’t want me watching your show. Dan decided it was time for a confrontation.
On the way to the elevator, he began composing the speech he would deliver to this hateful, thoughtless individual who probably lived alone in his apartment, surrounded by pictures of the Fuehrer. He wondered if it might even be an old German war criminal, hiding out here in the building with his memories of the glory that was the Third Reich.
I don’t care how old he is, Dan thought to himself. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind and maybe even a punch in the face. Satisfaction “uber alles”, that’s what I’m talking about!
The elevator doors opened and he made his way down the hallway to the apartment directly above his own. Gathering his anger along with his courage, he knocked loudly on the door. The marching stopped as a woman’s voice called out in German.
What’s this? Was Eva Braun in there, too?
After a moment, the door was opened by a very pretty blonde woman in a bathrobe. She was definitely too young to be Eva.
“Hello”, she was saying, “Are you from the cable company?” Her eyes were clear blue and her cheeks dimpled slightly when she spoke.
“No, I…I’m… your neighbor from downstairs”, Dan stammered. “I heard…I’ve been hearing…marching…” his voice trailed off weakly as he stared into her lovely Teutonic face. Sorry, Jerry, I would have been no good to you at Nuremburg.
“Oh, I’m so sorry”, she said, “That’s just my son, Henning. He gets bored. Our cable has been out for over a week now, and I’m having trouble getting anyone in here to fix it.”
As she said this, the foot soldier himself appeared at his mother’s side. He was about eight years old, dark-haired and pale, and he wore a toy gun on his belt. Dan decided he wasn’t going to punch him after all.
“Has your husband looked at the cable box?” he asked, “Sometimes if you just mess with the box a little, it comes back on.”
“I am divorced”, the woman was saying. “My husband went back to Munich, and it is just the two of us now.” Her accent was adorable. No wonder Hitler fell for Eva.
“My name’s Dan”, he said, offering his hand to the woman. “Maybe I can help figure out the problem.”
“I am Brigitta”, she smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile.
Henning stared without a word. There was something about the kid that was a little creepy. He wasn’t Eichmann, though he might be one day. Today he was just part of the package that included the lovely Brigitta, and Dan was tired of watching Seinfeld reruns alone.
“Which way’s your television?” he asked as he walked bravely into Eva’s bunker.
He knew this because all the apartments in this building had the same layout. This was the B building, and in B building, everyone’s apartment looked pretty much like his. His friend Walter lived in A building, where the floor plans were reversed, but that really has nothing to do with this story. It’s just that all sorts of information was marching through Dan’s head right now, marching to the same rhythm as the determined foot soldier above him.
He turned up the volume on his television and tried to concentrate on an episode of “Seinfeld”. It was a good one. Jerry and George were riding in a limousine, and the driver thought they were Neo-Nazis. He was taking them to Madison Square Garden to make a speech to a crowd of other Neo-Nazis. Boy, were they sweating, trying to get out of this mess…
The marching above Dan changed course, moving diagonally toward the kitchen, where more tile amplified the sound. The whistling had been revived, some off-key tune he didn’t recognize, and occasionally a few words were sung. It sounded German.
On the television, Elaine and Kramer were standing on a street corner, waiting for Jerry and George to pick them up in the limousine. Dan usually got a good laugh or two from this episode, but tonight it was impossible to concentrate on what was being said. His hand tapped the arm of the recliner to the beat of the stamping feet above, and his anger began to build.
What right did this jerk have to interrupt someone’s life every single night with his jack-booted insanity? Didn’t he realize there was someone living below him, someone who might not appreciate the damned marching and whistling? Maybe this guy really was a Nazi! Dan had never met the occupant of the apartment above, and, for all he knew, this guy could be some Skinhead or Aryan Supremacist. That would explain the German gibberish he was sure he’d been hearing in those moments when the marching subsided.
He turned off the television. Sorry, Jerry, but some anti-Semite neighbor of mine doesn’t want me watching your show. Dan decided it was time for a confrontation.
On the way to the elevator, he began composing the speech he would deliver to this hateful, thoughtless individual who probably lived alone in his apartment, surrounded by pictures of the Fuehrer. He wondered if it might even be an old German war criminal, hiding out here in the building with his memories of the glory that was the Third Reich.
I don’t care how old he is, Dan thought to himself. I’m going to give him a piece of my mind and maybe even a punch in the face. Satisfaction “uber alles”, that’s what I’m talking about!
The elevator doors opened and he made his way down the hallway to the apartment directly above his own. Gathering his anger along with his courage, he knocked loudly on the door. The marching stopped as a woman’s voice called out in German.
What’s this? Was Eva Braun in there, too?
After a moment, the door was opened by a very pretty blonde woman in a bathrobe. She was definitely too young to be Eva.
“Hello”, she was saying, “Are you from the cable company?” Her eyes were clear blue and her cheeks dimpled slightly when she spoke.
“No, I…I’m… your neighbor from downstairs”, Dan stammered. “I heard…I’ve been hearing…marching…” his voice trailed off weakly as he stared into her lovely Teutonic face. Sorry, Jerry, I would have been no good to you at Nuremburg.
“Oh, I’m so sorry”, she said, “That’s just my son, Henning. He gets bored. Our cable has been out for over a week now, and I’m having trouble getting anyone in here to fix it.”
As she said this, the foot soldier himself appeared at his mother’s side. He was about eight years old, dark-haired and pale, and he wore a toy gun on his belt. Dan decided he wasn’t going to punch him after all.
“Has your husband looked at the cable box?” he asked, “Sometimes if you just mess with the box a little, it comes back on.”
“I am divorced”, the woman was saying. “My husband went back to Munich, and it is just the two of us now.” Her accent was adorable. No wonder Hitler fell for Eva.
“My name’s Dan”, he said, offering his hand to the woman. “Maybe I can help figure out the problem.”
“I am Brigitta”, she smiled at him. It was a beautiful smile.
Henning stared without a word. There was something about the kid that was a little creepy. He wasn’t Eichmann, though he might be one day. Today he was just part of the package that included the lovely Brigitta, and Dan was tired of watching Seinfeld reruns alone.
“Which way’s your television?” he asked as he walked bravely into Eva’s bunker.
Blessed and Proud
(Written during the Democratic National Convention in August, 2008)
I woke up feeling blessed this morning.
To be honest, I wake up feeling blessed most every day, because that’s what my father taught me. I cannot remember a night growing up when I didn’t hear him whispering his prayers of thanks in the next room before he drifted off to sleep, or a morning when he wasn’t thankful as soon as he wakened. Perhaps that’s why he lived 95 healthy, happy years on this earth.
The reason I feel especially blessed today is because I got to witness a historic and emotionally fulfilling moment in American history last night. At the Democratic convention in Denver, Colorado, I watched with tears in my eyes as a woman who almost got the nomination for presidential candidate urged delegates to give their unanimous support to the first black candidate of a major political party. In the words of Tom Brokaw, it seemed surreal.
I grew up in the sixties, when America was rocked by change. Even as a child, I was painfully aware of the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I watched footage of the Viet Nam war each evening on television and feared the day when my school mates would be old enough to fight and die. I remember the riots and police action at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago; only months after Dr. King and Bobby Kennedy had died. I remember seeing the ERA rejected year after year because religious zealots and misogynists convinced voters it would ruin our family values and go against our Christian heritage.
My heartfelt hope of equality and change was a spark that remained as I grew up and married, raised a child and took my place in the American work force. It remained, albeit with a more subdued light, as I watched the new millennium brought in with George W. Bush “elected” without a majority vote. It remained through the last eight years of blunders and strong arm government. It remained as I watched American freedom and liberty stolen from its citizens by the Patriot Act and as America became despised and rejected by other free nations of the world.
It has been hard holding on to hope. It has been hard to keep the individual human spirit elevated through years which saw the greatest division of the American people in history. It has been hard to hope for my daughter’s future when the middle class has dropped further and further into recession and unemployment as the small percentage of the “very rich” got richer and richer.
As expressed in Bill Clinton’s speech last night, the fact remains that American worker productivity has increased every year for the last ten years, even as wages and benefits were reduced and jobs were eliminated. The reward of the American people for all that extra productivity has been a push back down the ladder of progress. It’s time to at least try to even the playing field, so that the “American dream” is available to all Americans, and we avoid becoming a nation of “lords and serfs”.
Yes, it’s been hard to keep the faith and hope that those ideals we held forty years ago would ever reach fruition. That every American citizen has a chance to become president, and every family deserves to live decently by the fruits of their labor. The belief that we should be represented as a nation by someone who actually believes in equality for all--black and white, men and women, rich and poor.
It has been hard not to become completely jaded and just give up hope. But last night I saw a convention hall full of hope and it fanned my spark back to a flame. Regardless of the election turnout, we have seen history. We have seen that American people are still hungry for change, and are willing to work together to break down barriers from our past. In the words of CNN contributor Donna Brazile, “When we were kids, our parents would tell us we could grow up to be anything we wanted to be. We giggled because we knew certain doors were closed. After this historic year, those gates are now wide open. So this is an exciting moment for the entire country."
God bless America.
I woke up feeling blessed this morning.
To be honest, I wake up feeling blessed most every day, because that’s what my father taught me. I cannot remember a night growing up when I didn’t hear him whispering his prayers of thanks in the next room before he drifted off to sleep, or a morning when he wasn’t thankful as soon as he wakened. Perhaps that’s why he lived 95 healthy, happy years on this earth.
The reason I feel especially blessed today is because I got to witness a historic and emotionally fulfilling moment in American history last night. At the Democratic convention in Denver, Colorado, I watched with tears in my eyes as a woman who almost got the nomination for presidential candidate urged delegates to give their unanimous support to the first black candidate of a major political party. In the words of Tom Brokaw, it seemed surreal.
I grew up in the sixties, when America was rocked by change. Even as a child, I was painfully aware of the assassinations of John and Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King. I watched footage of the Viet Nam war each evening on television and feared the day when my school mates would be old enough to fight and die. I remember the riots and police action at the 1968 Democratic convention in Chicago; only months after Dr. King and Bobby Kennedy had died. I remember seeing the ERA rejected year after year because religious zealots and misogynists convinced voters it would ruin our family values and go against our Christian heritage.
My heartfelt hope of equality and change was a spark that remained as I grew up and married, raised a child and took my place in the American work force. It remained, albeit with a more subdued light, as I watched the new millennium brought in with George W. Bush “elected” without a majority vote. It remained through the last eight years of blunders and strong arm government. It remained as I watched American freedom and liberty stolen from its citizens by the Patriot Act and as America became despised and rejected by other free nations of the world.
It has been hard holding on to hope. It has been hard to keep the individual human spirit elevated through years which saw the greatest division of the American people in history. It has been hard to hope for my daughter’s future when the middle class has dropped further and further into recession and unemployment as the small percentage of the “very rich” got richer and richer.
As expressed in Bill Clinton’s speech last night, the fact remains that American worker productivity has increased every year for the last ten years, even as wages and benefits were reduced and jobs were eliminated. The reward of the American people for all that extra productivity has been a push back down the ladder of progress. It’s time to at least try to even the playing field, so that the “American dream” is available to all Americans, and we avoid becoming a nation of “lords and serfs”.
Yes, it’s been hard to keep the faith and hope that those ideals we held forty years ago would ever reach fruition. That every American citizen has a chance to become president, and every family deserves to live decently by the fruits of their labor. The belief that we should be represented as a nation by someone who actually believes in equality for all--black and white, men and women, rich and poor.
It has been hard not to become completely jaded and just give up hope. But last night I saw a convention hall full of hope and it fanned my spark back to a flame. Regardless of the election turnout, we have seen history. We have seen that American people are still hungry for change, and are willing to work together to break down barriers from our past. In the words of CNN contributor Donna Brazile, “When we were kids, our parents would tell us we could grow up to be anything we wanted to be. We giggled because we knew certain doors were closed. After this historic year, those gates are now wide open. So this is an exciting moment for the entire country."
God bless America.
Pit Bulls and Bottle Rockets
Across our nation on July 4th, American families celebrate the day with traditional cookouts, parades and fireworks displays. But at my house, the highlight of the day is watching my Pit Bull, Spike, enjoy his bottle rockets!
Spike came to us five years ago, after his original owner was jailed and, ultimately, deported to his native England for felony drug trafficking. A beautiful white Pit with golden eyes, Spike was put up for adoption at the kennel where I worked, but because of his aggressive personality, we could not find a home for him. It was determined by the veterinarian who owned the kennel that if we could not find an adoptive family by a certain Friday, Spike would have to be “put down”.
Of course, Friday came, and when no one else would take a chance on the dog, I ended up bringing him home with me, where he quickly became a much-loved member of my family. We soon learned that, like my other two dogs, Spike had a fear of thunderstorms and would hide in my bedroom closet whenever he heard the first rumbles in the distance. We assumed he would be afraid of any type of loud noise, but we were wrong.
On the first Independence Day after we adopted Spike, my husband bought some bottle rockets to shoot off in the yard. I reminded him how it would frighten the dogs, but he promised to just shoot off “a couple”, and began setting up a “launcher” on the patio. A piece of PVC pipe about three feet long was stuck in the grass and he loaded the first rocket and lit it with a match. The wick burned down with a muffled sizzling sound and the projectile launched with a BOOM!
Before the explosion had died, we saw Spike streaking out the back door, legs stretched out like a racing Greyhound, eyes turned to the sky, barking crazily. He attacked the falling sparks as though they were living things, leaping and snapping his jaws. When that was over, he turned his attention to the piece of PVC, grabbing it in his mouth and yanking it from the ground, as though trying to destroy the source of the pyrotechnics. My husband began chasing him, trying to retrieve the piece of pipe, but we were both laughing so hard, his efforts were useless.
When he finally did replace the “launcher” and set off another bottle rocket, the whole performance was repeated and we laughed ourselves silly. No matter how many rockets exploded, Spike continued to chase them and try to steal the PVC pipe, his eyes wide, tail wagging, barking hysterically. Eventually my husband replaced the three foot section of pipe with a six foot piece, buried much deeper in the dirt, thinking the dog couldn’t possibly remove it. Wrong! It took a little longer, but Spike managed to wiggle the piece back and forth until he was able to wrench this one from the ground as well. The sight of him racing across the yard with a six foot section of pipe waving and bobbing like a tightrope walker’s pole in his mouth made us laugh so hard we lost our breath and tears squirted from our eyes. The ends of the pole caught on trees and shrubs as he ran, sometimes making him stop short and fall down, but he would leap right back up and take off again.
Now Spike’s bottle rockets have become a favorite part of our Independence Day activities, and we always make sure to have a few on hand as the holiday approaches. After the barbecue has been eaten and the sun goes down, we gather in the yard to set off our little pyrotechnics show. And when the first rocket is launched with a WHOOSH, Spike is there, determined this is the year he will capture one of those noisy creatures and show it who’s boss.
Of course, we’ve learned that if we want the show to last past the first launch, we have to set up the PVC pipe on the OTHER side of the chain link fence!
Note: These activities may be repeated for New Year's Eve or other "Pyro-Friendly" holidays.
Spike came to us five years ago, after his original owner was jailed and, ultimately, deported to his native England for felony drug trafficking. A beautiful white Pit with golden eyes, Spike was put up for adoption at the kennel where I worked, but because of his aggressive personality, we could not find a home for him. It was determined by the veterinarian who owned the kennel that if we could not find an adoptive family by a certain Friday, Spike would have to be “put down”.
Of course, Friday came, and when no one else would take a chance on the dog, I ended up bringing him home with me, where he quickly became a much-loved member of my family. We soon learned that, like my other two dogs, Spike had a fear of thunderstorms and would hide in my bedroom closet whenever he heard the first rumbles in the distance. We assumed he would be afraid of any type of loud noise, but we were wrong.
On the first Independence Day after we adopted Spike, my husband bought some bottle rockets to shoot off in the yard. I reminded him how it would frighten the dogs, but he promised to just shoot off “a couple”, and began setting up a “launcher” on the patio. A piece of PVC pipe about three feet long was stuck in the grass and he loaded the first rocket and lit it with a match. The wick burned down with a muffled sizzling sound and the projectile launched with a BOOM!
Before the explosion had died, we saw Spike streaking out the back door, legs stretched out like a racing Greyhound, eyes turned to the sky, barking crazily. He attacked the falling sparks as though they were living things, leaping and snapping his jaws. When that was over, he turned his attention to the piece of PVC, grabbing it in his mouth and yanking it from the ground, as though trying to destroy the source of the pyrotechnics. My husband began chasing him, trying to retrieve the piece of pipe, but we were both laughing so hard, his efforts were useless.
When he finally did replace the “launcher” and set off another bottle rocket, the whole performance was repeated and we laughed ourselves silly. No matter how many rockets exploded, Spike continued to chase them and try to steal the PVC pipe, his eyes wide, tail wagging, barking hysterically. Eventually my husband replaced the three foot section of pipe with a six foot piece, buried much deeper in the dirt, thinking the dog couldn’t possibly remove it. Wrong! It took a little longer, but Spike managed to wiggle the piece back and forth until he was able to wrench this one from the ground as well. The sight of him racing across the yard with a six foot section of pipe waving and bobbing like a tightrope walker’s pole in his mouth made us laugh so hard we lost our breath and tears squirted from our eyes. The ends of the pole caught on trees and shrubs as he ran, sometimes making him stop short and fall down, but he would leap right back up and take off again.
Now Spike’s bottle rockets have become a favorite part of our Independence Day activities, and we always make sure to have a few on hand as the holiday approaches. After the barbecue has been eaten and the sun goes down, we gather in the yard to set off our little pyrotechnics show. And when the first rocket is launched with a WHOOSH, Spike is there, determined this is the year he will capture one of those noisy creatures and show it who’s boss.
Of course, we’ve learned that if we want the show to last past the first launch, we have to set up the PVC pipe on the OTHER side of the chain link fence!
Note: These activities may be repeated for New Year's Eve or other "Pyro-Friendly" holidays.
My Life at Fifty
I turned 50 this year, so I figured this would be a good time to write something profound. You know, make some sage observations, evaluate my accomplishments thus far and measure myself against other icons reaching the half-century mark.
I’m in pretty good company, I guess. In 1958, the year I was born, NASA was formed, the Vanguard satellite was launched, Intel developed the microchip and both the Edsel and the peace sign made their debuts. Kids were introduced to Legos, the Hula Hoop and the Crayola crayon 64 pack. Celebrities born that year include Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson, Michelle Pfeiffer, Sharon Stone and Jamie Lee Curtis.
So how are we all doing fifty years later?
NASA is still around, albeit in a much dimmer spotlight than during its heyday of the 1960s, with the space shuttle program scheduled to be phased out by 2010.
The Vanguard satellite is still traveling out in space, but no longer alone. It’s estimated that between 600 and 800 manmade satellites are in the sky overhead at any given time.
Obviously, Intel knew what they were doing when they developed the microchip all those years ago. It helped create the personal computer and all the household electronic devices which followed. We use them to cook our food, heat and cool our homes and to communicate with each other. In fact, until television began giving us Celebrity Poker, they were the most important chips in the world!
The Edsel, unfortunately, only lasted two years, due in part to its appearance. Some critics felt its vertical front grill resembled a vagina, something the public wanted kept under wraps in 1958. Now that I think of it, a vagina car in 2008 would probably be a big hit.
Still riding high in popularity is the loveable peace sign, having been adopted by a new generation of Americans as a symbol of protest against a new war. I can still remember my mother trying to explain the inherent evil behind the peace sign when I was a kid. It symbolized a broken cross, she said, and was therefore a blasphemy against Christ. (I now know that the cross was first used as a pagan symbol centuries before the time of Jesus Christ. So much for blasphemy.)
Legos are still around, and just as popular as ever. Hula Hoops can be found at most any large retailer, but I never see kids playing with them anymore. I did see a woman on the new “Gong Show” recently, who got about 25 of the colorful hoops swooshing around her body long enough to receive a score. I think she won.
However, I would now like to devote a whole paragraph to the magnificence of the Crayola Crayon 64-pack. Yeah, that’s the one with the built-in sharpener in back. If you didn’t have one as a kid, you wanted one. We all did. Not only were there more colors than you ever imagined possible (remember Burnt Sienna and Periwinkle?), but you could actually sharpen the crayons when they got dull. Take the blunt end of the crayon, insert it right into the box, give it a few turns and voila! You had a pointy new Crayola to use on the pages of your Cinderella coloring book. In 1972 Crayola added 8 new colors to make a box of 72, and now you can even get a pack of 120, but the original 64 holds a special place in my heart.
How do I hold up against the celebrities from the class of ‘58?
Michael Jackson was a very cute and talented kid who grew up to be a bit of a freak. Now, I’ve probably been called a freak by some over the years, but at least I still have my own nose.
Prince has managed to maintain both his looks and artistic integrity since he first burst on the music scene in 1979. A talented entertainer and a shrewd businessman, he continues to produce music and present concerts which receive critical acclaim. I really admire his ability to stay out of the tabloids and gossip columns for so many years. True, he did change his name to a symbol for awhile, but otherwise, he’s sound as a pound.
Madonna has made her share of headlines over the years, pushing the buttons of Conservative America and creating herself over and over again to remain a successful force in popular music. She is definitely no ingénue, but still a very attractive, hard-bodied woman who can bring an audience to its feet at will. Along with Sharon Stone, Jamie Lee Curtis, Michelle Pfeiffer and Ellen DeGeneres, she lends credence to the idea that “50 is the new 40”. When I was a child, 50 year old women did not look like this. They had grey hair and wore sensible clothes and shoes, did needlepoint and played bridge. Thank God those days are gone. Now, no disrespect to Jamie Lee, but I am not going to pose topless on a magazine cover to celebrate my age. I do, however, appreciate her chutzpah. This brings me to the topic of 50 year old breasts.
Age is the most cruel enemy of the bosom. When I was a teen, the braless look was quite fashionable. Women nationwide donned halter tops, tube tops, t shirts and even sweaters without the restrictions (or support) of a brassiere. It was a free-wheeling time, to be sure, but there were some guidelines. I remember reading in my Glamour magazine how to “place a pencil under your breast and let go”. If it fell out, you were braless material. If it held, you were too buxom (or too saggy) to give up your Maidenform. In those days, I passed the pencil test with flying colors. Today my breasts could probably hold up that Crayola 64 pack.
Which doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with my body altogether. All in all, I’ve held up rather well, I guess. I can still shop in the Junior department, even though AOL says I shouldn’t. I recently read a list of things “No woman over 40 should ever wear”, on my computer homepage. Most of it was stuff I agreed with--string bikinis, pants with hip hop slogans written across the butt, etc. But then they listed LEGGINGS! Now, excuse me for being old and cranky, but you can have my leggings when you pry them from my cold, dead thighs! They’re way too comfortable! Of course I’m not going to wear them with a crop top, but under a tunic or oversized sweatshirt, what’s the harm?
The problem is, I’ve always dressed and acted the way I wanted. I figure Life is too short to spend it in somebody else’s idea of age-appropriate fashion. You know, there is a group called the Red Hat Society for women 50 or older, who dress in red hats and purple dresses when they meet. The outfits are based on the poem, Warning, by Jenny Joseph, in which she says “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me…” The idea behind the poem (and the Red Hats) is that for the first 50 years of our lives we do and say and act the way we are expected to by society. After age 50 we should be able to dress and eat and spend money as we wish. This subject came up a few months back when I was discussing my age with some friends over lunch, and asked, jokingly, if I should join the Red Hat Society. The popular consensus at the table was “You’ve been dressing and acting your own way all your life! You don‘t need a red hat to prove anything!” I guess that’s true, at least in part, and it made me feel good. I never wanted to look back on any aspect of my life and say “If only I had…” I’m very proud to be me.
Another deviation from societal norms has been my relationships with men. I’ve always liked younger men, and my first marriage was to a guy who was three years younger. The marriage didn’t last very long, but I have my beautiful daughter as a result, so it was definitely worth it. Then I married again to a guy almost ten years younger, and no one thought that one would last, either. (Even I had my serious doubts.) But in a few months we’ll be celebrating our 23rd wedding anniversary, so I think this one is working out pretty well. As a result of these two marriages and a few other young men who’ve caught my eye over the years, I have come to be known as a cradle robber of sorts. Like all the other unsavory aspects of my life, I’ve never denied this, choosing to be painfully honest on more than a few occasions. But until recently, I didn’t realize I had started a trend. Or that the trend had a name.
Today’s cradle robber is known as a “cougar“, a term chosen, I suppose, for its predatory connotations. (I guess it’s better than calling all of us Mrs. Robinson. Now there was a magnificent cougar!) Suddenly I’m seeing menopausal women swooping up men 10, 15, 20 or more years younger and not being shy about it in the least! I hear the term on talk shows, in television and movie scripts, and even in some newscasts. While I’m not actually taking credit for this phenomenon, I do feel a sense of pride for taking my own road when it was definitely the one less-traveled and making it work.
So here I am after all these years, still much the same person I was as a teenager (except for the pencil test, of course). I have a good marriage, a beautiful daughter, two fabulous dogs and more free time than ever before. I could use that time to learn needlepoint or how to play bridge, I suppose. But that’s not me. What I have done in the last year is to star in one play and direct another at my community theatre. I’ve also designed and built sets for those two shows and four more. I’ve had a dozen of my short stories and poems published, online and in anthologies. I’ve reconnected with several people who had been missing from my life for years and I’ve made friends with just as many new people. I do stagehand work, which involves setting up and tearing down stages, truss, lighting and audio equipment, and I have no problem keeping up with co-workers in their 20s for eight hours a day. I have no doubt that the rest of my life will be productive and will be lived and celebrated in my own way. I will be loved and I will love in return. For these and many more reasons, I feel blessed
And when my Chevy Malibu bit the dust a couple of months ago, I bought myself a Cougar.
I’m in pretty good company, I guess. In 1958, the year I was born, NASA was formed, the Vanguard satellite was launched, Intel developed the microchip and both the Edsel and the peace sign made their debuts. Kids were introduced to Legos, the Hula Hoop and the Crayola crayon 64 pack. Celebrities born that year include Madonna, Prince, Michael Jackson, Michelle Pfeiffer, Sharon Stone and Jamie Lee Curtis.
So how are we all doing fifty years later?
NASA is still around, albeit in a much dimmer spotlight than during its heyday of the 1960s, with the space shuttle program scheduled to be phased out by 2010.
The Vanguard satellite is still traveling out in space, but no longer alone. It’s estimated that between 600 and 800 manmade satellites are in the sky overhead at any given time.
Obviously, Intel knew what they were doing when they developed the microchip all those years ago. It helped create the personal computer and all the household electronic devices which followed. We use them to cook our food, heat and cool our homes and to communicate with each other. In fact, until television began giving us Celebrity Poker, they were the most important chips in the world!
The Edsel, unfortunately, only lasted two years, due in part to its appearance. Some critics felt its vertical front grill resembled a vagina, something the public wanted kept under wraps in 1958. Now that I think of it, a vagina car in 2008 would probably be a big hit.
Still riding high in popularity is the loveable peace sign, having been adopted by a new generation of Americans as a symbol of protest against a new war. I can still remember my mother trying to explain the inherent evil behind the peace sign when I was a kid. It symbolized a broken cross, she said, and was therefore a blasphemy against Christ. (I now know that the cross was first used as a pagan symbol centuries before the time of Jesus Christ. So much for blasphemy.)
Legos are still around, and just as popular as ever. Hula Hoops can be found at most any large retailer, but I never see kids playing with them anymore. I did see a woman on the new “Gong Show” recently, who got about 25 of the colorful hoops swooshing around her body long enough to receive a score. I think she won.
However, I would now like to devote a whole paragraph to the magnificence of the Crayola Crayon 64-pack. Yeah, that’s the one with the built-in sharpener in back. If you didn’t have one as a kid, you wanted one. We all did. Not only were there more colors than you ever imagined possible (remember Burnt Sienna and Periwinkle?), but you could actually sharpen the crayons when they got dull. Take the blunt end of the crayon, insert it right into the box, give it a few turns and voila! You had a pointy new Crayola to use on the pages of your Cinderella coloring book. In 1972 Crayola added 8 new colors to make a box of 72, and now you can even get a pack of 120, but the original 64 holds a special place in my heart.
How do I hold up against the celebrities from the class of ‘58?
Michael Jackson was a very cute and talented kid who grew up to be a bit of a freak. Now, I’ve probably been called a freak by some over the years, but at least I still have my own nose.
Prince has managed to maintain both his looks and artistic integrity since he first burst on the music scene in 1979. A talented entertainer and a shrewd businessman, he continues to produce music and present concerts which receive critical acclaim. I really admire his ability to stay out of the tabloids and gossip columns for so many years. True, he did change his name to a symbol for awhile, but otherwise, he’s sound as a pound.
Madonna has made her share of headlines over the years, pushing the buttons of Conservative America and creating herself over and over again to remain a successful force in popular music. She is definitely no ingénue, but still a very attractive, hard-bodied woman who can bring an audience to its feet at will. Along with Sharon Stone, Jamie Lee Curtis, Michelle Pfeiffer and Ellen DeGeneres, she lends credence to the idea that “50 is the new 40”. When I was a child, 50 year old women did not look like this. They had grey hair and wore sensible clothes and shoes, did needlepoint and played bridge. Thank God those days are gone. Now, no disrespect to Jamie Lee, but I am not going to pose topless on a magazine cover to celebrate my age. I do, however, appreciate her chutzpah. This brings me to the topic of 50 year old breasts.
Age is the most cruel enemy of the bosom. When I was a teen, the braless look was quite fashionable. Women nationwide donned halter tops, tube tops, t shirts and even sweaters without the restrictions (or support) of a brassiere. It was a free-wheeling time, to be sure, but there were some guidelines. I remember reading in my Glamour magazine how to “place a pencil under your breast and let go”. If it fell out, you were braless material. If it held, you were too buxom (or too saggy) to give up your Maidenform. In those days, I passed the pencil test with flying colors. Today my breasts could probably hold up that Crayola 64 pack.
Which doesn’t mean I’m unhappy with my body altogether. All in all, I’ve held up rather well, I guess. I can still shop in the Junior department, even though AOL says I shouldn’t. I recently read a list of things “No woman over 40 should ever wear”, on my computer homepage. Most of it was stuff I agreed with--string bikinis, pants with hip hop slogans written across the butt, etc. But then they listed LEGGINGS! Now, excuse me for being old and cranky, but you can have my leggings when you pry them from my cold, dead thighs! They’re way too comfortable! Of course I’m not going to wear them with a crop top, but under a tunic or oversized sweatshirt, what’s the harm?
The problem is, I’ve always dressed and acted the way I wanted. I figure Life is too short to spend it in somebody else’s idea of age-appropriate fashion. You know, there is a group called the Red Hat Society for women 50 or older, who dress in red hats and purple dresses when they meet. The outfits are based on the poem, Warning, by Jenny Joseph, in which she says “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn’t go and doesn’t suit me…” The idea behind the poem (and the Red Hats) is that for the first 50 years of our lives we do and say and act the way we are expected to by society. After age 50 we should be able to dress and eat and spend money as we wish. This subject came up a few months back when I was discussing my age with some friends over lunch, and asked, jokingly, if I should join the Red Hat Society. The popular consensus at the table was “You’ve been dressing and acting your own way all your life! You don‘t need a red hat to prove anything!” I guess that’s true, at least in part, and it made me feel good. I never wanted to look back on any aspect of my life and say “If only I had…” I’m very proud to be me.
Another deviation from societal norms has been my relationships with men. I’ve always liked younger men, and my first marriage was to a guy who was three years younger. The marriage didn’t last very long, but I have my beautiful daughter as a result, so it was definitely worth it. Then I married again to a guy almost ten years younger, and no one thought that one would last, either. (Even I had my serious doubts.) But in a few months we’ll be celebrating our 23rd wedding anniversary, so I think this one is working out pretty well. As a result of these two marriages and a few other young men who’ve caught my eye over the years, I have come to be known as a cradle robber of sorts. Like all the other unsavory aspects of my life, I’ve never denied this, choosing to be painfully honest on more than a few occasions. But until recently, I didn’t realize I had started a trend. Or that the trend had a name.
Today’s cradle robber is known as a “cougar“, a term chosen, I suppose, for its predatory connotations. (I guess it’s better than calling all of us Mrs. Robinson. Now there was a magnificent cougar!) Suddenly I’m seeing menopausal women swooping up men 10, 15, 20 or more years younger and not being shy about it in the least! I hear the term on talk shows, in television and movie scripts, and even in some newscasts. While I’m not actually taking credit for this phenomenon, I do feel a sense of pride for taking my own road when it was definitely the one less-traveled and making it work.
So here I am after all these years, still much the same person I was as a teenager (except for the pencil test, of course). I have a good marriage, a beautiful daughter, two fabulous dogs and more free time than ever before. I could use that time to learn needlepoint or how to play bridge, I suppose. But that’s not me. What I have done in the last year is to star in one play and direct another at my community theatre. I’ve also designed and built sets for those two shows and four more. I’ve had a dozen of my short stories and poems published, online and in anthologies. I’ve reconnected with several people who had been missing from my life for years and I’ve made friends with just as many new people. I do stagehand work, which involves setting up and tearing down stages, truss, lighting and audio equipment, and I have no problem keeping up with co-workers in their 20s for eight hours a day. I have no doubt that the rest of my life will be productive and will be lived and celebrated in my own way. I will be loved and I will love in return. For these and many more reasons, I feel blessed
And when my Chevy Malibu bit the dust a couple of months ago, I bought myself a Cougar.
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