The New Trump Tower

The new Trump Tower?  I sure hope not!  If he does get elected, where do you think his name will appear?

The Art of Letter Writing

     Letter writing is a lost art.  Years back, before people had smart phones, Email, Skype, Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook, they composed letters, long, elaborate letters that went on for pages, telling the latest news, professing love, discussing current events, pondering or planning for the future.  Some folks wrote in cursive, some printed, or they typed, but most importantly, they invested a good deal of time communicating with someone they deemed important, be it a family member, their betrothed, a pen pal, or a friend.  Parents wrote to their sons in the service.  Young women wrote to their boyfriends in college.  Men, young and old, wrote love letters, painting a picture with words of a blissful life they hoped to share with that special someone.  School children sent letters to servicemen overseas to lift their spirits.  Some people, myself included, mailed hand written letters to the editor of a local newspaper to voice an opinion on pertinent topics.

     As a child, I loved to write letters.  Shopping for pretty stationary was one of my favorite pastimes, and filling those pages and sending them off to my pen pals filled me with nearly as much joy as receiving their replies.  I have just a couple of those letters of mine, written when I was twelve, that I sent to my parents when they were away on vacation.  Reading them amuses me.  In my mind I  imagine my folks chuckling at my silliness, and at my compulsion to send them two letters when they were only away for a week. 
     I found a letter that my brother wrote to my folks when he was in the service.  It was written on the fine tissue paper that was popular at the time, and was sent in an Air Mail envelope.  Do they even have them any more?  I gave that letter to my nephew, as I imagined he would appreciate having a glimpse of his dad in his pre-marriage/pre-children youth.  

     I save significant text messages and voice mail messages that my sons send me.  I cherish them, but it's not quite the same as a letter..  A text message or a voice mail message is not a tangible thing-I do not have their hand written words on a piece of paper that I can mold to my heart.  I delight in following hand written recipes of my mom's and reading hand written poetry that my dad composed for her.  I have witnessed and experienced how a person of  few words can blossom when they put pen to paper.  My dad was like that.  A quiet man, he was never a conversationalist.  But he could express his devotion to my mother with the sweetest words and rhymes.  I am like him in that way.   

     I recently watched a documentary on Gloria Vanderbilt, the original poor little rich girl.  In it, she revealed a number of her treasures,  some of which might surprise you.  The treasure pertinent to this post is a collection of letters about five inches thick, in chronological order, tied neatly and tightly with string, and enclosed in a plastic case for safe keeping.  She had found them at a flea market, and was compelled to buy them.  She has never read them, and doesn't anticipate ever reading them, yet she imagines them to be love letters, and she ponders what may be written in them. (Aren't some things better when left to the imagination?)  After seeing this documentary, you guessed it, I was on a mission to find a collection of letters at the next flea market I attended.  I was not disappointed, as I purchased a bagful of assorted letters at a local flea market for just $7.00, a real bargain I might add.  However, unlike Ms. Vanderbilt, I could not resist the urge to read them.  It was a strange feeling, actually, as I initially felt I was invading that couple's privacy.  After I'd read a few however, I became invested in the characters, and I was essentially reading non-fiction.  I actually find it quite sad, as their descendants did not elect to keep the letters.   I console myself by imagining that they had someone who runs estate sales clean out an attic, and perhaps never even knew they existed.  Many of the letters were written in the 1950s, beginning in the year I was born.  The time period lent a certain significance for me, as it gave me a glimpse into what people were experiencing at that time.  They were letters from a man who was very much in love with a young widow.  He was clearly smitten by her, and they did eventually marry.  One thing he wrote, not romantic, really struck me.  He expressed a concern that went something like this: what might happen if the invention of a genius might fall into the hands of someone with the ethics of a moron, this in approximately 1957.  I know the world is and always was a scary place.  However,  I tend to look at the past through rose colored glasses, imagining that people were nicer, and that bad things did not happen.  Of course I realize these ideas are pure fantasy, but reading about past events in a history book is more abstract.  This letter was personal, and therefore more real.  Anyway, I have about thirty five letters, all in chronological order, and I plan to read them all.  There is a plastic case and a pretty pink ribbon awaiting them, and I will put them on display once I am done. As for me, I intend to resurrect my love of letter writing.  I have some friends who are relocating, and I am now on a mission to buy some feminine and ultra pretty stationary, and pen them letters as if it were the 1960's.  Nostalgia, take me away!

On My Horizon

How can I feel young

when I've just turned 61

This BD didn't hurt like 60

So I'd like another one 

(but it can take its time getting here)

     

     Okay, so I don't really feel young, but I am feeling very paradoxical this morning.  In my mind, I  resemble a young person, with my new I-Pad mini, my Apps, my newfound ability to view Facebook or my Emails instantly.  I have Apps for FB, Yahoo, TCM,  Duolingo, CNN, Google...  Today I downloaded a new App-for AARP!  So much for feeling young.  BTW-for those of you with an AARP membership-did you know that you qualify for a 15% discount at Denny's?    

     I came to a realization this weekend, or maybe I was just reminded of my own reality, that I need to continue working on myself and building a new life.  I have allowed myself to fall into a rut of working, going to school, studying, and binge watching movies and television shows.  Somehow over the last year, I have stopped engaging in some of my favorite activities.  I haven't been to New York City in ages.  My social calendar is fairly empty, and it's my own doing.  Even my writing has suffered over the last year.  The poems I've written have been amazing (not including the opening jingle to this post), but they've been few and far between.  Blog posts have been consistently dwindling in number.  Of course I have an excuse for that too.  My antique desktop computer, which I prefer to use when I write, is on it's last legs.  Before it will function it's got to warm up for quite a while, (just like my car, which is equally old).  The utter waste of my time causes extreme frustration on my part.  This morning, while the old Dell warmed up, I used my I-Pad to check FB, the news, and my Emails. (Do you think that qualifies as multi-tasking?) I was done in a New York City minute, not nearly long enough, so I made breakfast and watched The Pioneer Woman, allowing the damned thing ample time to become functional. (Did I mention that I have to close the door to my office to drown out the sound of it's motor?  It sounds like my car engine when it's determined to stall as I zealously rev the engine.)   

     I do tend to make excuses for myself-I'm tired from working all day.  The commute was grueling.   I have too much studying to do.  However-do you remember this?  "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy".  Isn't that brilliant?  Words of wisdom from the brilliant Stephen King (The Shining).  So plans for some fun are on my horizon.  This summer I have reservations for a few days at the beautiful Jersey shore.  I plan to see a Broadway play, and a trip to Chicago is planned for the not too distant future.  Sounds like a good start to me!

The Dress I Didn't Buy

     For the second time in one year, I went shopping for a Mother of the Groom dress with my 2 best girlfriends.  A fun expedition, it afforded me time well spent with my BFF's, as well as sharing the joy derived from another of my sons being set to marry soon, and the prospect of my family expanding again.  Upon arrival at the store of choice, the young lady at the front desk initially expressed horror when she thought we were there seeking wedding dresses.  (The thought of that causes me horror-ever marrying again, anyway).  Our young stylist was considerably more gracious, enthusiastically leading us though crowded aisles, pulling dress after dress from the racks, dresses that were either downright revolting or  that met with my approval.  "Are you looking for a dress with bling?" she asked.  "No" I replied, in my ignorance, "and I don't want a lot of sequins and baubles either"!  Cognizant of the communication gap inherent in our age difference, she sought out dresses that were not overly ornamented.  A sojourn through the mothers' dresses resulted in but 2 possibilities, neither of which I was crazy about.  The stylist then suggested looking through the bridesmaid's dresses, which I found a little startling.  That resulted in two more mediocre possibilities.  Then it was my turn to express horror when the stylist suggested looking through... the Prom Dresses!  I don't want to look ridiculous, I firmly opined.  (I imagined I would look ridiculous enough just being in that section, at least without a teenager in tow).  She persisted, and felt there just might be something among those dresses that I would find appealing.  Quite frankly, I found most of them to be too revealing, and some just ridiculous.  I am not into those feathery looks.  I don't want to attend my son's wedding resembling an aging ostrich.  Much to my surprise, I did find a dress in that section.  Of the five varied dresses that I tried on, it was a toss up between it and the other  dress of a certain color, that I might never have considered if not for a stylist with vision.  It was a tough choice, as I tried them on repeatedly, back to back, trying to ascertain which was the most flattering.  I felt the black and white had a uniqueness to it that would not be repeated, unless one of the younger set decided to wear her leftover prom dress.  (The only thing that could be worse than both Mothers wearing the same gown, would have been me and a teenager in the same dress).  Neither of the dresses possessed one matronly looking fiber, which was one of my priorities.  I really liked the black and white, but oh! The other one..  So I did not choose the black and white.  If only I had another wedding to attend!

Lab Life

He wore Blue Velvet.... Did I mention that it's a curtain?

Three Men and a Piano

If you are a fan of the movie, The Piano, you may enjoy this interpretation which I wrote for my Introduction to Film Study class awhile back:

Three Men and a Piano

     Five people are seeking control of Ada McGrath’s life: Ada’s father , her husband, Alistair Stuart, her potential lover, George Baines, Flora, her daughter, and Ada herself. The bulk of Ada’s story will play out in 1850’s New Zealand, where she is compelled to relocate to in an arranged marriage.

      When we meet Ada McGrath initially, she indicates that she has not spoken since she was six years old, adding that no one knows why, even she. Her father attributes her muteness to a dark talent, which would include her strong will and her extraordinary ability to play the piano. It is obvious early on, however, that her muteness is one of the few things in her life which she herself could control. Ada is a single woman with young daughter who is married off to a man she had never met, by her father. This is a blatant demonstration of the lack of control which she has over her own destiny.  In the only scene in which he appears, Ada’s father is attempting to drag a reluctant horse which is carrying his granddaughter. This is representative of Ada and her daughter, and their subsequent move to New Zealand, where they will reluctantly take up residence with Alistair.

     Ada does not consider herself silent, as playing her beloved piano is her mode of expression. In a scene just prior to her departure to New Zealand, we are witness to Ada’s awesome ability to play. Her strong display of emotion is akin to that of an artist who expresses himself through painting or sculpture, or a writer, whose means of expression may be poetry or prose. Although when the time for departure arrives, she abruptly ceases playing the piano, and her facial expression transforms to that of muted dread.

     Stormy seas upon arrival in New Zealand are indicative of the stormy relationship that will exist between Alistair and Ada. Sitting on the beach awaiting his arrival, Ada slowly plays a sad melody on the piano, while her daughter sleeps peacefully in her lap. A sudden wave disrupts the quietude, symbolizing the effect Alistair’s arrival will have on their lives. While en route to retrieve Ada and Flora, Alistair pauses to view her picture.  Holding it in rough hands while combing his hair is a prelude to his treatment of her. Gentleness will be nonexistent, yet her affections sought after.

     Flora is a reluctant participant in this ill conceived of arrangement, and expresses to Ada that she will not even look at Alistair.  She has an alliance with Ada with which she is happy, that is of being the sole recipient of her mother’s love before, as well as during, the loveless marriage. That changes later on however, when Flora feels she is in competition with George Baines for her mother’s affection, whereas there was no competition between she and Alistair. Hence Flora betrays her mother, an act she comes to regret when she realizes the dire consequences it has.   

     Ada’s status as a non person is demonstrated throughout the film in the manner that she is treated by her father, husband, the natives, and the Aunties. For example, upon her arrival, Alistair does not even acknowledge her, except to orchestrate the transport of her belongings. Ada was consumed with the destiny of her piano, and Alistair completely ignored her concerns while discussing completely unrelated matters. As they are traveling to Alistair’s home, a native woman takes Ada’s shawl and wears it triumphantly. One of the Aunties dons Ada’s wedding garment, dancing around in it as if Ada herself is invisible. Ada’s status as a nonentity is further exemplified in a discussion Alistair has with Baines when they agree to swap the piano for land. Alistair refers to it as merely “the piano on the beach”, rather than Ada’s piano.  Conversely, he referred to it as her piano when informing her of the swap, an indication of his control over her as well as a reinforcement of her insignificant status in the relationship. Alistair subsequently commits to George that Ada will provide him with lessons, stating that he has in a letter that she plays quite well. Interestingly, Alistair would rarely hear Ada play the piano, although she played freely in George’s presence.  

    In a letter written prior to the marriage, Alistair misrepresented himself to Mr. McGrath as being noble in relation to Ada’s muteness, whereas this attribute was an attraction to Alistair, given his controlling nature. The instant they meet, a tension quickly becomes evident, as Alistair does not hide his disappointment.  He wastes no time in displaying his insensitive nature, as he expresses his contempt of her small stature to George Baines, a neighbor who is destined to become Ada’s lover. Alistair viewed Ada as no more than a silent workhorse, an assessment he shared with Ada’s father, which is alluded to in the aforementioned opening scene.

     George’s sensitivity is immediately discernable, as he indicates to Alistair that Ada appears tired. He exhibits a good deal of sensitivity later as well, when he accompanies Ada to the beach so she may play, and later on, once he assumes possession of the piano, by arranging to have it tuned, and additionally in the tender way he cares for it, realizing how Ada values it. Conversely, he too attempts to control Ada as he barters with her for possession of the piano, suggesting she may “earn it back”.  Contrary to Alistair, however, George’s motivation is not born of malice, but by a lack of self esteem. He is a poor, illiterate man, who came to love Ada very much, although he did not deem himself worthy of her. His low self esteem is subtly perceivable on the beach, when he looks at Ada, then turns and hangs his head as if in shame, and then turns and sheepishly looks at her again. Initially Ada did feel superior to George, but he eventually won her over. The opposite of Alistair, George utilizes the piano as a means of gaining her affections, whereas Alistair employs the piano purely as a means of control.

     The variance between the two men is also represented in the landscape where their homes are situated, as it is barren and dismal by Alistair’s, and lush and peaceful by George’s.  The brief encounter George has with his horse is also in direct opposition to Ada’s father, as George is gentle, and his horse, content.

     Various other scenes in the film are symbolic. For instance, three teacups on Alistair’s table, a large one opposite two smaller ones, represent the division between the three family members. He smashes the smaller one, which symbolizes the manner in which he rules, which is through sheer force. The lonely piano on the beach is representative of Ada’s isolation.  Without her beloved piano, Ada has a very limited outlet for her emotions.  Her anger is evidenced when she tears her wedding garment, and her sorrow, by her silent tears while she stands in the window pondering the state of the abandoned piano, which is subject to the elements.  

     The arrangement between George and Ada portrays him in a negative light. However, his sensitivity prevails as he interprets Ada’s emotions, realizing how unhappy she is. He is a direct parallel to Flora’s father, who didn’t require that Ada speak, “as she could lay thoughts out in his mind like a sheet”.  Ada was obviously unhappy with the arrangement, but was highly motivated.  After a number of visits, it becomes apparent that Ada is falling for George also, as his appreciation for her playing and his sensitivity and gentle nature win her over.

     The climax of the story comes when Alistair finds out about the love affair, and Flora allies herself with Alistair. In a final, desperate bid to control her, Alistair takes an axe and chops off one of Ada’s fingers, knowing this was the ultimate pain that he could inflict on her. He ultimately realized that her will is strong and insurmountable, and asked George to take her away, which he did, by boat.  Ada subsequently demanded that George discard the spoiled piano.  As he throws the piano overboard, Ada purposely tangles her foot in the rope and gets pulled under. Her will chooses life, and she manages to free herself.

     In conclusion, Ada McGrath is a strong willed woman who is willing to sacrifice all for her piano. However, once she is secure in George’s love, she has him discard it Ada slowly teaches herself to speak again, as George provides the love, support, and most importantly, the validation she always wanted. In her closing dialogue this is reinforced when she talks about her dream of floating lifelessly above the piano.  She indicates that it is a strange dream, but it is her own.

Mothers' Day

     Considering Mothers' Day is just weeks away, I feel it necessary to broach a subject that most folks don't want to believe or acknowledge.  There are bad mothers.  Not just the mothers you read about in the news who do horrible things to their children, but mothers we know.   Mothers in our families, mothers of friends, acquaintances.  Women who don't commit crimes against their children that warrant criminal charges, but nevertheless perpetrate abuse, which takes on many shapes and forms.  

     Just being a mother doesn't qualify a person for any special accolades.  Having given birth doesn't automatically relegate a woman to impending sainthood.  I find it tiresome reading ridiculous posts on social media indicating the marvelous phenomenon associated with being a mother.  Women who are inherently bad do give birth, and they do raise families.  Perhaps people are hesitant to believe that a mother can actually possess undesirable characteristics such as dishonesty or cruelty, but some do.  

     As children, we tend to grow up believing our mothers to be infallible.  As adults, we look back and realize they were only human, as we are.  However, being human doesn't excuse a mother from treating her child in an unkind manner.  Humans make mistakes.  The difference between being human vs. being an abuser is defined by the ability to admit having made mistakes and ask forgiveness, something the abusive mother will never do.  

     A mother's job is to, first and foremost, love her child.  How many mothers were disappointed in their child, and not disinclined to let the child know it?  I know of a mother who did everything in her power to destroy her daughter's sense of self esteem, and she was very successful at it.  She used cutting words to demean. She blatantly demonstrated favoritism to others.  She controlled.  She sabotaged.   She demonstrated an utter lack of respect for her daughter, as well as instilling that lack of respect in other family members, insuring that her legacy of unkindness would live on.  The resulting wounds run deep, and the effect lasted a lifetime.  The hypocrite put on a good show in front of others, as hypocrites do.  If her victim were to divulge the injustices that were heaped upon her in her formative years and beyond, who would believe her?  But ponder this.  How many abusers do you know that advertise it as if it were something to be proud of?   They don't.  In public, they overcompensate, creating an illusion, ensuring that their victim would never be believed when attempting to expose their abuser.

     I once read a post on social media which indicated that just because your mother didn't demonstrate her love for you, didn't mean that she didn't love you, only that she was incapable of showing it, for any number of reasons.  To that I say bull!  People make conscious choices.  Why make excuses for them?  Perhaps that post was written to make victims of maternal maltreatment experience less emotional pain.  Personally, I believe in facing facts.  So maybe she didn't love you.  That was because of her, not you.  Consider this.  Quite possibly you were raised in an abusive environment,  despite which you've grown into a fine upstanding human being, and are a wonderful parent yourself.  What does that tell you?  That you are a person of integrity. That you are resilient, strong, and determined to break the cycle of abuse, or whatever it was that you suffered at the hands of your mother.  That clearly demonstrates that the problem lies with her, not you, her unfortunate victim.  So this Mothers' Day, I propose we give credit where credit is due, an ambiguous challenge...

     One final thought on the matter: if a person chooses not to sing her mother's praises, maybe, just maybe, she has a valid reason, or perhaps she has many. 

Lab Life

While Mommy is at work...

Nothing to live for...

It's 4 P.M.  Do you know where your Mommy is?

Canine bliss!

                                           

Failed Communication

     Have you noticed how effective communication has taken a nosedive with the advanced technology that is a sometimes unwelcome constant in our lives?  Perhaps we should start over by listening to what other people have to say instead of  #dishing out shit.

"First Trophy"

     Politically speaking-I have a few things to say.  Note that I hold politically correctness in utter disdain, and I am not politically oriented, but I am somewhat observant, and at times, opinionated.  In the current race for President, among the candidates we have a real estate mogul, rather than an actual politician, as the front runner on the Republican side, and we have the wife of a former President, albeit not the front runner, on the Democratic side.  Has anyone taken a look at the spouses, I wonder.  Namely, consider past Presidential wives, women of substance, women whose reputations have stood the test of time, women whom many emulate and hold in high esteem.  For example, Dolley Madison, Sarah Polk, Abigail Fillmore, Eleanor Roosevelt, Caroline Harrison, Edith Wilson, Jacqueline Kennedy, Betty Ford, Rosalynn Carter, Michelle Obama.  They are dignified women who left their own personal stamp on history in their roles as First Lady.  Who does our future hold in that high profile role?  Possibly...Melania Trump?  Hmmm....  What will her contribution be, I wonder.  If she lands the role, I of little faith suggest changing her title to  "First Trophy".

     On the flip side, what would Bill's title be if Hillary Clinton were to be elected?  I would like to propose....drumroll...."First Lady's Man"!

     In all seriousness, I do feel compelled to take a stand regarding one of Trump's positions-on that of torture.  I strongly disagree with his opinion, as he is in favor of it.  Either we are members of a civilized society or we are barbarians.  We can't have it both ways.  We cannot behave as barbarians, and then try to justify it by intimating that other barbarians are far worse and therefore deserving of our maltreatment.   I say we take the high road, and seek a humanitarian means of fighting terror. 
     In the upcoming race, I don't know if I will vote for a Democrat or a Republican, a Libertarian or an Independent, but I do intend to vote.  We women need to exercise this right, which was not God given, but hard won by our ancestors-courageous women who had the gumption to demand that women receive the same voting rights as men.  We owe it to them, and to ourselves.  So tell me-are you registered?

On Turning Sixty

     "Ouch!"  That was the first post on my Facebook page on the momentous day (to me) when I turned sixty. 

     I would venture to say that everyone has fretted over a milestone birthday at some point in their lives.  I didn't-until I turned fifty.  I was somewhat dismayed, but it didn't last long.  Sixty however, was downright painful.  Not that I'm complaining-it's just a shock to the system.  It has been thirty years since I turned thirty, the first troubling milestone for many.  My son recently struggled with that one himself.  Personally, I thought forty was a piece of cake.  It didn't faze me in the least.  Again-fifty was somewhat troubling.  That year, I received a birthday card that indicated "50 isn't so bad.  It sure beats the hell out of 60!"  Truer words were never spoken.  Quite frankly, I am impressed that I can recall such detail.  

     What I didn't expect on the day of the big 6-0 was that someone would publicly berate me for my ill feelings about my age.  Yes-someone in her forties very blatantly let me know that I had no right to complain, since my age is a milestone that many folks never attain.  As if I didn't know that.  Here's a revelation: if I were the first person to have a mid-life crisis or struggle with aging, there would be no balding men driving bright red convertible sports cars, with young blondes in the passenger seat.  There would be no market for hair dyes or anti-aging creams.  There would be no dietary supplements, nor ever escalating gym memberships.  We are all fighting the inevitable, although some of us are fighting harder than others.

    In any area of peoples' lives, there are always going to be folks who are better off or worse off than we are.  I'm not so ignorant that I don't understand that, and I empathize.  However, everything is relative, and we all have our own individual struggles.  Getting old is a shock to the system.  Period.  When we are young, we think we will be young forever.  Alas, that is not true.  As we traverse the decades of our thirties and forties, those years still feel pretty good.  I can remember thinking "thirty isn't so bad", and "forty isn't so bad".  But when the fifty mark hits, realization creeps in and we are compelled to acknowledge that we are no longer young. However, that doesn't mean we have to "act" old.  When my mother was in her late fifties, she was retired.  She didn't drive, she didn't exercise, she smoked incessantly, and she drank a little to much beer for my liking.  She never colored her hair, and her makeup application left a lot to be desired.  Conversely, I am still working, and in fact, I just started a new position within the company I have worked for the past 11 years. I commute 40 miles daily to this job which I love.  I stopped smoking and drinking more than thirty years ago.  I walk regularly, am a voracious reader.  I am attending college, and  am in the process of buying a house.  I color my hair and  love (and wear) eye makeup.  I often think of my meddlesome mother, who wouldn't have taken a walk if her life depended on it. She frequently lamented that she'd only achieved a seventh grade education, yet I never saw her open a book.  She could read-she frequently read us the riot act.   But her little world revolved around attempts to control the lives of her adult children, rather than building her own life after we'd grown up and left the nest.   
     So, was I wrong in feeling a little depressed when I achieved the 6 decade milestone?  I don't believe so.  Being a little down in the dumps for one day is trivial when compared to the bigger picture that is my life.  Younger people have no right to judge me for the manner in which I cope with my age.  When the forty-something turns sixty herself, then she can offer up an opinion about it.  Of course, I will be in my seventies by then.  Unless you have lived my life, and know firsthand my joys and sorrows, I will thank you to keep your judgements to yourself.
     One of my biggest challenges at 60 is attending college  It's not easy being older than most of the professors.  Consider this: most of the students are young enough to be my grandchildren.  They show plenty of skin, skin that is smooth and with an abundance of tattoos, with shorts that ride too high, and blouses and jeans that venture too low.  I am out of my element, but I persevere.  It takes a bit of courage to do what I do.  I returned to college after thirty years, just nine credits into my degree.  I now have forty two.  I was foolish when I was young, and didn't attend college when I should have.  I consider my discomfort in the  present  circumstances to be my penance.  Perhaps some folks consider me foolish.  I know I am an embarrassment to a certain relative who shall remain nameless, but that's his problem, not mine.  I will not be deterred.  I have a goal, a number of them actually.  I will earn that diploma, and possibly a few more before I'm through.  I always was a late bloomer, a fact about myself that I have come to accept, and embrace.  If I didn't have this incessant drive, thirst for knowledge, and quest for higher education, I might turn into my mother, and make my adult children's lives a misery.  However, self enrichment is my priority, and it will remain so, as long as I am able.  Was I depressed for one solitary day in my sixty years about my age?  Yes, I was.  But as is customary for me, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and continue on my journey, in a (hopefully) dignified manner.  After all, I sill want to impress my sons, and I want to feel proud of myself, for overcoming obstacles, for meeting challenges head on, for being resilient, and for my enormous capacity to love and to be grateful for my blessings, which are many.  And now I must close.  I am off to school to take a math assessment test.  Move over teenyboppers, and make room for the old broad.  Oh-and I won't be bringing my smart phone to the test.  I will do it the old fashioned way, utilizing my brain instead of technology. 

Seeing Things

     It's just one more sign that my age is advancing, much to my chagrin (and relief, I suppose).  Welcome to my world-of floaters.  I thought I was having a retina detachment recently when I began noticing flashing lights (not lightning, as I originally thought) and floaters that resemble many things, including cobwebs, in my field of vision.  I immediately scheduled an appointment with my optometrist, who examined me and recommended that I see a retina specialist.  Before I left, he told me about his floater, his one floater (I have many).  His resembles a fruit fly, and he finds himself batting at it-fruitlessly-because it's not a fruit fly.  My sister also has one-her's resembles a house fly.  A fly swatter had become her constant companion, and she was getting quite the upper arm workout, until one day her daughter asked her what she was after...  She was surprised, to say the least. 

     So I  visited the retina specialist, and after having my eyes poked, prodded, dilated, and photographed, he indicated that he didn't believe a tear or detachment was on my horizon.  He believes I have an age-related degeneration. (I'm somewhat grateful for that diagnosis.  A tear would have been worse.)  My youngest son had driven me to the doctor and accompanied me while I was examined.  I quickly realized that this is another blatant example of our increasing role reversals.  Now, in addition to helping me with my homework,  and acting as my personal IT Department when I am technologically challenged (which is often) my sons are taking turns transporting me to various doctor's appointments. Well, okay. Two.  But that's still two more than it used to be!

     So there is nothing to be done about my floaters, except to become accustomed to them.  On a recent drive home from work, I was certain a coyote had crossed my path, until I realized that my floater decided to dart from right to left.  I leaped out of my bed one evening when I spied a spider on my headboard. (You would be surprised at how high a woman two weeks shy of turning sixty can jump!)  But no-it was just one floater emerging from another floater, the one that resembles a cobweb.  This morning while driving to work, I thought I saw a shooting star in the distance-it wasn't. I guess that wish isn't coming true. This is the best one yet:  the one time I was sure there was a floater in my field of vision, and proceeded to ignore it-it actually turned out to be a gnat on my glasses.  I figured that out when he flew into my eye-the eye with the floaters.  What the fudge!?!?!?!

Classic Films

     One of my favorite movie theaters, the Clearview Claridge in Montclair, shows classic movies every Saturday & Sunday.  It is a thrill seeing a classic movie on the big screen, even though the screens at the Claridge aren't all that big.  They are still larger than my television's screen.  The theater has screened such classics as On the Waterfront,  Gone With the Wind, Dr. Zhivago, The Wizard of Oz, Casablanca, The Princess Diaries.  The what?  The Princess Diaries?  Since when is The Princess Diaries a classic film?  I've been waiting for ages for the theater to screen The Best Years of Our Lives or From Here to Eternity, yet they screen The Princess Diaries.  Upcoming films include The Sound of Music, The Apartment, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Stella Dallas (the original with Barbara Stanwyck), and Beetlejuice.  What the fudge!?!?!?!?!  Now, don't get me wrong-I am a big fan of the movie Beetlejuice.  I consider it to be very entertaining.  But a classic?  I think someone is confused about the meaning of the word.  I don't know if it's the folks who are requesting the films, which can be done online, or the people doing the actual scheduling,  but if they are advertising classic films, then only classic films should be screened in that time slot.   Of course, classic films are not restricted to really old films, for example from the forties, fifties, or sixties.  I would think they'd show "newer" old films, such as Fatal Attraction, Jurassic Park, or Jaws, before they would show The Princess Diaries or Beetlejuice.  But what do I know?  In the words of Anna Bates (Downton Abbey), there's no accounting for taste.

Snowstorm

     I was ready for the latest snowstorm:

Three for me, one for the birds and squirrels!

Buddy didn't mind the storm:

As long as Mommie's home-I'm good!

My Dad's Praises

     Once again I will sing my Dad's praises.  I saw on the news where a man in Cranford  built an ice luge track in his backyard for his children (you can find it on Youtube).  The news clip shows him spraying water from a shower head onto his creative and well constructed track, and a short time later, the children sledding gleefully.  My Dad did something similar for me more than 50 years ago.  It was in the heart of winter, and his little girl, bored of being in the house, wanted desperately to go ice skating.  In his cleverness, he decided to give me my own personal skating rink, in our back yard!  He brought the hose up from the basement, hooked it up to the outdoor faucet, and sprayed our yard generously with water. A short time later, I skated to my heart's content on the mini rink which was lovingly conceived of in my father's imagination.  What fond memories I have of him!

     This past week was the 50th anniversary of the premier of The Sound of Music.  It was my Dad who took me to see it-twice!  (Even as a child I liked watching movies repeatedly!)  The first time we saw it was at the Rialto Theater in Westfield.  We waited in a line which extended around the block, and were fortunate to have gotten seats.  As the movie started, he leaned over and whispered in my ear to be sure and take notice of the scenery, which was glorious, and unlike anything we had ever seen.  My poor Dad, who barely got out of the city where he was born in all of his 87 years...  Seeing the movie with him was an utter joy, and obviously an occasion I will never forget.  Awhile later, the movie came to the local theater, which was about two blocks from where we lived.  It was a Friday night, and we were driving back from dropping my mother off at bingo, when I saw the movie marquis.  Much to my delight, my Dad parked the car, and took me directly to the theater to see it again!  The second time was as enjoyable as the first.  Perhaps more so, as it was the third time my Dad saw it, and probably not what he intended to do that Friday night, making me all the more appreciative.  It was in his nature to make sacrifices for his children.

     I was compelled to see the movie again this week, to commemorate the momentous anniversary.  The opening scene gives me chills, and to this day brings me to tears, in part because the  scene is so awe inspiring, and also because it always evokes memories of my Dad.  Sometimes I miss him so much that I feel my heart could almost break in two.  Here I am, a woman of almost 60, and I am not over his loss yet, after more than 20 years.  In all honesty, I don't think I ever will be.

My Dad with my oldest son-1983

Red Carpet Ridicule

          Was anyone else as disappointed in the Red Carpet festivities as I was?  Increasingly, we are compelled to watch members of the media blabbing incessantly, as opposed to seeing actual movie stars.  I watched for ninety minutes last night, and I barely saw any stars-except from a distance.  Most of the red carpet shots were like "establishing shots",  with so much space between camera and attendees, that  you knew where the event took place, but the actual players were indiscernible. It was like a media tease: the stars are present-but we're not going to let you actually see them. 

     Tell me-is Bradley Cooper this generation's Leonardo DiCaprio?  You know-always an Oscar groomsman but never a groom?  That's okay.  In some cases, an Oscar win is the career kiss of death.  DiCaprio, while never having won an Oscar, has given numerous outstanding performances, and his career has longevity.  He is an actor for the ages, as I believe Bradley Cooper will be. By the way-where was Leonardo last evening?  I surely didn't see him on the red carpet-although I'm sure he was there.  His view was just obstructed by the spotlight stealing media commentators, who mistakenly believe that they themselves are the stars. Not!

     My MLS (movie loving son) inquired if the title of my last blog post is a takeoff on Birdman.  Unclear as to what he meant, he compared the titles:  Oscar Night or My Own Personal New Year's Eve vs.  Birdman or the Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance. I cannot tell a lie-it was purely by accident-just don't tell anybody.

     Who out there knows what the "Oscar Grand Slam" is?  I bet some of you didn't even know the Oscars had a Grand Slam!  It is not a phenomenon restricted to baseball.  The Oscar Grand Slam consists of one film winning the top 5 awards: Best Picture, Best Director, Screenplay, Actor, and Actress.  It has only happened three times.  While sharing a pre-Oscar dinner with MLS last evening, I asked him what were the three films that fall into the Grand Slam category.   I was impressed when, without a moment's hesitation, he rattled off, not only the titles, It Happened One Night, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and Silence of the Lambs, but also the other pertinent stats-like the winners' names and the corresponding years.  He subsequently engaged me in a conversation about the best picture nominees over the last five years, complete with titles and winners, and his educated opinion on the worthiness of the nominations. Honestly-I think I have spawned the next Robert Osborne or Leonard Maltin. 

     I'm glad that J.K. Simmons won Best Supporting Actor for his outstanding performance in Whiplash, but his acceptance speech was a little bizarre.  I am not a fan of Patricia Arquette, who won Best Supporting Actress for her role in Boyhood, but her acceptance speech was splendid.  Kudos to Julianne Moore and Eddie Redmayne for taking home the Best Actress and Actor awards for Still Alice and The Theory of Everything.  While I wasn't a fan of the film Birdman, I dd like the unique way in which they shot the film, in that it appeared to be one long take.  That was amazing!

     And now, if you will forgive me, I feel the need to be catty.  Isn't it time, at the ripe old age of 46, for Jennifer Lopez to forego the slutty appearance?  At her age, exposing too much "cantaloupe cleavage" is not  tantalizing.  It just looks cheap.  Elizabeth Taylor, if she were still alive, would put her, and many other actresses in Hollywood, to shame.  Miss Taylor had a figure to die for, but never did she bare it all, which only added to her allure.  What actress in today's Hollywood could ever compare to "Maggie the Cat"?  No one that I can think of.  You can't buy that kind of sex appeal and allure.  You either have it, or you don't.  Not that JLo isn't beautiful-I concede that she is.  However, I believe that dressing to provoke shock is acceptable when you're twenty, but when you're flirting with fifty, less is more.  When you are of a certain age, more often than not, your appearance is not as youthful as you believe it to be.  Remember-you can run-but you can't outrun Father Time.

Oscar Night or My Own Personal New Year's Eve

     Tomorrow night is my own personal New Year's Eve!  It's the long awaited, and highly anticipated, night of the Academy Awards!  

     Over time, I have slowly but surely evolved into one of those semi-senior citizens who is ready for bed at 7:30 P.M. ( which presents a real problem on school nights), and who rises with the birds (and my equally old chocolate lab) at 4:30 A.M.  Couple that routine with the fact that I hate New Year's Eve, and you will understand why I am still in bed early on Dec. 31st, despite the New Year's revelry which surrounds me.  However-Oscar night is another story altogether-it is a night that excites me as much as New Year's Eve partyers congregated at Times Square are excited. Tomorrow night, I will tune in early to see my favorite (and not so favorite) actors and actresses on the red carpet. I am eagerly anticipating (first and foremost) watching at least some of the show with my movie loving son.  I will head for home by 9 P.M., before I turn into into a pumpkin  (I said I would stay up late-not that I would stay out late!), and then my son  and I will be texting excitedly throughout the remainder of the evening.  I will be awake and watching until probably midnight, on the one and only night of the year on which I am willing to stay up that late. Over the years,  I used to drag myself to work the following day, drained from the prior night's sleep deprivation, but I recently got smart.  Now I schedule a post Oscar vacation day, so that I may recuperate, and also watch all of the inevitable recaps of the evening's highlights.  

     I generally make it a point to see all of the movies that are nominated for best picture, whether the film interests me or not.  At times I have been pleasantly surprised, and enjoyed movies that I never would have seen otherwise (like Django Unchained).  Conversely, I have suffered through films that I did not want to see (like Beasts of the Southern Wild).  The only good thing about seeing that movie, was that my son and I rented it from Red Box, so three of us suffered (he and his fiancee didn't like it either) for a mere dollar.  This year, however, having had surgery put a definite crimp in my style, and I have not been to the movies in weeks.  Not that I haven't watched movies.  My blue ray player got a real workout during the 2-1/2 weeks that I was home-it's still smoking!.  I have not been out to the movies though, a guilty pleasure that I usually indulge in on a weekly basis. 

      This year's nominated films are American Sniper, Birdman, Boyhood, The Grand Budapest Hotel, The Imitation Game, Selma, The Theory of Everything, and Whiplash. I have seen six of the eight, having missed Birdman and Selma (at least so far-I still have 36 hours!).  Consequently, I am not in a position to declare which film I believe deserves to win.  Of the six I did see, I would vote for American Sniper, with The Imitation Game coming in at a close second.  My son, who did see all of them, and who also makes predictions based on the precursor awards (something I as a movie lover had never heard of until he enlightened me) like the Directors' Guild, Producers' Guild, etc., believes that Birdman will win.  That's okay.  Not having seen them all, I am not as emotionally invested as I usually am, but I will be waiting with bated breath for the winner nevertheless!  Bring on Oscar!

"Mindless Marketing"

     It amazes me that retailers are baffled when sales are low, which is often.  In their infinite brilliance, did anyone in their marketing departments ever stop to consider that, in rushing the seasons, they are sabotaging, rather than serving to enhance and grow, their own sales?  The temperature today is 5 degrees, and with wind chills, it feels like -25.  Yet, when I walk into Target, the first thing I see is racks upon racks of bikinis.  Hello!?!?!?  Did it ever occur to anyone that winter coats would be more likely to sell at this time of year, considering the current conditions? That is-winter weather!?!?!?  The stores could probably sell fifty winter coats for every single bikini that they sell in January or February.  It seems like fairly simple logic to me.  I would buy a new winter coat right now-if I could find one.  But no, the stores will be teeming with them in August, when I, and countless others like me, am more apt to be lounging around at the beach than shopping for cold weather apparel.  In late spring, I want to buy light weight clothing and spring jackets.  In June, July, and August, I want to buy bathing suits, shorts, and beach towels.  In September, I think of fall, and the switch to slightly heavier clothing in warm colors.  In October, Halloween is imminent, and I wish to buy the appropriate decorations.  In November, I am thinking turkey, and all of the trimmings.  

     When I was a child, the Christmas season began the Friday after Thanksgiving, and that is how it should be.  The Christmas lights were lit, and people began their shopping.  There was an accompanying air of, not to sound corny, peace and good will.  People were kinder, and with the season came joy and comfort.  Now, people trample each other, sometimes to death, to purchase the desired sale items that they can't live without.  Personally, I don't know of any TV that is worth killing a fellow human being over. 

     I have no more desire to buy Christmas decorations in August than I do scarves and hats and coats.  I don't want to skip over Halloween and Thanksgiving, to get to the highly commercialized Christmas, and on Christmas, I don't want to buy Valentines candy (not that I have a significant other to buy it for, but that's another blog post).  The point is, if the stores would promote their merchandise when there is a need for it, it would sell.  Isn't that known as supply and demand?  Why don't they get it?  They resort to mindless marketing, and then wonder why their sales have plummeted. Duh!

     By the way-does anyone know where I can but a winter coat?

"The Beautiful Past"

"the vague far past, the beautiful past, the lamented past! I remember it so well"
*Mark Twain

     This morning I went into my sewing basket to obtain the materials needed to sew a button onto a pair of slacks that have suddenly become too tight (they must have shrunk)-a needle, (steel) thread, scissors...  It's been years since I even opened my sewing basket, and I was surprised to find sewing patterns for pajamas and pants that I had made for my sons when they were little.  I cannot say that the past came flooding back to me in a rush, for it is always with me, but the find did evoke more memories.  I miss my babies and my little boys so much, that at times, I just don't know how to cope.  Life can be so cruel.  We are given these beautiful little people to love and to cherish, and we do.  We build entire lives around them. Then they grow up and are no longer ours.  We are compelled to let them go, to give them to another human being who will have the privilege of sharing their lives, as I had done for more than twenty years of my life-the best years, when I was young and strong and energetic, and optimistic.  Those times were hard...sleepless nights, endless bills, cooking and cleaning, raising and nurturing, holding down a job... But I would go back, in a heartbeat.  Had I known how quickly my children would grow and leave me, I would have spent every waking moment with them, instead of wearing myself out with working and cleaning and painting (rooms, not landscapes).  Now, I sit alone with my memories, and try to build a new life on my own-not an easy feat for one who is old and set in her ways.  I work and go to school, I have friends who are dear to me, yet I miss my sons, who mean everything to me.  But they are grown men, and entitled to live their own lives, as I did when I was their age.  I don't begrudge them that-I understand.  I hide my true feeling from them, as I do not want to impart any guilt on them for doing what comes naturally.  It is the cycle of life, and like it or not, it is what it is.

     I had an aunt who was very dear to me, and she too lived on her own for many years after her children were grown. I used to visit her with my young sons, as she became a second mother to me when my own mother passed away.  I often think of her now, when I am feeling sorry for myself, and I wonder did she experience the same loneliness that I do now. I know she had her sorrows, but she demonstrated an infinite amount of strength, for the sake of her family.  Her love was boundless and unwavering.  She was one of the kindest and most loving individuals I have ever known.  She never had an unkind word to say about anyone.  She was forgiving, and professed her love for her family, even those few who had wronged her.  I miss her too, and I look to her for inspiration.  

     Forgive me if I have become redundant, but at times I have trouble letting go.  I push my feelings down, like a baker pounding down yeast laden dough for bread.  But like that dough, they expand, and I am compelled to beat them down again.  Sometimes, a person just has too much time to think.  I have been alone so much the last couple of weeks, recovering from surgery.  I have not been able to partake of the activities that would normally keep my mind occupied...  As I resume my normal routine, I will pick myself up, dust myself off, and plod on, albeit unwillingly.  Life has changed, and I've no choice but to embrace it-gracefully, I hope...

                                          The pajamas resemble those on the left.  I still have them.

                                            My beloved Aunt-my inspiration.

A Pain in the Neck

     Recently I wrote about upcoming surgery in my post titled Not Necessarily Cancer (it was).  The surgery has been performed, and I am left with a scar and resulting pain in my neck and throat-lots of it.  Having a number of age lines dominating my almost 6 decade old neck, I was anticipating that the doctor would  utilize one of them when he made his cut.  That was not the case, however, and a 4 inch wide scar is adjacent to my age lines, their appearance subsequently resembling the lines on a city map.  A dense map.  Like a New York City map.  Never having been one to wear scarves all that often, I am now planning to invest in about a dozen, something I probably should have done anyway.  My neck is actually pretty scary looking now, as what was once smooth is now, in addition to being lined, crater like, and I am able to see everything moving within.  I know-I probably shouldn't look, but I am in the habit of scrutinizing my neck, after having discovered its mysterious bump recently.       

      Since the surgery was performed, I now protect my neck with my hand gracing my throat, similar to the manner in which a baseball player protects the ball with his glove.  Everything is sore, from the flesh that has been carved like an Easter ham, to the muscles that have been manipulated and rearranged to dissect my troublesome thyroid.  That being said, I now am recuperating at home, still barely eating, and sleeping as much as possible.  I never realized how much I actually used my neck muscles, until they were violated by my surgeon, resulting in  restriction of  movement. I am also keenly aware of how slowly I have bounced back, as compared to when I was younger.  Anyway, enough of bellyaching.  I am indebted to my surgeon, who has provided me with a new lease on life.  I was skeptical about him initially, but I was pleasantly surprised by his skill and his kindness, and would gladly, and gratefully, recommend him to anyone who asked.

     I have had to miss class these couple of weeks.  I must admit, I like writing my own absentee notes.  When I return, it will be to my first exam of the semester.  I am not worried, however, as I am prepared, despite not having been in class.  In my previous semester, having taken American Government & Politics, I was constantly remarking about the extraordinary volume of information that we were compelled to absorb.  I have now discovered why.  The professor of my current class, American National Government, who assigned the same text book, has indicated that the former class was to cover the first ten chapters, and that he would cover the remaining eight.  We previously covered seventeen chapters!  No wonder I was feeling overwhelmed!  It didn't stop me from earning an A, however.  Also, the first professor did me a favor, because I am entering the current class with a greater understanding than if he had only covered the requisite ten chapters.  

     Surprisingly, to me at least, I am really enjoying the study of our Government.  Having always ignored government and politics as much as possible, I was always silently critical of it, a common characteristic of the ignorant.  Now however, I have a much greater appreciation for the framing of our government, as well as the mechanics of it.  Brilliant!  Of course there are some bad eggs within our government, but they are in the minority.  Besides, isn't that true of any group, that there are always good and bad within, but that generally the bad are not the majority? 

     While recently watching the opening credits of my favorite show, Downton Abbey, I realized that I recognize most of the actors' and actresses' names and am able to equate them with their corresponding roles.  I can only hope that I am as familiar with the names of our government officials and their titles for the upcoming exam.