My Review of the 2015 Academy Awards

At the beginning of last night’s Academy Awards, after a song and dance number I barely glanced at having been traumatized by decades of awful Oscar night musical numbers, Doogie Howser told us that we were about “to fall in love with moving pictures all over again.” 

Speak for yourself, Doogie. I never fell out of love with them. 

A good movie, one that whisks me away from the realities of a full litter box and a mountain of laundry, is precious and always has been. While, occasionally there may be a dry spell of new releases I'm anxious to see, hand me the clicker, sign me up for Amazon Prime and I am on my way. 

The Oscars, however, are less and less about the movies and more and more about the red carpet, gossip and scandal as well as providing a pulpit for an increasingly pompous Hollywood’s political and social agenda. 

Therefore, I intend to focus on these very  aspects today which means this review will be very easy. I am sitting back with a bellini and a copy of "Fifty Shades..." while it writes itself.

At the Oscars, after the host has nattered on for a bit, they hit you with a few big awards so you emotionally commit and don’t start flipping around looking for CSI re-runs. One of the first awards of last night was for best supporting actor... 

Won by the familiarly jowly JK Simmons, whose status in the movies is such that you know his face as well as your husband’s but never knew his name, is an excellent and reliable supporting actor and this was his moment.

"Yep, it's me."

“Oh, look who it is!” people across America murmured but, in his acceptance speech, he made it very clear to the universe and beyond that he must have pissed his wife off very badly sometime before the broadcast.  JK kissed Mrs. JK’s ass to the point of confusing everyone, including her, and then segued into an odd warning about the evils of texting. The Oscars were off to a weird start….

Soon after, the ever lovely Adam Levine, thanks to the tightest pants of the award show season, performed something in so high a voice that only dogs could hear it. He did so while wearing not just one ear piece but two and was soon followed by the normally stunning but shockingly drab Reese Witherspoon who presented an award for hair and make-up both of which she, apparently, chose to decline before taking the stage.

Blah.

Nicole Kidman

Silicone bakeware

Before you could say Tom-Cruise-is-on-the-couch, Nicole Kidman -- virtually aglow in her status of mortuarial porcelain goddess -- proved yet again that she is the finest example of silicone since flexible bakeware.Shirley McLaine followed wearing a wig from the clearance pages of an Eva Gabor catalog circa 1982, poor thing. Even the magnificent Marion Cotillard looked washed out as last night’s make-up theme appeared to celebrate waxy pallor and nude lips.

But, wait—the great and gorgeous Viola Davis showed up wearing all the make-up that the previous presenters had refused while Gwyneth Paltrow proved that it is, indeed, possible to actually walk like a bitch.

"I know. Too much."

One alien greets another.

Did Liev tell you this
looked good, Naomi?

After Jared Leto, in a pale blue tux straight from your cousin Dee Dee’s 1976 wedding in Jersey made me smile and I asked myself why Emma Stone had borrowed a dress from Betty White, a parade of some of the weirdest dresses I have seen since a Blondie Concert followed: Siena Miller in a strangely cut black number, Scarlett Johannson wore the crown jewels of the Klingon empire while Naomi Watts wore a tube top with straps. 

Everyone’s stylist seemed to have gone to the same place for these edgy (and I mean that in a bad way) clothes and were all sharing a good laugh as they cashed their checks at the ATM across the street from the Dolby Theater.

Thank the god of scientology that John Travolta appeared! Wearing someone else’s head and a dog collar, he was creepier than ever as he fondled poor Adele Dazeem above the neck until Kelly Preston threw up on the seat filler next to her.

"If he touches my face one more time, I will knee him in the groin."

One of the evening’s few highlights for me was Lady Gaga and her over the top rendition of some of our favorite songs from “The Sound of Music.” I knew Lady G could sing but she surprised me with her range. She camped it up just enough to trouble us slightly but not offend the 80 year old Julie Andrews who appeared after the performance, all while flashing a trumpet tattoo on her inner upper arm and a hint of wig glue at her hairline.

"I will Birdman your ass, Eddie."

I was happy "Birdman" won for best picture.  I loved it (and its star, the gritty streets of the theater district in New York) but wanted to warn little Eddie Redmayne to watch out for Michael Keaton at the after party. 

Michael who had been vigorously chomping gum throughout the evening, spit it out before the winner for best actor was announced which means he thought he had it sewn up.

All in all, this was one of the worst Oscar nights I, wearing my best jammies and grippy socks, have experienced in years.

I intend to spend the day drinking spiked cocoa until the image of Neil Patrick Harris with nothing but a thin weave of cotton separating what he, apparently, is quite proud of and my eyeballs,fades away. Speaking of balls, some might say that stunt not only showed balls but took balls, too. I say that not even balls could save this boring and meandering broadcast.

Yes, please.

No, thank you.

On the plus side, I enjoyed being reminded of my abiding love for Idris Elba as well as my eternal loathing of Sean Penn who was as surly, poorly groomed and hideous as ever. To my happiness, his attempt at humor – who brings up a green card in Hollywood?? -- fell gloriously flat.

At some point during the show, it was mentioned that each nominee and presenter received a gift bag valued in excess of $160,000. Yes, you read that number correctly. Next year, instead of blathering about your personal plights and beliefs and then basking in the fevered applause of a bejeweled crowd hot for social causes, refuse your bag  and, instead, send its net worth to your cause where it can do some good instead of getting you a rhino spleen facial at Canyon Ranch.

Next year I hope John Travolta hosts.

Let your freak flag fly, Jared.

A Winter's Tale

My birthday was not looking good.

Stranded without a car that could traverse the fresh three inches in the driveway and a sore back that couldn’t shovel it, I had gone to bed the night before in my mid fifties only to wake in my late fifties. The day was gray and quiet.  I could feel the muscles of my face settling in for a lengthy pout.

Sitting at the kitchen table, even my coffee tasted lousy as I disconsolately watched the branches outside bend in a stiff February wind. Suddenly, my nemesis -- the red squirrel named “I’ll Kill You!” -- made a leap out of nowhere, managing to successfully cling to the tray of the squirrel proof feeder that hangs outside the window. Jumping up, I ran over to use my successful squirrel deflecting technique of cranking open the window to tap the feeder and scare him off. Today, however, there were different results.

I’ll Kill You, in his panic, somehow managed to squeeze inside the Lucite feeder.

He quickly realized he’d made a big mistake--after thinking for a second or two, he began hurling himself against the sides of the feeder. This morphed into a pitiful mime’s routine of feeling around inside the clear plastic as if searching for a seam through which to burst. He then tried to push himself though the conical top but soon realized that, since he wasn’t a cartoon character, this was impossible. He proceeded to thrash wildly for a very long time, causing the black oil sunflower seeds to scatter and fly, settling around him as he, in resignation, decided to try and eat his way eat out, perhaps in hope of locating an escape hatch once the feeder was empty.

My nemesis.

This was not the first time I’ll Kill You had squeezed into this feeder but Seth had done some tinkering to prevent him from getting back in which, now, was only preventing him from getting out. The irony of this predicament was lost on little I’ll Kill You as temperatures plummeted. There was no insulation inside the feeder.

I called Seth. Please come home and get I’ll Kill You out of the feeder. Seth responded with a few not-nice-to-say-to-a-person-on-her-birthday-words but promised to do it when he got home later but I knew evening was too late. I considered calling the police or Animal Control but I’ll Kill You had already grown listless.

"Squirrel proof." Really?

I could not allow this gutsy little guy to freeze to death and I certainly wasn’t going to let it happen on my birthday! Not wanting to add a frozen squirrel to my list of regrets, I opened the slider and roared out into the wind, “I WILL SAVE YOU, I’LL KILL YOU!! YOU ARE NOT DYING TODAY!!”

The feeder was beyond my reach so I dragged the old step stool up the stairs, returning to the garage for boots (there was two feet of snow on the deck), my warm coat, a hat, gloves and an assortment of tools whose names and uses I do not know but looked like they might loosen the frozen nut that held the top of the feeder on so tightly.


All the while, despite my determination to save him, I am sputtering curses at I’ll Kill You as I worried about falling, injuring myself and being found later--squirrel and birthday girl frozen motionless on a frigid day. I tucked my cell phone into my bra to call 911 in case I survived long enough to request help.

As I gathered my supplies, I kept checking to see if the squirrel might have escaped on his own but he was now dreamily eating seeds as if he knew this was his final feeder raid. My last trip downstairs was to grab the sledge hammer.  If I could not remove the nut, I was going to put the feeder upside down and bash the outer edge, smashing it to bits and, hopefully, not killing my friend as his prison splintered around him.

As I reached the top of the stairs and looked out--to my  jubilation, I saw that the feeder was empty!  I’ll Kill You had freed himself! It must have been an adrenalin fueled burst of energy because the feeder was now totally askew, its lid forced off at one edge. I sat down, sledgehammer at my side and smiled, joyful that I could remain safely inside and I’ll Kill You and I would meet to fight another day.

From that moment, my birthday changed. I was happy that I had decided to stop at nothing to free a little squirrel who I, apparently, like more than I hate.  Phone calls and flowers followed. It was an excellent birthday.

Riding in Cars with (Baby) Boys

Twenty six years ago tonight, I was standing on the frozen steps of a small apartment building in Brooklyn. The snow-covered streets were empty and my mother stood beside me. Her cotton candy hair blew about in the wind, as we waited for the car service to take us to the hospital.

The evening that preceded the night included a massive bread baking session in my tiny kitchen as a result of the hormonal madness inspired by the fact that the baby I was waiting for was nine days late.

So, I baked.

Kneading bread with my hands, proofing dough and shoveling the loaves into my ancient oven kept me busy. But, in my craziness, I had forgotten to grease the pans and none of the perfectly domed, yeastily aromatic loaves could be freed from their pans. 

I tried running a knife around their golden edges and rapping strategically with a knuckle on the bottom of the pans. Nothing worked. So, totally in character, I flung them, one by one, against the kitchen wall. This did not loosen the bread from the loaf pans but it did cause my water to break. So, off we went.

Seth--a merchant marine at the time--was in Florida, waiting to head out on a cable layer for AT&T. Dispatched just days before and, in a world before cell phones, he had to be tracked down by a marine operator. Due to a miraculously timed postponement of the ship's departure, he was able to fly home and attend the birth of his first son.

Labor was painful. And long. And it worked it's way, fruitlessly, through several shifts of nurses. My doctor, a fabulous Russian, with a mane of hair more magnificent than that of the MGM lion's, stayed through it all, waiting with me...soothing me with corny jokes told in a deep, rumbly, heavily accented voice.

Ultimately a C-section became necessary and I was trundled, delirious, into an antiseptically austere surgical delivery room. Back then husbands were not invited in for anything other than natural births, so Seth and I parted at the door. He was able to see Tommy as he was lifted onto the table and examined. I caught a glimpse of him, too. His mouth was huge and open. I fell in love at first sight.

There were some benefits to the old days. One of them was that, if you had a C-section, you stayed in the hospital for no less than five days. Can you imagine? Tommy and I lived the good life....he was whisked away at night while I slept, visitors brought balloons and stuffed animals....but I did have to say goodbye to Seth whose ship was ready to sail for Okinawa.

My little mother and I were on our own with "the baby." On the day we were to leave, we had to call another car to bring us home. As those familiar with the questionable fleets of privately owned car services in 1980's New York know, some of the cars were pretty icky.

The one that arrived for us was a battered two-door but having just had a section, I was limited physically. The driver stuffed my mother into the back and settled me in the front, holding the baby as I backed my tuchas into the passenger seat. To my surprise, the seat had no springs and I sank down so low that my knees almost touched my chin. Did I mention there were no seat belts?

The driver then handed me the baby and off we went....me holding a baby in my arms, unbelted. And no one thought a thing of it. There were fewer laws, restrictions, penalties....today, I would be arrested for child endangerment.

When we arrived at the house, the super happened to be outside having a cigarette on the front steps. He held the baby while my mother and the driver, each holding one of my hands, pulled me out of the car and set me on my feet.

Then, the driver refused to take a penny. He told us, in beautiful broken English, that it had been his honor to drive us home. I will never forget him. Or anything about that day.

So, twenty-six years have sped by. Raising Tom meant screaming and laughing and shrieking and singing and crying and laughing and ranting and roaring and laughing some more. It meant running through the house to close the windows before a fight so the neighbors wouldn't hear and it meant laughing so hard or singing so loud that the neighbors must have wondered if we were all certifiably insane. Or been damn jealous.

So, Tom, both our lives began on the day you were born. Yours in the literal sense. Mine, in the sense that you fulfilled my destiny. I am so very glad that you are exactly who you are. Happy birthday. Many more. Love, Mom

Stop & Chat

Going to our local supermarket is not just a trip to the store to grab a gallon of milk and a loaf of bread. 

It’s more than even accomplishing a massive shopping after which you struggle through the automatic door balancing your giant pack of paper towels atop a towering cat with one hand while pushing with the other. Oops, watch out for the curb!

A visit to Stop & Shop is a trip to the general store of old where townsfolk exchanged gossip ‘round a cracker barrel topped with a checkerboard, or rocked in an old bentwood chair on the porch while sucking down a sarsparilla. 

Kind of like this....

Our supermarket is the spot to run into friends and enjoy a chat, catch up with neighbors and also the place where, occasionally, what was intended to be an in-and-out grab for a six pack of Diet Coke becomes an hour (or more) as the stars align for you to run into everyone you have ever known since the glorious moment you burst from the womb.

For me, this was the case last Saturday. 

Two feet of snow were predicted.

It was the perfect storm, really: after lunch on a typically busy Saturday when all the weekend shoppers converge from the farthest corners of town. It was also the Saturday before a predicted snowstorm; toss in the toilet-paper-and-bottled-water-crowd and you have congested aisles and long check-out lines.

Add to this the fact that I was feeling needy after days home alone. Seth takes my car whenever there is winter weather build-up on the roads. His truck cannot even make it up our steep driveway which never sees the sun due to tall bushes and subtle angles and will retain a stubborn patch of snow until the Fourth of July. So, I was lonely and primed for seeing a face other than Buzzy’s. I needed to talk to someone who does not use a litter box and has a little gray nose.

Did I hear what I think I heard?

I was not disappointed.  

There were old friends and new, neighbors and conversations that, literally, included a few tears as the travails and challenges of life were analyzed amidst tubs of cookies and seeded breads in paper sleeves in the bakery section. Luckily there was laughter to follow as high emotion morphed into the welcome sense that life can be funny through it all. 

There were acquaintances to nod at and even a few chatty strangers and, in general, my smile muscles got an excellent work-out. In fact, there were people from every phase of my years spent in town and my children’s various stages from school to sports and beyond.

Stop talking, just
stop talking!

Amazingly, this excursion was free of the occasional person you spot from a distance who, I’m sorry to say, you’d rather avoid.  There’s the one who simply won’t shut up (this trip, by the way, that was me. Sorry, Meg.) and does not recognize signs of imminent distress (eyes rolling back into one’s skull, clawing at one’s face and gagging or simply crumpling to the floor in a heap) and keeps on talking. There’s the occasional bore or whiner, the person you offended when your son was in high school, the one who offended you--also when your son was in high school, etc.  

When confronted by this, there are several methods of evasive action. There’s the aisle switch which involves spurts of full-out running as well  as skills of strategy. There’s the busy yourself in the fascinating ingredients of the box of rice pilaf you just happen to holding  and there’s also the lean into the freezer case as far as possible in order to grab that package of curly fries in the way, way back. These tactics are immediately recognized by your opponent because they don’t want to talk to you either.

So does Seth.

I was gone so long that my famous non-worrier of a husband began to hope fear that I had been abducted by aliens and transported back to my home planet but upon realizing that my disappearance would  mean that he will be solely responsible for procuring his own pretzel rods and Budweiser, he’s relieved to hear the rattle of the garage door rising upon my return.

I'll probably pop back in next Saturday. See you there!

                                                               

The Candle

Recently, I received a thoughtful gift from a friend: a candle in the scent of tangerine with a box of tea of the same flavor. Nice, huh?

So, last weekend, on the most dreary of Sundays, when frozen roads had canceled plans and my seasonal descent into an extended nasty stupor was acting up, I decided to light the candle, brew a cup and enjoy a peaceful interlude.

Remembering Seth's hypersensitivity to the presence of an open flame in the house and his nose's ability to discern it, I planned to travel to the distant end of the family room--as far from where he was taking a nap as physically possible.

Seth is unbelievably paranoid about fire safety and I cannot argue. 

We've all seen videos of how quickly a couch can become engulfed in flame as well as heartbreaking footage of loss and destruction but, on this dreary day, I headed downstairs with candle and cup as well as a box of safety matches in the pocket of my hooded sweatshirt.

Seth

Pulling my chair to the window for ventilation purposes, I placed the candle out of reach of the cats yet close enough to douse with my tea if things went wrong.

Happily surveying my tableau of both relaxation and fire safety, I lit the candle--quickly blowing out the match in hopes of diffusing the initial tell-tale whiff of sulphur. Drawing a cozy afghan over my knees, I took a sip of tea and opened my book. Ahhhhhh….

I had read less than one page when I heard movement above me and Seth's voice at the top of the stairs, "Do I smell a match?"

"How would I know what you smell, I'm not you." This was the wrong answer, immediately giving away the fact that he did, indeed, smell a match. I had left him snoring deeply at the other end of the house. What kind of superhuman smelling abilities does this man possess? More importantly, what can I say to keep him up there instead of down here, hell bent on extinguishing both my candle and my Zen moment?

Seth's concern....

....reality.

Suddenly, he's in the room, running over to the candle and staring at it accusingly. 

"Why do you need this candle?" But, before I can answer, the warnings begin: I must carefully watch the cats who, apparently, are potential arsonists…not dare doze off…make sure it’s completely snuffed before I leave the room. 

I remind him that it's a small candle and not a giant and terrifying effigy in the California desert but an open flame is an open flame to Seth. He stomps away after making sure the match I used is not smoldering in the wastebasket.

I

I will burn down your
house....not.

I try to enjoy the cozy scene I've arranged but he is now wide awake and pacing above me, occasionally standing by the stairs to ask when I'm going to be done and blow out the "damn candle." 

After about a half hour, I give up, passing Seth on the stairs as he heads down to make sure I’ve completely put out the flame. He is carrying a fire extinguisher.

Fast forward to early this morning. Seth and I are asleep when suddenly the room is filled with a choking stench that wakes me up in the same manner as might a two by four to the skull. I sit straight up and begin gagging, realizing that Nifi the cat, aka the Mad Pooper, has laid a big one in the litter box in the bathroom right next to the bed.

The Mad Pooper

Nifi produces stinkers of various strength (and size but that is another blog post entirely). This one is particularly lethal which I, with my last gasp of conscious thought, attribute to a little pinch of brisket we gave him as a treat the day before.

Because Seth is peacefully sleeping through this sensory assault and I am terribly mean, I shake him slightly, lean close and ask if he's ever smelled anything more horrifying than what Nifi hath just wrought. "I don't smell anything, he mumbled.

"You don't smell that??!!" I persist. "You smell an itty bitty candle halfway across the universe but you don't smell THAT?"

"Nope,” and back he went to sleep while I risked my own life to get up, scoop and flush.

There is no moral to this story...no victorious or convenient ending for any of its participants-not for Seth who must endure being shaken in the night and commanded to smell very bad things...not for me who cannot enjoy a tangerine candle on a bleak winter's day and certainly not Nifi whose receipt of table scraps will now be restricted as a result of his bowel movements. 

But, then again, no one ever said life was easy.

.....and don't light candles.

A Review of the 2015 Golden Globes

Okay. The Golden Globes. Hmmmm....

I have been dawdling all morning over what is, typically, my first award show review of the new year. 

It's past lunch and I have been flexing my fingers over  the keyboard off and on for two hours. I have taken a break to make a pot of hard boiled eggs,take a Facebook quiz that asked "If you were a waffle iron, what shape would your waffles be?” and search the couch cushions for lost candy. The eggs are cooling on the stove, my waffles would be in the shape of Sylvia Plath with her head in the oven and I found three Rolos in the love seat.

In other words, the Golden Globes were pretty dull.

Sometimes "smart-ass" isn't
always funny.

Especially, I’m sorry to report, Tina and Amy. Two smug little queens of snark, they are usually funny but last night they relied on an easy format of making fun of celebrity and attacking famous faces in the audience, all of whom adopted the same faux "Oh, gee whiz, I will just tolerate this with good humor until it's over" expression when we know they were wet-pants thrilled to be mentioned at all...with the obvious exception of Jennifer Aniston who is thrilled by nothing.

The former Mrs. Brad Pitt is the best preserved, most satin-y skinned, sleekest-without-Spanx and, unfortunately, grimmest and most humorless actress in Hollywood, today.

Her smiles are tight and forced, her guard is always up and it's only a matter of time before Justin Theroux and his eyebrows have had enough. If I am not mistaken, Tina and Amy inferred something about her age so. if they wind up dismembered in a dumpster, we know Rachel Green did it.

Lighten up, Jen.

And speaking of Miss Aniston---very early on in the festivities, she set a high bar not only for self-tanners but also for a phenomenon that is very popular on award shows: some kind of bizarro, glowing, shimmering body cream that women slather on with the hope – I presume – of appearing youthful and dewy. Instead, they gleam like beacons as highlights from their décolletage and reflections from their collar bones bounce directly into the retinas of the viewing public.Historically, the greatest offender in this department, is one Miss Viola Davis who is beautiful on her own and does not need to glow like a lighthouse in the fog.

Viola. highlighted.

This naturally leads to the stark reality of high def TV. To put it mildly, high def is not flattering to everyone. I,myself, would certainly resemble an over cooked Christmas ham but there was enough mottled flesh on my screen last night to scare a pig farmer right out of the barn.

Flawless but, oh, that dress!

The award for "Best in High Def" last night goes to the pretty John Legend and the flawless Keri Washington even if she was wearing a dress borrowed from the set of a Star Wars spin-off.

There were moments of unbearable self-righteous audience behavior as Meryl Streep leaped to her feet to applaud free speech as hard as she possibly could (thanks, Meryl) as well as enjoyable surprises--the irrepressible and ever-sly Prince with his dark glasses and bejeweled walking stick. Colin Firth can do no wrong and Ricky Gervais can do no right. His ever-present tumbler of booze and nutty giggle combined with his determination to shock and offend seemed tired and may finally have been enough to get him un-invited next year.

Sometimes you just have to
tweeze a wee bit.

There were boxes of Godiva open on the tables and the alcohol was flowing so no wonder Gervais was very buzzed. Even typically lady-like Amy Adams was barely coherent as she accepted her award and Salma Hayek was none too pleased with Kevin Hart’s manic behavior. Emily Blunt's eyebrows have gone rogue and Harrison Ford came out looking so much like Tom Brokaw that they are now, officially, interchangeable.

Harrison could share a passport with...

with Tom Brokaw...

                                                             

George Clooney received yet another award for being charming and self-deprecating and despite his gushing over his new bride, based on her carefully studied and arranged fawning gazes, I am pretty sure she's the alpha cat in that marriage. Identical twins separated at birth, George and Amal look so much alike that it speaks to an ego-driven need to marry oneself. Mazel tov.

And, George is now further adored for his choice of wife, especially after his extended bachelorhood. Amal is ethnic, activist and not your typical Hollywood "face." So, congrats, George--you will soon receive another award for that, no doubt. He will put her to good use when he runs for president in ten years. That's right, America---you heard it here first. And he'll win.

Identical Twins.

Lupita should trade glasses with Kevin....

...because these are not
working, for him.

As for Kevin Spacey, he picked the wrong glasses at Costo, Billy Bob Thornton's hair plugs are looking pretty good and Paul Rudd and Adam Levin were the prettiest couple there. Unfortunately, the two leads in the upcoming and highly erotic "Fifty Shades of Grey," there to co-present an award, have the combined sizzle of a forgotten slab of lox in a deli case.

Uh-oh. No sizzle. Just fizzle.

Then there was Gina Rodriguez who plays the title role in a new and highly acclaimed show called "Jane the Virgin" which I had plans to binge watch on the next inclement weekend. When she won and arrived at the podium with her appealing demeanor and open smile, I was eager to hear something fresh and new only to have her look skyward and say "Thank you, God for making me an artist!" Really,Gina? Phooey. No wonder you're a virgin.

Finally at the end, there was redemption---an actually moving acceptance from the wonderful Michael Keaton, a few minutes of genuine dignity and modest gratitude from Julianne Moore (who is moving higher and higher on my list of favorites) and a hilarious speech from the quirky Wes Andersen, the director of my favorite movie of the year (if not ever), "The Grand Budapest Hotel."

But all that aside, the best surprise of the evening came as a result of social media. 

About midway through the telecast just as I was wishing I were watching Shark Tank instead, I flicked open Facebook and happened upon a comment made by a friend whose posts are always smart and enjoyable. Someone then responded, followed by another irreverent remark and then I put my two sense in. Before you could say, "J-Lo, please put those away!" we had a spontaneous online viewing party until the credits rolled. Now that was fun. The show, not so much.

Sing to Me

Recently, Seth and I had the pleasant opportunity to enjoy dinner at a local restaurant where the cuisine is Mexican, the atmosphere is lovely and there are strolling troubadours dressed in mariachi attire who stop by your table to offer a song while you shovel fresh guacamole into your mouth at impolite speeds.

We have visited this establishment many times yet upon every occasion this trio of singers emerges, guitars in hand, we cannot help but panic.

The protocol of being sung to is very indistinct and there is much room for doubt. 

What shall we ask them to sing? More importantly, what shall we do while they're singing? 

Do we make eye contact or look away? Smile slightly, broadly or not at all? Tap our fingers, toes, or shall we sit at silent, inert attention? How much do we tip them? Do we stop eating or continue chewing while they sing?? And, why must they even come over to the table at all? 

After all, we are grumpy people who are not even certain we want to be sung to!

This evening at the restaurant was very busy. We enjoyed an initially peaceful half hour and wondered hopefully whether the singers might have taken the night off. 

Soon enough, however, Seth and I began to shift awkwardly in our chairs as the initial strains of Cielito Lindo drifted towards us. 

Our fellow diners appeared, despite possible inner turmoil, completely unruffled by the fact that three men in black velvet were about to serenade them. 

What’s the matter with us, we wondered as we furtively discussed the risks and rewards of bolting for the door.

 

Years ago, at a party for my birthday, a man I knew – a tenor of debatable ability -- gave me, as his gift, an endless series of songs that he sang directly to me. It took forever and everyone in the room was severely traumatized as we sat, paralyzed, through this one man show. Did my issues stem from this? And what was Seth’s excuse? 

We clutched hands across the table as we heard the singers launch into a rousing version of Happy Birthday as they placed a giant sombrero on the head of a sheepish but smiling gentleman just one table over. They would soon be at our table! Should we run? Hide? Put our napkins over our faces?

Suddenly it was too late. Here they came. Smiles on their lips, guitars poised, the question was asked: "Good evening, is there a song you would like us to play for you?"

I could feel a greasy sheen of sweat form on my brow. My mouth grew dry as the Sonoran desert despite the Margaritas I’d been swilling yet, very unexpectedly, I smiled at their lead singer -- a diminutive but dignified fellow with excellent cheekbones and a long pony tail -- and simply said, "Certainly! Please play us your favorite song!"

Where that came from, I know not but I think we all relaxed at that moment—Seth, visibly so, across the table and even the three troubadours, who must experience some sort of performance anxiety having to visit countless tables on a busy Friday night. 

They conferred briefly among themselves and began to sing a beautiful, haunting song that was sung so sincerely and so poignantly that not only did Seth and I automatically lay down our forks to daub away the refried beans on our chins but it also caught the approving attention of other tables. I think they enjoyed playing it and I know we enjoyed listening.

Hence the moral of my tale as well as a more inspired addition to my yawn-worthy list of annual resolutions (lose a million pounds, check Facebook no more than twice a day and don’t let the laundry accumulate to the point where a fork lift is needed  to transport it to the laundry room). 

From now on, if someone asks if they can sing you a song, just say yes and enjoy it. Don't fret and agonize over insignificant things and enjoy the moment, people...and have a very happy new year with love from “Susan Says…”

Old Aunts

Me and the aunts.

I grew up in a household packed to the rafters with old aunts.

You could find one in nearly every room wearing sensible shoes and smelling like the back of a closet.

They colored their hair so the boss at "the shop” on the Lower East Side wouldn’t install a newer model of themselves at one of the old Singer sewing machines and wore opaque support hose so their legs didn’t get too tired riding home on the subway after a long day.

Old aunts like that are a vanishing breed.

When I was a little girl, despite encroaching infirmity, the pre-occupation of dreams unfulfilled and the bone-deep fatigue  of working well past middle age, these good women took true delight in entertaining me, the only child on premises.

I lived upstairs.

There were no doors sealing off the three apartments in the drafty old house that was my sanctuary.  I had free reign in this paradise and walked in and out of everyone’s space like an imperious princess.  Despite its faded lime and brownstone façade, clanging radiators and the dreaded  “shaft” that connected all three bathrooms so you could hear another elderly relative snoring in the tub, there will never be a house that held me more securely. Nor will there be anyone on this earth who will spoon out the maraschino cherries from their canned fruit cocktail just for me, play endless games of cards and act shocked when they find me during hide and seek.

These old aunts of mine lived downstairs. Spinsters, there were murmurs about the elder having had a doomed love affair with a married doctor. She was tough and snappy while her sister was gentle and meek. 

There was family lore about parties and even dancing to a player piano. Watching these women in their older and older still years made tales of this gaiety almost impossible to imagine but I created flickering images of the old days in my child’s imagination. I still do. There exist sepia photos of them dressed as flappers with fringes and long strings of beads that contradicted their endgame pastime of quietly chatting by the bay window, heads together, seated in matching arm chairs.

There was another old aunt, cared for by the others, who was the softest of them all. Sweet and losing her mind in a most polite way, she -- despite her sisters vigilance -- was occasionally spotted pleasantly chatting with the UPS man wearing her girdle over her dress or making pancakes for the queen.

Sisters. My grandma is second from the right.

There was one more who’d died too young of something that was discussed only in whispers. I never met her but, as the family winnowed down into one remaining female, I found myself wearing her thin platinum wedding band with my own and being encouraged by its presence to think of her almost every day.

The aunts missed that little girl when I stopped being her.

As soon as the arrival of hormones intruded on this nirvana, things changed, including my interest in playing dolls with the aunts. I became little more than a careless wave, ending my tenure as a playmate and partner for Cat’s Cradle--once endlessly enthralled by the string’s magical transformations, I had bigger fish to fry.

The youngest female in the lineage often ends up with the tangible reminder of these women by inheriting, among other artifacts, the wedding rings. I now have them all. A few are too small for my chubby fingers and I have plans to have them sized to fit. When I’m older, I’ll be that old lady in the supermarket with a stack of rings twisting on gnarled fingers as she pays the impatient but polite cashier in coins.

So that’s it, I guess, Few but me now remember the old aunts but they are with all the excellent women who now stand in a line behind me with a hand on my shoulder. Thanks, girls. I miss you.

Why Women are Better Off than Men

After a stressful news day (you know, the usual….ebola, ISIS, random violence, etc.), I felt myself about to snap. 

My various coping techniques were wearing thin so I reached out in the hope of avoiding a freak-out. Seth was busy at work, Tom didn’t pick up the phone (surprise!) and Charlie answered but was in no mood for my meltdown.

Okay, next: A devout and spiritual friend suggested I send a prayer into the ether when things on the news scare me. One advised cute cat videos but I’ve seen them all…twice. Another told me she no longer watches the news or reads the paper. I’ve tried that. I’m good for a few days without Scott Pelly’s piercing baby blues but then I crumble and return to footage of people shouting “Death to America!!” 

Finally, my sister-in-law suggested ice cream---the richer the better. This was the most feasible solution but I had none and, therefore, it involved leaving the house… so I just broke down and sobbed.

My tears came fast and were big like summer raindrops. They ran down my face and dripped off my chin but, soon after the flood began, it was over. Guess what! I felt much better. “A good cry” is truly that. When I was done, my eyes were two red swollen slits and my bib was damp but dammit, if my heart didn’t feel lighter.

This is not new. Women have been aware of this phenomenon since time began. Plus, it’s even been scientifically confirmed that the release of tears is very helpful in that enzymes are flushed out in the mad cavalcade of salt water and emotion and, in just a little bit (still sniffing), you are feeling better.

As for me, a good cry is sometimes the highlight of a weekend. It’s known as venting. And, these days, with the popularity of social media, the proliferation of public television screens and the prevalence of cable news, I am forced to keep up not only with the current state of Bruce Jenner’s disappearing adam's apple but also any new trend in fear and panic.

 I have been venting more often these days.

Seth appears fine with it. He seems to accept my emotional outbursts or is a good enough actor to handle them with, at best,  a shoulder pat or hug or, at worst, will suddenly “need” a part for the snow blower or new tool at Home Depot where he will wander the aisles until he thinks it’s safe to return.

Imagine, however, if I walked in on Seth sitting at the kitchen table, head in hands, sobbing into a dish towel. I might possibly die. I would assume the absolute worst of the worst and immediately seize up like white chocolate in the microwave. That is---I would be ruined.

My husband and, doubtless, many other men are well aware of this.

We women insist we appreciate an emotional man. We make a big deal about how a true man should not be hesitant to cry, how we want our men to be in touch with their emotions, to let it all hang out. On an intellectual level, we totally mean this. But, if this actually were the case, no matter what we think and say – life would be chaos. If Seth vented and sobbed on a regular basis, I would not handle it well at all.

And this is why women are better off than men. We can be as emotional as we want, mostly, with impunity. Sometimes it even becomes something that the men in our lives speak of fondly as we sob openly during the ending of Field of Dreams ”Oh, look at Mom….crying again!” This will be followed by someone’s husband or son lumbering over to offer a good-humored hug.

But, for all you men who are just as stressed out by the world, worried about the future and tender-hearted enough to inwardly break to bits when Ray Kinsella’s father wanders out of the cornfield and onto the field with Shoeless Joe, thanks for keeping it together so we can purge our own evil stress-enzymes via a good cry as we cope with the uncharted terrors of today.

I, for one, appreciate your self control.

Okay. Better now.