Surprise Me

Today I was reminded of a particularly fantastic birthday.  Nine?  No, maybe ten. 

My family set me off on a treasure hunt.  A series of notes led me through the backyard, to a neighbor's porch, our garage, another neighbor's wood pile, behind a compost heap, and finally to my awesome birthday gift...my first 3-speed bike, light blue. 

Thank goodness for cameras.  This group of photos sums up my excitement, happiness, disbelief and joy pretty perfectly.  (Dig the track shorts and knee-highs.)  And now I bet you're thinking about your own favorite birthday memory.  I like how that works. 

  

NYC

I haven't come across the right words yet to write about September 11th.  So I'll just say this...

First Class Fool

On a flight to Madrid, I was somehow lucky enough to score a seat in first class.  I'd never been seated in first class, then or since.  The ticket was purchased with obsessively collected frequent flyer miles, and I hadn't even requested an upgrade, so I have no idea how it happened.  But I wasn't arguing.

Clearly, I didn't belong.  In my black knit pants and bleach stained t-shirt, I strolled to my seat. Before I even had a chance to set down my bag, a woman was offering me champagne. A little startled and unclear whether it was free or what, I just opted for orange juice.  It was freshly squeezed.  These folks have it good.

I arranged my collection of magazines and bottle of Lipton iced tea in the seat pocket ahead of me.  Then I sat down in my enormous leather chair, fidgeted a little more, and finally buckled myself in.  So much leg room!  Only...I could no longer reach my magazines.  Or the cute little toiletries bag they gave me with the mini lotions and lip balm.  They were all up ahead in that distant seat pocket, completely out of reach.  So, click went the seat belt and I began the process all over again.

The woman next to me was friendly and seemed to be a first class regular.  She was well dressed with a cashmere scarf artfully thrown over her shoulder.  Her travel plans included Barcelona and northern Spain.  As we chatted, the flight attendant passed by with the menu and wine list for our perusal.

"Anything look good?" she asked.  "I hope the wine selection is better than it was last time."

Um, yeah.  I have no idea.  From rack of lamb, crab cakes or pasta, I chose the pasta.  Experimenting with lamb and seafood didn't seem like a good idea, even in first class.  They brought us warm loaves of bread with butter in a little dish, no foil packets.  Cloth napkins.  But before that, I had to figure out how to release my tray table, not an easy task.  I tried to look casual as I peeked sideways to see what my neighbor was doing.  Ah, it's hidden in the arm rest!  After some fumbling, I managed to get it together.  For dessert?  Ice cream sundaes with a choice of toppings.  I may not know wines, but I do know sundae toppings.

Time to relax.  I thought I'd just recline in my fancy chair and listen to some music, U2's The Unforgettable Fire, in fact.  Between the two seats was a control panel.  You could tilt your head back, recline, lower the foot rest, adjust the width at your knees - just about anything you could imagine at the touch of a button.  This was going to be comfy.

I push the button to recline.  Nothing happens.  I try to adjust the neck rest.  Nothing happens.  I try again to recline.  No good.  Maybe the foot rest.  Nope.

"That's just great.  My chance to live it up in first class and I have a rotten seat," I thought to myself.  "Oh well, let me try one more time."

Just about then I noticed a little something out of the corner of my eye.  My cheeks instantly blushed.  The movement I had detected was my neighbor's footrest going up and down haphazardly while her seat shifted back and forth.  I had been controlling her seat, not mine.  Oh, jeez.

After I had apologized profusely for what seemed an eternity, she politely said, "Well, that was unusual."

I was stuck in coach for the flight home.

                   



    

If You Meet A Shy Girl

This is kinda sorta maybe the beginning of a children's type book...or something. 


If you meet a shy girl,
you don't need to remind her that she's quiet.
Just say hello.

If you meet a shy girl,
she's probably funny
but she doesn't want to stand up and tell a joke.

If you meet a shy girl,
she could be wondering what you think of her.
A smile can ease her fears.

If you meet a shy girl,
she likely has a story to tell.
If you're patient, she will trust you with her secrets.

If you meet a shy girl,
she may have a fragile heart.
Please be kind.

If you meet a shy girl,
she's tougher than you think
but everyone could use a hug.

If you are a shy girl,
Hello.
I'm glad to meet you.

Oo La La

I love Paris.  I've been there twice, but could probably visit countless times without becoming even remotely bored.  On my second visit, I wanted to experience the city that locals know and love.  Sure, the Eiffel Tower and Louvre are must-sees, but I had seen them both the first time around.  This time I wanted to just wander and watch. 

With no particular destination in mind, I strolled the side streets, passing the inevitable markets displaying row upon row of strawberries and raspberries.  Fraise and Framboise, two French words that I actually know and blurt out with a proud smirk.  (Let it be said that rarely have I passed up an opportunity to purchase fresh berries and eat them straight from the carton.)  I bought a paper at the corner newsstand even though I couldn't read it.  The funny grey-haired gentleman took both my hands in his and said, "Thank you, Miss."  I stood in line with the businessmen and picked out a chocolate croissant from the bakery.  I'd have chosen something less obvious, but I became anxious when I started to hold up the line with my indecision.

Then I happened to find it - a nail salon, tucked away in the middle of the block, small but simple and chic.  That's what I'd do!  I'd get a manicure as if I were just popping by on my lunch break from Galleries Lafayette.  It occurred to me that I could ask for a French manicure, and I chuckled to myself at the dorkiness of it.  Surely only a tourist would make such a request.

Tentatively I stepped inside, hoping they would accommodate a non-French speaker.  Luckily there are only a few options at a nail salon, so after offering up my hands they got the idea.

"Manicure?" the woman asked in English.  Whew.  "How about a French manicure?"

I smiled and nodded.  How sweet of her to humor me.

There were no other customers in the shop, just the two women running the place.  They looked to me to be related, perhaps sisters, but maybe they just shared that lovely grace that French women seem to have.  I was directed to a small table by one of the women while the other straightened up and fluffed pillows in the reception area.  My nails were trimmed, soaked and buffed.  My cuticles were softened in a bowl of warm lotion.  The actual process was no different than any other, except that it seemed much more glamorous because I was in Paris.  Finally came the polish, applied expertly with a deft stroke of white across the tip, the hallmark of a perfect French manicure. 

The women chatted in their native tongue as I sat smiling.  A picture window provided the perfect vantage point for viewing the bustle of the morning.  Across the street, a woman appeared in the doorway of a dress shop.  Her presence immediately grabbed the attention of the two women and they looked up and exchanged knowing glances with one another.  They obviously had an opinion about her.  The shop woman emerged with a large bucket and proceeded down the sidewalk.  Reaching the curb, she poured out the entire bucket of, presumably, water.  It seemed innocent enough to me, but the action prompted gasps from both women, who then set off on a whirlwind of chatter and accusing grimaces.  Clearly she had done something completely unacceptable, and I doubt it had much to do with a bucket of water.  Oo la la, French gossip!

The women continued on, clucking and whispering with hushed urgency.  Every now and again they would nod at me as if to say, "Can you believe that woman?"  I would look back and give them a reassuring nod.  Meanwhile, I hadn't understood a word, but the tone was all that was needed. 

My manicure complete, I stood to leave and expressed appreciation with my best "Merci."  So maybe I didn't speak French, and maybe I wasn't really a local, but I had been privy that day to the neighborhood rivalries and jealousies that are present the world over.  I headed out the door, admiring my nails.  And as I passed by the other woman I gave her a suspicious stare - just for good measure. 

         

Clara and Carol

There was a little granny on our street named Clara Wilson.  A storybook grandma with a bun and a housedress. Petite and somewhat frail looking, but quite the opposite in reality.  She was strong.  She must have been in her late eighties but was light on her feet and full of energy.  Her yard and house were beyond neat and tidy at all times.  At the crack of dawn you would find her outside on the sidewalk sweeping up twigs and the tiniest bits of grass.  Those dang oak trees with their acorns dropping everywhere and the stupid squirrels making a mess of things.  God forbid she find a piece of trash left by some inconsiderate passerby. 

Lilacs grew in the alley behind her house.  Mountains of lilacs, ridiculously beautiful and fragrant for their short season every spring.  My mom and I were welcome to pick as many as we could carry, and we always did.  Then she'd invite us in for coffee and juice in her delicate tea cups.  It couldn't have been cozier. 

My mom idolized Clara and loved her independent spirit.  Of course, they were practically one and the same...my mom had all the same qualities and I'm pretty sure some of them rubbed off on me too.  Although I often wish I'd had the chance to know my mom as an old woman, I feel I got a glimpse of her in Clara.             

Word of the Day

Tarantism

tar·ant·ism Spelled [tar-uhn-tiz-uhm] –noun; 

a mania characterized by an uncontrollable impulse to dance.

Pun Intended

I've always loved Washington Square Park.  In college I spent many afternoons there and met quite a cast of characters.  So when my family came to visit during my senior year, it was one of the spots that I most wanted to share with them. 

My mom, my sister and I were sitting on one of the cement benches that fan out from the center of the park.  Almost immediately we noticed a peculiar man having an animated conversation, seemingly with himself.  He was quite tall and gangly, with a suit of clothes about two sizes too small and too short.  Rather Pee Wee Herman-esque.  But he wasn't there to draw attention to himself, and he wasn't putting on a show for spare change.  He was just going about his business and was extremely involved in this conservation with no one in particular.  We continued to watch his antics for a good twenty minutes, chuckling to ourselves, never taking our eyes off him.

Then a stray branch from one of the trees overhead brushed his shoulder as he spastically moved about.  Suddenly, and with tremendous conviction, he whipped around and shouted at the offending limb...

"LEAF ME ALONE!"

I think we nearly fell on the ground with laughter.  You probably had to be there, as they say, but I think of that day every single time I pass through the park.  And it never fails to make me laugh out loud, just as it did today.

Taking a Dive

Every morning I have to pass through a glass enclosed corridor that connects two buildings in our office complex.  Cobwebs and a variety of little dead bugs lurk in the corners. Upon opening the door, there is a small step - no more than two inches, a minute detail, seemingly insignificant.  I believe it was my third day at a new job when I noticed that step.  Unfortunately, not until I was sprawled out ever so clumsily on the cement floor.  Thud.  Ah, yes, to take a nose dive your first week of work is a joy.

What I really noticed, though, after the initial shock and as I lay face down on the glossy grey concrete, is that this particular corridor smells exactly like the Blue Earth pool.  Whoosh.  Transported in an instant back to 1981 and a nine year old me.  Oh, the pool.  With that unmistakable smell of industrial paint and dampness, Hubba Bubba gum, chlorine and Coppertone.  (Why our office building smells like this, too, I couldn't say.) 

We'd collect a wire basket for our meager belongings and tiptoe into the locker room, the floor of which always seemed a tad slimy.  Pre-swim showers were supposedly required, so we'd poke our head under the freezing water for a split second, just enough to pass inspection in case anyone was checking.  No one ever was.  Under the metal bannister and up the stairs...we had arrived.

There was no cooler job than lifeguard, in my opinion.  Gods and Goddesses sitting there all golden brown and glistening in their elevated chairs, wielding the power of the whistle.  I was somewhat starstruck.

In the summer I essentially lived at the pool, and had a swimsuit collection to match, one for nearly every day of the week.  One started out red, then faded to barely pink after wear and tear.  It was white on top with three narrow stripes across the front.  Another was a jade green halter with some sort of drawstrings at the hip.  Possibly my favorite was a plain bronzy-brown tank.  Keep in mind that I had had an operation to place tubes in my ears in order to cure some chronic ear aches.  This required that I wear ear plugs and a swim cap in the water, leaving an obvious white stripe across my otherwise tanned forehead.  Luckily, that was before I knew enough to be self-conscious.

We would jump around giddily, complete perfect underwater handstands topped off with a gymnast's salute, dive for pennies, play tag, and actually do a little swimming.  During the hourly breaks, we'd reluctantly climb out of the water while the lifeguards took a dip.  There were always a few random adults swimming then, too, and we were never quite sure how they gained that special privilege. 

If we had any extra allowance tucked away under our towels, we'd gather it up and run/hop across the searingly hot tar of 14th Street to the Swim-Inn.  A few coins could buy you Zotz, Tootsie rolls, snow cones or chips.  We'd sit with our still dripping suits around the cedar picnic tables until the heat became unbearable on our burning rumps.  Then we'd scurry back again to the awaiting water.  At closing time, we'd ride our bikes home and get ready to do it all again the next day. 

That's all I really needed back then - a few friends, sun, some candy, and the pool.  I guess the same is still true today.  And if it took a face plant to make me remember that, so be it. 



 

Here's To You

Today I'm starting a blog.  This blog, in fact.  I've been thinking about it for quite some time, but that's as far as it got.  I worried that I would need to have profound insights and wildly entertaining stories.  I wondered what I had to say that hadn't already been said.  And I just plain procrastinated. 

So then I got to thinking about my Mom.  She died from a stroke a few years ago, but everything in my life still circles back around to her.  She was funny.  She was tiny.  She was immensely talented.  She hated her hair.  She was more stylish in her jeans from Goodwill than any supermodel in a Chanel suit.  She could be impatient waiting in lines.  She gave huge hugs.  She always took off her glasses before getting her picture taken.  She let us stay up all night when I had slumber parties and never told us to go to sleep.  She loved gum drops and gummi bears.  She was super nice to all my friends.

And she wanted to hear all about my life.  She read my journal when I traveled through Europe.  She didn't mind when I'd call her at 4 a.m. just so I could tell her something funny that happened that night.  She rooted for my friends to do well.  She anxiously awaited pictures and letters.  She felt the impact of September 11th as if she'd been here herself.  

Now that she's gone, I find myself at a loss sometimes.  I still ache to tell her about every little thing.  So...here's my chance.  I'll imagine that she's reading this along with all of you.  Hope you like it.

Oh, the title of the blog? Well, that's a reference to her too. It's how she'd always answer when I'd call.

"Hi, Mom."
"Hi, Darling."