Anything Fits a Naked Man

"We Didn't Know..."

2011-08-28T18:26:00.007-04:00

Shortly after moving to our new home here in Nashville, TN, Alan and I were thrilled to find our new church home. The only problem was that the existing pastor was leaving, and the new one wasn't set to arrive for several months. So, the church elders called on a former retired pastor, who graciously accepted the offer to serve in the interim. He (let's call him Pastor Jim) was a old man with glasses, a kind face, and thick Southern drawl.

The congregation seemed thrilled to have Pastor Jim and welcomed him back with open arms and happy hearts. When he walked up to the podium to deliver his first sermon, he paused, looked over at the high school choir, and smiled as he remarked that he was pretty sure he had baptized just about every one of them when they were infants. Then he began his message.

That was over three months ago. We now have our new leader and the interim pastor has gone happily back into retirement. But I must admit the words he spoke that first day have stuck with me ever since. I can't get them out of my head. I'd really love to get your opinion about them. Here's a gist of what his sermon entailed:

The topic was about two forms of sin. One is the most obvious, when we KNOW what we're about to do is wrong, yet we do it anyway. Like the shoplifter who grabs merchandise off the shelves and puts it in his pocket. He KNOWS stealing is wrong and a sin (Thou shalt not steal), but he does it anyway.

The other form of sin, the pastor explained, was the kind when we commit an act, but we're unaware we are doing wrong. Jim chose this example to prove his point: He said he remembered being a young boy in high school back in the 50's, and how much he and his buddies loved going down to the local drugstore to drink root beer floats and chocolate milkshakes. He said there was a sign over the counter that read "Whites Only." A little further down was the "Colored Section." Pastor Jim pointed out that this was a sin. But "We just didn't know."

Really? You didn't know? You didn't know that it was wrong to treat another human being this way? I tell you, I can't get those words out of my brain. "We just didn't know." Wow.

I'm trying very hard, I promise you, not to be judgmental on this. (That would also be a sin, by the way!). I grew up in the suburbs of Ohio, where all of my classmates were white and middle class. We had one Jewish boy, I remember, and we pretty much accepted him, except at Christmastime when we mercilessly grilled him about his Hannukkah traditions ("Seriously? Santa doesn't visit your house? REALLY? How do you cope?"). I have no idea what it was like to deal with bussing or racial unrest in my community. But I will say that I was raised to treat everyone, EVERYONE, with kindness and respect.

I volunteer with my new best friend, Michelle, at a local charity that provides books for underprivileged children. Michelle is the volunteer coordinator. One day a week we are joined by another volunteer, a 60 year old woman we'll call Roberta. Roberta is a fast, hard worker. Roberta is also a blatant racist. Her views come out loud and clear in the conversations we have while processing books, and I must tell you many of her comments have left both Michelle and I speechless.

At the end of a rather strenuous day recently, the three of us were walking back to our cars when Roberta asked Michelle and I, "Have either of you seen 'The Help?'" She was referring to the movie just released starring Emma Stone, Viola Davis, and Octavia Spencer involving black maids in the early sixties in the town of Jackson, Mississippi. The women basically cooked, cleaned, and raised Southern white children. In turn, they were treated as second class citizens. Emma Stone's character, a young journalist, convinces the black women to tell their side of the story, for an article she is writing for Harper's Bazaar. The stories are an immediate hit and are made into book form, much to the dismay of all of the white women in Jackson.

When Michelle and I informed Roberta that we had not, in fact, seen the movie, she rolled her eyes and said she didn't plan on seeing it at all. When we asked her why not, she waved her hand dismissively and stated, "It's characterized bullshit. That's just how we treated black people back then. We didn't know it was wrong. Nobody did."

There was that phrase again. "We didn't know..." So today, my friend Michelle and I went to see "The Help." It was a terrific movie with Oscar-worthy performances delivered by several of the actresses. But I must tell you, my friends, I'm still so appalled that we treated each other this way. This wasn't one hundred years ago, this was less than fifty. And Roberta is proof that this way of thinking still exists.

Michelle and I stood outside the theater after the movie ended, still contemplating it's message. Michelle's story is different from mine, in that she was raised in the Deep South, in New Orleans, LA. She told me she distinctly remembers her mother escorting her to her first day of elementary school when desegregation was initially enforced. The teacher approached her mother and cried in a hushed tone, "Good Lord, I've got four of THEM in my classroom!"

Michelle's mother was also strongly opposed to her serving as a bridesmaid in her black friend's wedding. There were ten bridesmaids, Michelle was the only white one. When she asked her mother why she disapproved, her only reply was, "It's just not done, that's all."

Michelle, being the smart, awesome, headstrong lady that she is, told me that she was raised with all the prejudice and bigotry as everyone else at the time. But she KNEW it was wrong, and she chose to reject it. This is just one of the many reasons why Michelle completely rocks.

"The Help" displayed a variety of women, each of them choosing a different way of dealing with the issue. Some, like Emma Stone's character, knew it was unjust and tried to do something about it. Others, like her mother, portrayed by Allison Janney, also knew it was wrong, but lacked the courage to do anything. It was easier for her to go along with what the others thought than to take a stand. Then there were the others, those that "Didn't know..."

So, I really want to know your opinion on this. How were you raised? Did your beliefs change or stay the same once you matured? Do you believe those that say, "We didn't know?" Thank you in advance for your comment, I can't wait to read your view!! Also,

Thanks for Reading!!

The Breakfast Club

2011-07-25T16:17:00.006-04:00

Well, did you miss me? Sorry I've been a little lax with the posts recently, but I have a REALLY good excuse. I was preparing for, then actually taking part in our yearly pilgrimage to Key West! Oh, how I love the Conch Republic! Alan and I have vacationed there just about every July for the last ten years. The place kinda gets under you skin, you know?

I've written about the Keys more than once in this blog, often mentioning my attraction to it's quirky, eclectic people, it's rich, storied history, it's free-roaming chickens and roosters, and it's nightly magical sunsets that would make even the most stringent atheist believe in God. I can't seem to get enough of it. This year's visit was no exception, and we've returned sun-kissed and key lime pie-filled!

But I must tell you, the last few years my Key West euphoria has been mixed with a little melancholy. The cute little motel in which we used to stay (cheap rates, small rooms, but a GREAT pool!) was purchased a few years back by the monstrous, big-name hotel next door. They immediately flattened the structure and added on to their own behemoth building. And just like that, another tiny part of Key West's charm was swallowed up.

But it's not necessarily the the little motel that I miss. It's the mornings Alan and I spent enjoying breakfast on the patio of their sweet diner, located in front of the building. It wasn't anything special, just your basic eggs and bacon kind of joint. But sitting on that patio in the early morning, when the temperature was still tolerable and the bougainvillea was just beginning to sparkle under the morning sun, was priceless. We'd watch the Key West citizens riding by on their bikes on their way to work, off to spend another day selling sea shells and straw hats to tourists.

But even the eggs and the view weren't my favorite part of our mornings on that patio. It was the opportunity to watch them. They were a sweet older retired couple, possibly in their late sixties, who ate breakfast together on that patio every morning. They always sat at the same table, which was permanently saved for them with a sign that read, "Reserved for The Breakfast Club."

The two never had to place their order, because they ate the same thing every morning. As soon as they sat down, the waiter would bring their steaming plates to the table with a "Good Morning!" They'd turn and smile at him, return his greeting, and then ask him about how things were going at his second job. They'd have a brief conversation, then the waiter would drop the check on the table, give both their shoulders a squeeze, then leave with a "See you tomorrow morning!"

I don't know what it was about that couple that made me want to stare. I think it was just the loveliness about them. They would sit so contentedly with one another, two old souls that had shared a lifetime, and now didn't need to speak with words. They'd eat quietly, holding hands, occasionally looking up to wave at familiar faces passing by. When they did speak to each other, it was always done quietly, but with such loving looks on their faces. They always greeted Alan and I as we arrived on the patio, and even offered some suggestions for good places to eat and visit while we were on the island.

I found myself wanting to get up early every day of our vacation so I could be on that patio when The Breakfast Club would arrive. I liked being near them, and imagining that someday Alan and I could still be that much in love.

I think about that couple every time we're back in Key West. I wonder if they've found a new place to resume their Breakfast Club routine, and if they still sit and hold hands and smile at one another as sweetly as they did back then. Oh, I hope so!

By the way, did I mention that this couple was two gay men? Yes, this sweet, devoted senior couple enjoying their golden years in the company of their one true love was not a man and a woman. This sweet, devoted, loving couple was two men. See the difference?

Yeah, me neither...

Thanks for Reading!!

Joan Does Kindle

2011-06-20T17:32:00.000-04:00

"ALAAAAAN!!!"

This is what you will frequently hear if you are a fly on the wall in my home while I am sitting in front of my computer and it won't do what I'm telling it to do. Rest assured, I have never, ever been accused of being a techno-wizard. I fall more under the category of "Special" when it comes to all things computer, video, digital, and the like.

Fortunately for me, I am married to a computer genius. Alan is able to fix just about any computer problem in a matter of seconds, and he can navigate his way around one with expert precision. So, whenever I am sitting at my laptop and begin experiencing problems, you can hear the above, screechy call to my husband, imploring him to come save me from my technologically-challenged self. He usually arrives and fixes the problem within seconds. I thank him profusely, he sighs, pats me on my head and heads back to his office.

So, imagine my reaction when Alan recently suggested that I try out a Kindle. Kindles are e-books, sold by Amazon, that allow you to instantly download dozens of books, newspapers, or magazines in a matter of minutes. Since I am an avid reader, Alan thought it was something I could use. I think I replied with something like "Oh, hell no."

I resisted, mostly because I'm one of those crotchety old people who talk about how much they love to "turn the page" rather than hit the "next" button. But I also feared the technology of the thing. It looked dangerous, quite frankly.

But when I saw one in the store recently and was able to hold it in my hands, I have to admit I really liked the lightness of it, as well as the cute, decorative covers that actually made it FEEL like I was reading a book. Hesitantly, I told Alan I was onboard.

When my Kindle arrived in the mail, I quickly handed it to my smart, computer savvy husband. He dutifully accepted it (I think he likes to play with these kind of new toys, anyway!), and immediately began the process of getting me registered and ready to go.

He gave it back just a few minutes later telling me, "You're all set!" and showed me how to access the online bookstore to make my selection. The store was set up in Alan's Amazon.com account, but he told me we could switch that later.

Since I'm pretty caught-up on all my favorite authors, I decided to do a massive search. This time of year, less than a month before our Key West vacation, I love to listen to Jimmy Buffet and read "beach books" to get me in the mood for our trip. So, I did a quick "Key West fiction" search. Within seconds, hundreds of titles emerged. I clicked on the first one, which was labeled, "Key West." Hmm. Sounds perfect. The screen was too small to make out the actual cover, so I clicked on what I thought was "description." Apparently, I had inadvertently hit "reviews." Rather than scream for my husband again, I decided to just read those instead. They said things like, "Four stars!" "LOVED the surprise ending!" and "I now want to read EVERYTHING by this author!"

Well, that was good enough for me. I hit "download" and within less than a minute, my book "arrived" on my screen! Hooray for modern times!

I read the first sentence (LITERALLY, the FIRST sentence) and performed an audible gasp. Then I decided to go back and check the "description" like I should have done in the first place. That's when it hit me. I had just downloaded my first book, on my brand new Kindle. And it was erotic fiction.

But, you know, being somewhat of an author myself, I felt it was only fair that I read a fellow writer's work. I mean, I'd want HER to do the same if she accidentally downloaded something from my blog. It's the courteous thing to do, people! Besides, I'm a sucker for a "surprise ending!"

So I read it. It was really, really "interesting." But I must admit, the ending WAS surprising. I did NOT see that coming!

Here's the fun clincher to this pathetic tale: You know how Amazon, once you've purchased a particular book, will then send follow-up, "If you liked THAT book, we recommend THESE titles as well" emails? Yeah. Alan's been getting LOTS of "suggestions" for potential reading material on his Amazon account! Because he is awesome and (thankfully) has a great sense of humor, instead of being angry with me, he just reads me the titles of the suggested books. We've had a GREAT time pouring over THOSE!

So, in conclusion, I must tell you that this technologically challenged old biddy really DOES approve of her new Kindle. Since that original debacle, I have actually learned how to effectively search for (and read the descriptions of) more appropriate reading material. I am really enjoying it.

Although I'll never look at Key West the same way again...

Thanks for Reading!!

God Does William Wallace

2011-06-12T21:10:00.004-04:00

I've never been a fan of Mel Gibson's, even before his drunken, anti-semitic, womanizing rants. But I admit I do love the movie Braveheart, Mel's movie based on the life of Scotsman William Wallace.

One of my favorite scenes from the movie is the first battle in which William and his fellow countrymen must fight the invading British army. The Scots are outnumbered, out-weaponed, and don't appear to stand a chance. But they show up, paint their faces, and after a rousing speech about freedom and country from Wallace, the battle begins.

The British fire arrows, then start an all-out charge, driving directly at the standing Scottish line. Wallace raises his arm in the air and, as the line stands perfectly still, shouts, "HOLD!" The British continue to advance, Wallace again repeats, "HOLD!" The Scotsmen shift their weight nervously and tighten their grip on their shields. A few of them steal a sideways glance at their leader with worried eyes that say, "Really? Are you SURE?" Once more Wallace shouts, "HOLD!"

When it appears that the British are literally on top of them, Wallace yells, "NOW!" and the Scotsmen stoop down, drop their shields, and pick up long, sharp, crudely-made spears. The British, too close to stop or retreat, are immediately impaled.

Here's a quick look at the scene:

Intense stuff, huh?

I've been thinking a lot about William Wallace lately, and how God's been showing me His impression of the Scottish Warrior these days. God's been telling me to "HOLD!" quite a bit. Let me explain:

Our home in Pennsylvania has been on the market for a full year now. We actually thought we had a buyer very recently. We agreed on a price, but they backed-out at the last minute. So, we're back to square one. In the meantime, we're renting a home in Tennessee, waiting for the house to sell so we can buy something here. I am aching to be settled into our own home, painting walls, hanging curtains, and working in the garden. Instead, God tells me, "HOLD!"

There's also the issue of my "book." Last September, after Dad's funeral, I decided to gather the stories from my blog and compile them into book form, dedicating it to his memory. I sent the completed manuscript to the independent publisher in October. She told me I'd have it by mid January. I still don't. Over the past eight (EIGHT!) months, when I email to inquire about the book's progress, she replies with a string of excuses about her busy schedule and health issues. Once again, I'm told, "HOLD!"

Then there's the ever-present, foreboding, lymphoma. In April, I learned my tumors have grown. In November, I will be re-scanned to determine whether or not it's time to begin chemotherapy. In the meantime, I try very hard not to think about November. I down my daily doses of Curcumin (the latest herb that's supposed to shrink lymphoma tumors) and try not to finger the palpable lumps in my neck. Beside that, there's really nothing else I can do until November. Except, of course, to "HOLD!"

I've never been good at waiting. Like Wallace's warriors, I stand in place, nervously weight-shifting, grasping my gardening tools, asking "Really? Not YET?" But like those Scottish soldiers, I know I must trust my Leader. His timing is perfect, even if it seems excruciating to me.

So, excuse me as I sigh, paint my face, throw on a kilt, and grab a spear. I've got more holding to do...

Angels Watching Over Me

2011-06-07T17:18:00.008-04:00

One of the neat perks of being a ghost tour guide is hearing my guests tell me their own chilling stories. Just about every night, someone will approach me as we're walking from one site to the next and say something like, "You know, I live in a haunted house!" or "I had a ghost visit me in my room when I was a kid!"

Whenever this happens, I give my guest my full attention and insist they tell me EVERY detail. Truth is, I'm a sucker for a great ghostly tale!

But a few nights ago, one of my tour goers unveiled a story of a different kind. She was a quiet, older woman, there with her two girlfriends enjoying a "Girl's Night Out." Her companions did most of the talking and answering of the trivia questions I asked (Yes, we play a trivia game on the tour, and the winner receives a Haunted Tavern Tour shot glass! WHY haven't you been here yet?). But since I want to make sure ALL of my guests are having a good time, I sat down next to her at one of our stops and struck up a conversation.

She didn't come out with it right away, but in the process of talking, she revealed to me that she had a certain "gift." Like Haley Joel Osment in Sixth Sense, she can see dead people! She said the streets of Nashville are filled with tired, sad ghosts of former confederate soldiers and lost cowboys. She told me that she did her best not to make eye contact with them, because as soon as they noticed that she could see them, they would follow her.

I wasn't sure I believed her, but I told her to keep an eye out and let me know if she saw any of the spirits I mentioned on the tour. She promised she would. At the end of the evening, I approached her once more and asked her if she "got" anything along the way. She said she saw a few spirits relating to what I was talking about.

But then she pointed to a building across the street. "There's a LOT going on inside THERE!" she said. I had heard that the structure to which she was referring had some "stories of haunting" attached to it, but my company is still researching and verifying the accounts, so it's not yet part of the tour. She had no way of knowing this. My doubt in her ability was beginning to fade. It was a good thing, too, because I was more prepared to hear what she had to say next: "You have two male guardian angels attached to you."

Two!! That's right, TWO!! Sadly, my first thought was, "I wonder if they look like this guy">>>>>

Unfortunately, the tour was wrapping up and I wasn't able to question her any further. She smiled as she took my hand, thanked me, and wished me luck. Then she was gone. And there I stood, on 3rd Avenue in downtown Nashville, wondering.

Wondering why God decided I needed TWO guardians, first of all. I mean, it's not like I do a lot of sky-diving or bungie-jumping these days. A great deal of my time is spent reading and napping!

Which brings me to another issue I stood pondering: Aren't my angels BORED? Also, do they see me when I come out of the shower? Oh, these poor, poor celestial beings!! They must complain about their job on a daily basis, begging to be reassigned!

But on the drive home, I recalled a book I read several years ago. It was kind of a Christian science fiction story which revolved around guardian angels fighting for the human beings on earth. They were constantly battling with the demons that encircled the humans to which they were assigned. The demons' names were things like, "Self-Doubt," "Greed," and "Shame."

The evil beings would buzz around the ears of the earthlings, whispering condescending words that the humans immediately believed about themselves. They'd slouch over, burdened by the weight of it. The angels would swarm in and engage in battle with the demons, warning them to keep away from God's precious creatures. It was some powerful stuff! It occurred to me that if this was the case, then I was DEFINITELY in need of two of these guys.

So, with that in mind, I'd like to take a moment to speak to my angels, since we're now aware of each other:

Dear Guardian Angels:

Hi fellas! I'd just like to start off by thanking you for, so far, a job well done! I've managed to live 47 full years without a whole lot of tragedy or drama, and for that I'm truly grateful! Also, thanks for having my back each night after my tours as I walk back to my parked car in downtown Nashville. I've always felt some kind of protection on those nights, now I know the source! You guys ROCK!!

I imagine the "fighting off my demons" thing can be pretty tiresome for you both. As we all know, I've got plenty of them buzzing around to keep you busy. Lately, Anxiety and Body Image have been running pretty rampant, so I'd really appreciate if you could just stick a large, sharp saber right through both of their hearts. That'd be just terrific. Also, quick question: Is there, by any chance, a guy named "Keep Her Metabolism As Slow As Possible" encircling me? If so, could you please see that he dies an intensely painful, slow, torturous death? Thanks!

Here's my last question and then I'll let you get back to work: Did God send you here to fight my lymphoma? Boy, would that be awesome. I've been trying so hard out here on my own, and there's a chance I may be losing this current battle. I could sure use a couple of celestial warriors on my side, because I'm feeling a little weary these days.

Lastly, thanks for believing that I'm special enough to protect. That may be worth more to me than the actual protection itself. Another demon bites the dust...

Thanks for Reading!

For the Fallen

2011-05-30T05:00:00.010-04:00

These past few days, I've noticed many of my Facebook friends posting things like this: "Have a great weekend, everybody! Remember to honor the veterans!"

I am an enormous supporter of those veterans who have served our country with bravery and pride. I'm actually married to one of them. But even my husband will tell you that this day is NOT about him, nor any of the military men and women who are living today.

Today is Memorial Day. It's the day we remember those who died while serving in wartime (hence, the "memorial" part). Memorial Day was originally known as "Decoration Day" and was created shortly after the Civil War to honor those who lost their lives during that conflict. Following World War I, it was extended to include ALL fallen soldiers from all of our wars.

My earliest memories of Memorial Day involve the parade that was held each year in my hometown of Northfield, Ohio. I marched in it with my Girl Scout troupe, then my softball team, and later, with the high school marching band. The parade would always conclude at the town cemetery, where a short ceremony would be held, then the playing of "Taps" by two high school trumpet players. One of them would stand near the speaker and play the first few notes, the other would be placed further back in the cemetery, hidden from view. He'd echo the notes just played by the first trumpeter. Even when I was small and couldn't quite grasp the brevity of this ceremony, the sound of those mournful trumpets made a permanent impression on my young heart.

Today, I'm old enough to understand the enormous sacrifice that these soldiers, sailors, marines, airmen and their families have made for my freedom. So, on this day especially, I'd like say "thank you." I won't forget what you did, nor will I ever take for granted the liberty that you defended with your life.

Here's a video that I believe did a pretty decent job of explaining what today's about. Hope you like it, and that you have a very Happy Memorial Day!

No More Kings

2011-05-27T10:29:00.004-04:00

Since I am a proud member of both The Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel Fan Clubs, my knowledge of any music written after 1985 is pretty weak.

So imagine my surprise a few months back when I was introduced to this song by the wonderfully confident and talented Sara Bareilles. I love this girl. I'm using the word LOVE here.

Having spent a great deal of my life in the realm of show biz, I know a little something about people telling me what I had to look like, sound like, or most importantly, WEIGH, if I wanted to become a legitimate success. I walked around feeling enormously inadequate for the majority of my performing life, because I failed to live up to what these "experts" were telling me I needed to be.

Somehow, this lovely, confident young lady has found the nerve to do something I never could. She's declared "Enough!" This song announces her refusal to listen to those who think she is somehow deficient. Instead, she's going to take the wheel. It's awesome, my friends!

So, if you're feeling your confidence slipping a little today, or you've ever experienced someone spewing hurtful words your way under the banner of "helpful advice," I want you to listen to what Sara has to tell you in this video. Don't let anybody be the king of you. You ROCK!!

I can't stop watching it! It makes me feel more confident with each chorus! Hope it does the same for you! Enjoy!

Here's a Tip...

2011-05-24T14:14:00.008-04:00

The summer after I graduated from college, I moved back to my hometown for a few months to plan my upcoming wedding. I got a job as a waitress at the local restaurant, not only to earn some much-needed cash, but to gain some experience as a server. I knew that once I headed to NYC after the wedding, I'd probably do my share of waiting tables as I pursued my career in theater.

Boy, did I suck at being a server. No, really, I mean it. I was terrible. I am a horrible multi-tasker, so I'd run literal laps around the restaurant as I tried to remember to bring each requested item to each separate table. If the host sat guests at more than three of my tables at a time, I'd usually panic, hyperventilate, and/or cry.

When I finally DID move to NYC that Fall, I humbly admitted my server-challenged abilities, and decided to go the temporary secretary route instead. The restaurant world breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Some good did come of my short-lived waitressing experience, however. I have an enormous respect for those who do this job well, and I tip generously. Actually, I've always been a pretty big tipper (if I do say so myself!), even when the service is sub-par. I may leave a little less, but I know what it's like to hold a job where your salary is low because your employer knows your pay will be supplemented by gratuities.

When I receive service that is poor, I try to understand that maybe the waitress (or hairdresser or nail tech) is just having a bad day, and I still leave something. Maybe the customer before me was abusive and surly, or maybe she's just exhausted because this is her second job and she was up all night with a crying baby who refused to be consoled. Or maybe he's a college student who forgot to put a lemon in my Diet Coke like I requested because he's distracted by the fact that he has a really important final tomorrow.

Anyway, imagine my surprise when at 47 years old, I am once again working for tips! That's right, in my current position as a ghost tour guide, my paycheck is pretty meager, because my employer knows I will receive tips each night. There is even a portion at the beginning of the script I recite each evening which refers to this. That's where I remind my guests that "gratuities would be greatly appreciated" at the end of the evening.

Because of this, I work very hard at making my tours special for each of my guests. I memorized, word for word, ten (TEN!) pages of an intricate script, involving dates and historical facts. I try to add my personal flair to the stories (without changing the facts) so that they are sure to be entertaining. I take my guests to the best places to capture "orbs" with their cameras, and I wildly "ooh" and "ahh" when said orbs actually appear on their digital screens. As we walk from location to location, I ask them about where they're from and what they do for a living. I listen with wide eyes and gasps of fright as they tell me about their ghostly encounters experienced in their own homes and places of business.

A few nights ago, I had a effervescent woman on my tour who gasped and showed me her "goose bumps" after each story I presented. When we arrived at the last location, she asked me to go slow because she was so sorry the tour was coming to an end. As I finished, she shook my hand, thanked me for a wonderful time, and left. Without leaving me a tip.

This happens time and time again, actually. People smile and laugh through the majority of the evening, tell me they had a delightful time, and then refuse to tip me. They watch as others press some folded bills into my hand, watch as I tell them how much I appreciate it, then turn and walk away without giving me a second thought. Now, I must tell you, I'm not a single mother who desperately needs this cash to put food on the table. My income is just a supplement to what my husband makes. But still, it stings.

My husband has worked in every capacity of the restaurant business for the majority of his adult life. He told me that this is just how it is when you're working for tips. He told me that it often happened when he used to tend bar, putting himself through college. He said he'd take special care of his customers. He'd prepare the drinks just the way they liked, engage in witty conversation, and provide excellent, prompt service. Then, they'd get up and head for the exit, leaving no tip at all. He told me he learned not to take it personally, and that I shouldn't either. But I do.

So, what's your theory regarding gratuities? Are you a generous tipper? Have you ever worked in the service industry? If so, how did you get past the sting of being "stiffed?" I'd really love to hear it.

In the meantime, I hope that the next time you leave the table, the salon chair, the pedicure foot bath, or the wonderfully informative, tremendously entertaining ghost tour, you'll think about us poor folk who tried to go the extra mile for you, to make your experience special. And I hope you'll show your appreciation with a little monetary token of thanks! Also,

Thanks for Reading!!

Look, Ma! I'm Versatile!!

2011-05-10T05:00:00.015-04:00

My good friend, Shady Del Knight over at Shady Dell Music and Memories has bestowed me with this lovely Versatile Blogger Award!! Isn't it pretty? I've ranted about Shady in a previous post, but if you still haven't been over to his terrific site and checked out his wonderfully eclectic mix of music and memories, you MUST do so immediately!! He's also an incredibly supportive commenter to THIS blog, and for that I am intensely grateful!

The rules upon receiving this award are to first give credit to my presenter, then divulge seven personal things about myself. Like Shady said in his own blog, I feel I've gone on about myself here ad nauseum, and there really isn't a whole lot more to reveal. Plus, let's face it, I'm just not that interesting!!

So, I've decided to borrow a page from Shady's book (or, in this case, blog!) and discuss seven DIFFERENT things. Shady, true to his blog theme, actually revealed seven bands that "rocked his world" when he was in college. Fun stuff! Since I already had a blog topic rattling around in the old noggin, I thought I'd incorporate it into my OWN Top Seven List. But first, allow me to explain:

As you may have read in my recent posts, life's been a bit challenging lately. There's been a whole lot of negative news that Alan and I have been attempting to rise above (thank goodness we have each other, otherwise I don't know WHAT we'd do!). We were doing pretty well there for awhile, but lately we've been getting weary, and it's been hard to remain positive. Trust me, it can be terribly exhausting looking for the bright side when there's so much gloom everywhere you look. I have NO idea how Pollyanna managed it.

So, I was thinking I'd try another tactic. I'm going to list seven of the pettiest, most ridiculous pet peeves that drive me crazy. If we focus on the stupid small stuff for just a while, maybe we can forget about the big problems hanging over our heads. Are you with me? Let's do this!! Here goes:

Seven Stupid Pet Peeves:

1. People Who Don't Use Their Blinkers. Seriously! This has to be the LAZIEST form of inconsideration! Really? You can't gather the effort to flick your finger and move the blinker switch on your steering wheel so I know you're changing lanes? REALLY?

2. People Who Don't Say "Thank You" When I Hold the Door for Them. It was raining, I got to the door, but saw you just a few yards behind me running to the entrance. So I waited and held the door. Silently, you walked through. REALLY? By the way, YOU'RE WELCOME!!

3. People Who Are Intolerant. Wait, this one's not petty at all. I really, really hate this. But it's too important to remove, so I'm leaving it!

4. People on Facebook Using Poor Grammar and Spelling. If I read one more sentence like this: "Your right, we had a gr8 time to, I'll send pitures ASAP," heads are going to start rolling!

5. People Who Read My Name on a Form and Still Call Me "Joann." (Medical receptionists, I'm looking at YOU!) Joann is a lovely name. It's just not mine. My name's JOAN. See the difference? You might as well call me Mary or Wanda. These are also beautiful names, also not MINE!!

6. The Fact That I Can't Buy a Bottle of Wine at the Grocery Store in Tennessee. Seriously, it's the law. I have to schlep to a liquor store because apparently our state legislators think this is somehow protecting me, or causing me to drink less. Poor, clueless souls.

7. People Who Tell Me to Bury A Statue of St. Joseph in My Yard When I Mention That My Home Isn't Selling. Seriously. St. Joe's been in the ground at that house since last May. I even dug him up and moved him to a different location when a certain site suggested it. It's not working (I, personally, am beginning to believe the guy just really hates Pennsylvania). So, basically, if you mention it to me again (telling me how GREAT it worked for YOU), I will cut you.

WOW!! I don't know about you, but I feel TERRIFIC!! Now it's your turn! Tell me what stupid, petty thing really irks YOU! I can't wait to grumble with you!

And thanks again, Shady, for the lovely award and acknowledgement. I can't tell you how much it means to me! And finally, as always,

Thanks for Reading!!

Thanks, Mom!

2011-05-07T23:40:00.005-04:00

I've written a great deal here about my Dad. In fact, this blog was titled after a phrase Dad often uttered, and I've discussed his idiosyncrasies and work ethic in more than one post.

And yet, one person has remained in the background, content to stay in the shadows. That's my Mom, Saundra Lee Simmons Donnelly. I thought I'd remedy that today in order to honor her this Mother's Day.

This is a picture of her before she married a paranoid, quick-tempered husband and gave birth to five children in the span of seven years. Doesn't she look so beautiful and rested?

Truth is, Mom has always been a beauty, inside and out. While Dad was out working three jobs to pay for food and ballet lessons, Mom was single-handedly, lovingly, running the show at home.

I don't think Mom ever left the driver's seat of our station wagon from the years 1972-1986. She was shuttling us to ballet, softball, band practice, and gymnastics. She was our girl scout leader and the first to volunteer for countless fundraisers for drill team, majorettes, and Thespian society. She sewed our ballet and swing choir costumes, hemmed our skirts, mended our blouses, and taught us how to knit, sew, embroider and crochet.

She was always so quiet, lovely, and beautiful. I remember being a little girl and hoping I'd turn out just like her. Unfortunately, I inherited Dad's slow metabolism and short temper. Sometimes, life just isn't fair, people.

(This, by the way, is a picture of Mom holding my dog Trixie. Like all animals, Trixie adores her because she's so sweet and gentle. Here, she has fallen asleep, burying her head in Mom's arm.)

But soft spoken and ladylike as Mom was, she definitely had her "Mama Bear" moments. I remember one occasion when she felt that our band director had treated one of us unfairly, and she called and firmly gave him a piece of her mind, insisting he "rethink" his actions. He did!

So, here's to you, Sandy Donnelly. Thanks for everything you've done, all you continue to do, and for making me feel so loved and special all these years! I hope I've made you proud, and that you feel that the woman I've become was worth all the hard work you did for me! I love you!!

Thanks for Reading!!

Cancer - 1

2011-04-27T19:50:00.006-04:00

***Warning: this post was written on a particularly bad day. It is REALLY negative. I decided to post it anyway because of it's rawness, but please proceed with caution!***

I wrote this post last January documenting my bi-yearly CT scan appointment, and the positive results the scan revealed. I titled the post, "Joan - 9, Cancer - 0" because at that point, I had undergone nine CT scans over the course of three years, all with positive, "no tumor growth" results.

Yesterday marked my eleventh CT scan, with my third oncologist (moving to a new town also means finding a new specialist). This time, the results showed marked growth in the majority of my lymph node tumors, one especially in my pelvic region which has prompted a huge red flag. The "conclusion" line from the radiologist's report was one sentence: "Increasing thoracic, abdominal and pelvic adenopathy suggesting progression of lymphoma."

Cancer - 1.

So, here we are in Scarytown. My new oncologist feels it is still necessary to wait before starting chemo, because my particular brand of lymphoma (follicular) can sort of wax and wane. There is a chance that it will diminish on it's own, without treatment. My doc feels it is safe to wait six more months, scan me again, and make the decision for action at that point.

Although I recognize this glimmer of hope, and will be clinging to it with both hands for the next six months, I still feel an enormous sense of defeat. Here's why:

It's time to admit that cancer holds all the cards, my friends. We can eat right, replace our carbonated sodas with green tea, and exercise daily. We can juice fresh veggies and fruits and down them after our morning runs, and consume healthy, green salads every day. We can even invest in a pricey wheat grass juicer because someone said that ingesting a frothy, thick, green swill that tastes like you're drinking your lawn has "been known to cure cancer." And even though each shot of that stuff makes us want to vomit, we faithfully grow that damn grass and down it every morning because just MAYBE it'll be the healing remedy that will solve everything. Except that it won't.

I did all these things, my cancer has never gone away. I raised a triumphant fist in the air after each of those ten CT scans, as if I had something to do with the results. I didn't. Cancer was just deciding to stay quiet for awhile. Now, I must sit and hope it will do the same until November. I have no control.

So, I'll wear my colored ribbons and donate to my friends' 5Ks and Races for the Cure. I'll keep a positive attitude (after I'm finished purging myself with this particular dramatic pity-party I'm now composing) and smile at my friends and relatives and tell them I'm doing just fine, that I'll "show cancer who's boss!" But I know the truth. There is no score.

Cancer has me, literally, by the throat.

Feybulous!!

2011-04-20T23:55:00.000-04:00

Even though I'm an avid reader, I've never used this blog to review any of the books I've read. Why? I have no idea! But I've just finished "Bossypants," an autobiography by the awesome Tina Fey, and I've decided to break my streak!

"But Joan," you may be saying, "Tina Fey is a Pinko Commie Liberal Fascist! How can you like her, or for that matter, support her anti-American agenda by buying her book?" To you I have only this response: If you feel this way, you need to read Tina's writing more than anyone, because then you will see how misinformed you've been!

The truth is, Tina is an uber-witty comedian/writer/producer who somehow managed to achieve success in a male-dominated medium, even though she was never the Prettiest Girl in the Room. She actually succeeded because she is smart and talented, not because she batted her eyelashes and played "dumb blonde." She also displays a wonderful self-deprecating humor which proves that she doesn't take herself too seriously, and insists that we don't either.

In her brilliant, witty book, Tina discusses her early years as an improvisational comic (performing with the popular Second City Comedy troupe in Chicago), and how they helped shape the ways she conducts herself as a performer, as a writer, as a boss, and as a wife and mother.

For example, one of the rules of improv is to "Always agree and say 'Yes.'" "For instance," she writes, "if we're improvising and I say, 'Freeze, I have a gun,' and you say, 'That's not a gun. It's your finger. You're pointing your finger at me,' our improvised scene has ground to a halt. But if I say 'Freeze, I have a gun!' and you say, 'The gun I gave you for Christmas? You bastard!' then we have started a scene because we have AGREED that my finger is in fact a Christmas gun."

Then Tina explains why this "agreement theory" is applicable to life: "Now obviously in real life you're not always going to agree with everything everyone says. But the Rule of Agreement reminds you to 'respect what your partner has created' and to at least start from an open-minded place. Start with a YES and see where that takes you. As an improviser, I always find it jarring when I meet someone in real life whose first answer is no. 'No, we can't do that.' 'No, that's not in the budget....' What kind of way is that to live?"

Then there's my favorite Rule of Improvisation that Tina discloses: There are no mistakes, only opportunities. She writes: "In improv there are no mistakes, only beautiful happy accidents. And many of the world's greatest discoveries have been by accident. I mean, look at the Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, or Botox." Seriously, how can you not love this woman?

And if you're still clinging to the "pinko-commie-liberal-fascist" belief because of her dead-on portrayal of Sarah Palin back in 2008, then I have this message for you: If you think her portrayal of the former Alaskan Governor was "mean," as many of her opposers have commented, then you must also be outraged at Chevy Chase's depiction of a bumbling, stumbling, accident-prone Gerald Ford.

You must be unforgiving of Dan Ackroyd's impersonation of a toothy Jimmy Carter, hoarding tubes of Preparation H (during the unfortunate public disclosure of the president's hemorrhoid problem). You must condemn Phil Hartman for his portrayal of Bill Clinton, laying across his bed, gossiping with Monica Lewinsky about the latest Dawson's Creek episode, or gorging on Big Macs at the local McDonald's. And do we really need to discuss Dana Carvey and Will Ferrell's version of the silly, "Not gonna do it" "Strategery" Bush boys? (Or Dana Carvey's hilarious Ross Perot impression?) I don't think so!

The truth is, everyone understood when these male comedians performed a parody involving political celebrities, that it was just that, a parody. When Tina Fey did the same involving a female candidate, she was tagged as being "mean" and "cruel" and having a political agenda. Unfair? Sexist? You betcha.

So unclench your fists, place this book in your hands instead, and enjoy the comedic stylings of a refreshingly honest, REAL female American. You'll be AMAZED at how much you've learned (AND how much you've laughed) once you've finished!

And even if you don't agree with me, I still want you to know that I respect your opinion, and I won't judge you or think less of you for disagreeing with me. Tina taught me that!

Thanks for Reading!!

Lucky

2011-04-15T21:36:00.007-04:00

I've been doing a lot a whining lately. That dumb house in York, PA won't sell. The vet recently found a mass on the lung of Trixie, our seventeen year old Jack Russell Terrier, and she coughs like a 90 year old chain smoker. We've been on some pins and needles around here, to say the least.

But the truth is, I'm really lucky. Way, WAY more lucky than I deserve. I have Alan, my husband, who holds my hand, particularly in times like this. He assures me that everything is going to be OK. I believe him.

That's why I love this song so much, and why I play it over and over and over on days like this. It's why I want to share it with you now. The chorus is so pretty, so lovely, I can't stop listening to it. This is my wish for you today, that you find someone that makes you feel as happy and as loved as this song suggests! Enjoy!!

Cleveland Worries

2011-04-11T18:39:00.002-04:00

This is my little red canary, Cleveland Brown. I named him this because he sports the colors of my favorite football team, and I love him with all of my heart! You may remember that I wrote this post about him several months ago. Cleveland has a beautiful singing voice, and when he begins his melodic arias each day, it's like the entire house is filled with the essence of Spring!

But Cleveland's joyful trills are a bit deceiving. Although he is provided daily with fresh water, a variety of delicious foods, fun toys, and a bright, sunny location from which to sing, Cleveland worries. A lot.

When I approach his cage each day, his singing is replaced with frantic, frightened calls. "Bweeep!! Bweeep!! Bweeep!" Even though I do this EVERY day, and he is NEVER harmed, Cleveland worries. Actually, EACH time he is rewarded with fresh water, replenished food, and even a freshly-diced apple treat. But still, Cleveland worries. I understand that it must be very unnerving, indeed, to experience a large hand reaching into your territory each morning and invading your space, but I'm stunned that he hasn't yet learned that these few seconds of discomfort ALWAYS lead to delicious treats. Still, Cleveland worries.

I hate that I cause this fear in my sweet little songbird. I wish I could somehow make him see that I love him with a heart so big, so full, I couldn't hurt a feather on his precious, tiny head. I wish he could see that I would defend him against anyone or anything that dared tried to cause him harm. I wish he could see that the times when we DO need to cause him discomfort, it tears my heart into little pieces to hear his frightened cries. Like when we have to catch him so we can hold him to clip his nails or put him in a holding cage so we can clean his home. By the time we finally finish the unpleasant task and return him to the safety of his cage, I am a sweaty, useless wreck.

As I reached into Cleveland's cage this morning and heard the familiar "Bweeps" of fright, I thought about my own fears in this life. Like the house we still own in York, PA, that's been on the market since last May, and still hasn't sold. Or when we first moved here to Nashville, and I feared I wouldn't be able to find a job or make any new friends. Boy, did I worry.

I forget about the One who watches over me, the One who is my protector. The One who will defend me, and keep me from harm, and make sure I am clothed and fed. The One who weeps with me when I cry and worry that things will never get better, even though He knows they will.

I'm a lot more like my little canary than I care to admit, actually. He and I both have it way better than we'll ever know.

Praise the Lord, I'm Employed!!

2011-04-05T14:39:00.002-04:00

I'M BACK!! Did you miss me?

Boy, I've got to tell you, the last few months have been memorable, to say the least! After weeks of sweat, tears, and intense prayer, I am happy to report that I am gainfully employed! (Hold for applause.)

For a while there, I was getting so desperate that I would've settled for ANY job, but I've actually landed one that I like very, very much. What's my new position, you ask? I'll give you a hint: if you were to visit Nashville and wanted to take a tour of the presumably haunted buildings in the downtown area, who ya gonna call? ME!! I'm the brand new guide for Nashville Ghost Tours! Yay!!

Oh, my friends, it's such a wonderful job! I get to meet people visiting from all over the country and share with them the wonderful history and ghost stories of my newly adopted hometown! I just couldn't love it more, quite frankly.

But I must say, the process of gaining employment was quite frightening, indeed. I had no idea how impersonal and harsh the job search could be, or how completely it can crush your soul if you're not careful. I'd show up in person at shops and temp agencies, only to be given a business card and sent right back out the door. They'd tell me to apply online and attach my resume, they'd call if they decided they needed me. I spent hours in front of the computer, searching and applying, knowing that everyone who received my "theme park performer" resume was probably having a good, hearty laugh at my expense.

I actually learned a lot from the process, however. And if you'll indulge me, I thought I'd share my newfound knowledge with you. I know in today's economy, there must be others in the same "employment-seeking" boat as I was just a month ago. Here's a list of a few things I learned:

Don't be afraid to inform everyone you know that you need a job. I was a little embarrassed to admit I was in need, but that quickly faded when I realized I was forming a whole supportive "Team Joan" that was on my side. It was actually my friend, Keith, who heard that the ghost tour people were hiring, and sent me an email with a link to their website. Otherwise, I never would have known and would have missed the interview date.

Find a support group to help. Mine was invaluable. It was a free "business transitions" group that actually met at my church once a week. They specialized in helping people who had recently been laid off or who were new to the area and needed to find work. They presented guest lecturers each week who addressed everything from "How to Network When You Have No Network" to "Personal and Career Branding." Not only was the information helpful, but the support of those who had once been unemployed and had now found work, saying to me, "Don't give up! It WILL happen for you!" was priceless.

Resist the urge to "hibernate." After spending several days emailing resumes and filling out online applications, all with no response, I must tell you, all I wanted to do was retreat to my girl cave, lock the door, and pull the covers over my head. I actually did EXACTLY that one day. Then I passed by a mirror and was a little frightened by the unkept, hopeless mess I saw staring back I me. I vowed to try harder and avoid having to see THAT sight again!

Volunteer, it'll change your whole perspective! Determined not to spend another day sitting around the house, I decided to stop feeling sorry for myself and perform some good deeds. Let me tell you, it's really hard to crank the "self pity meter" when you're reading "Fluffy and Baron" to a classroom of first graders who treat you like a rock star! Or see if you have the nerve to shed a tear for yourself after you've learned that the prayer shawl you've just knitted for your church group is going to be wrapped around the shoulders of a 30 year old cancer victim, as she begins her chemo treatments. Suddenly, my problems seemed pretty minor in comparison.

And finally, if you're really weary and ready to give up, come by this blog and visit ME! I'll remind you that you're awesome, amazing, tremendously talented, and DEFINITELY one of the cool people! Hey, you MUST be, you follow THIS blog, don't you?

Thanks for your patience, everyone, it's just great to be back! And, most of all...

Thanks for reading!!

Time Out

2011-02-02T15:39:00.004-05:00

I've got some work to do, my friends, and need to take a small break from my blog. I promise it will be brief, I just need to focus the majority of my energy right now on getting a job and finding my place here in my new town. This is proving to be a bit more difficult than I had originally planned, and I need to give it my undivided attention.

I hope you'll understand, and will continue to follow me, as I will for you. I'll be checking in from time to time, reading what you've all been up to in your own blogs, even if I don't comment.

I also have a special project that I've been working on, and hopefully when I get back, I'll be able to surprise you all with a big announcement! Keep your fingers crossed!

In the meantime, play nice, do good, and I'll see you when I get back! Big hugs and...

Thanks for Reading!

xo, Joan

No Business Like It

2011-01-23T12:15:00.006-05:00

"Please don't let it be over, please don't let it be over!!" I chanted the words again and again, until the lights came up once more and my fears were laid to rest.

I was in elementary school, witnessing a live stage production for the very first time. The high school wherein my father taught was presenting a children's theater production of Peter Pan. The director, one of dad's colleagues and fellow fishing buddies, invited my mother to bring all us kids for an afternoon matinee.

Looking back, it wasn't a very well-funded production, to say the least. The sets and costumes were homemade, and when the script called upon the actors to "fly," this was accomplished by spreading their arms, jumping off the stage, and running up and down the auditorium aisles.

But I was transfixed. I had never witnessed anything so glorious in my entire, young life. Every time the lights would dim after the completion of a scene, (so the stagehands could transpose the set from, say, the Darling's nursery to the Land of Lost Boys), I would repeat the above mantra. I couldn't BEAR the thought of this magical, wonderful thing coming to an end. I laughed, cried, and clapped my belief of fairies until my hands were raw.

And when the lights dimmed for the last time, and the house lights came up on the theater, I believe my life had forever changed.

When I entered junior high school, one of the yearly field trips involved a morning when they'd bus all of us seventh and eighth graders over to the high school, to view a final dress rehearsal of the drama department's fall musical. We'd see the musical, then head back to school to attend our regular afternoon classes. After witnessing a rousing (but low budget!) production of Guys and Dolls, I remember sitting back in science class that afternoon, looking around at my classmates. How on earth could they possibly focus on e=mc2 after the magic we'd experienced just a few hours before?

When I finally reached high school and could be a part of these musicals myself, I worried that some of the "wonderment" of it all would fade, once I saw the non-magical, normal backstage areas and realized the amount of hard work these productions required. Not so. I loved every minute of every rehearsal. All day long, during my classes, I'd count down the hours until play practice. When the threat of school cancellations materialized because of approaching snow storms, I'd whisper a quiet prayer, hoping the blizzards would pass us. If there was no school, there was no rehearsal, and I simply couldn't live without that.

During all this time, though, I assumed that a career in the theater was out of the question. Surely, a career so unique and amazing could only be held by truly special people. I figured it was like royalty, you had to be born into it.

Then one day, riding home from church in the family car, I overheard a conversation between my parents. They were discussing the actor/comedian Bob Hope. Mom was telling Dad that Hope actually hailed not far from where we lived, in Cleveland, Ohio. She had read that he got his start impersonating Charlie Chaplin outside the Cleveland firehouses.

That's when it hit me: Bob Hope, the famous TV and movie star, had once been NORMAL?!! You mean, ANYONE could do this? It seemed impossible, but I prayed it was the truth. It was at that moment, in that station wagon, headed home from mass at St. Barnabas Catholic Church, that I made the decision to officially drop all ambition to become the next Ernest Hemingway. I was going to pursue a career in theater.

As you can probably guess, I never achieved the success of Mr. Hope. I've never lived in LA nor starred in a blockbuster movie. My limited TV appearances have been mostly local, and I can safely go out into public without being recognized or hounded for my autograph. But I can say this: the majority of my working life has been spent performing, and it has been purely GLORIOUS.

Honestly, I don't think I've lost one ounce of the wonderment I felt that afternoon, when the lights came up on Wendy, Michael and John. It's been a terrific ride! Oh, sure, there have been times when I've felt tired and fatigued, and didn't feel like getting myself "up" for a particular performance. But guess what? That feeling always, ALWAYS vanished the second I took one step onstage.

But it's time to focus on a finding a new career, now. There aren't many roles for women my age, and the live performance opportunities are far fewer in my new city. I'm really just fine with this, and have no problem making theater my hobby rather than my career. Except for one small thing.

I have no idea how to do this. Instead of auditioning for jobs, where I stood in front of a panel and "showed" them what I could do, I must now interview for a job, where I sit at a table with said panel and "tell" them what I can do. Tell them, that is, if I'm actually granted an interview in the first place. The hiring process has become, in my opinion, ridiculously impersonal. The applications must be filled out online, a resume attached to an email. After the employer reviews these documents, then, and only then, will the decision of an interview be made. You can imagine how bizarre my resume looks. I haven't received many interview requests.

But, unlike the title character in Peter Pan, it's time for me to grow up. I've been ridiculously spoiled so far, career wise. I've had the opportunity to do something about which I was really, truly passionate. I don't know if this next "chapter" will allow the same, but I do know that I am ready for it. If only they'd call me for that interview...

Thanks for Reading!!

My Territory is Yours

2011-01-12T19:58:00.005-05:00

Isn't this little guy cute? I took this picture of the mockingbird in our yard, our new frequent visitor to the back deck. By frequent, I mean constant, as he is never far away. If he's not sitting on our deck, eating at the feeders, or drinking from the birdbath, he is sitting at the top of the juniper tree in our yard, just a few feet away, keeping watch.

He's keeping watch quite literally, actually, because true to his mockingbird heritage, our little friend is extremely territorial. He has planted his "flag" on our deck, claiming it as his own. He guards his area at all hours, never allowing any other birds to come near it.

Oh, they try, mind you. It's been unseasonably cold and snowy here in the Nashville area, and these poor birds need to fatten-up to make it through the frigid nights. I've seen wrens, sparrows, finches, titmice, and chickadees all approach the feeders, hoping to grab some nourishment.

They last all of a few seconds before our mean little soldier flies straight at them, angrily shrieking and squawking. When the poor, startled things fly to a nearby tree, this, apparently is not far enough. He again dive-bombs into said tree until the trespasser gets the message and flies far away and out of sight. It's only then that he relaxes, puffy and content once more on his deck rail, victorious once again. (We've appropriately named him "Butch," after The Little Rascals bully who also had social issues!!)

I've tried EVERYTHING, people! I put up more feeders, with lots of space between each one, hoping some of them will fall outside the "zone" of Butch's territory. No luck. I've even filled some of the feeders with thistle and other seeds that are undesirable to mockingbirds, only to the smaller, finch-like breeds. Butch doesn't care. Even though he doesn't prefer the food, he doesn't want anyone else eating it EITHER.

Here's the thing about Butch: there is more food out there on that deck than he will ever be able to consume. With the snow falling, it's going to go bad and soggy before he could EVER finish all of it. But something in Butch tells him, "This is MINE! I don't CARE if you are in need, get your OWN! If you don't, I'll HURT you!" Childish, don't you think?

Yet, as I've watched the events unfold from this past weekend's tragedy, I can't stop thinking about that intolerant little mockingbird.

I made a pact with myself when I started this blog that I would never discuss anything political, and I'm definitely not planning on starting now. I am the LAST person I would go to for advice on any political subject. But those who know me also know of my intense dislike of rudeness, my passionate contempt for hurtful words and violent behavior. I don't know if harsh, hateful words caused the tragic deaths in Arizona this past weekend, I doubt we'll ever find out.

The fact remains that there are still so many needlessly hurtful, bitter words being used, all in the name of "debate," and one-upping each other as we scream loudly back and forth on "news" programs. We're so much better than this. All of us.

Like I've been trying to teach poor, territorial Butch: there is sooooo much space for EVERYONE. We may differ in size, shape, and opinions, but can't we still co-exist, and respect the fact that we're all here, in this beautiful place, with plenty of room to hold us all? This is my prayer today, for all of us. (Butch included!)

Thanks for Reading!

A Shady Award!

2011-01-07T22:44:00.004-05:00

My new friend, Shady Del Knight at Shady Dell Music and Memories just bestowed me with this lovely award! Isn't it cool?

I'm a huge fan of Shady's. He's an exceptional, thoughtful, entertaining blogger, and he's made me feel like a queen with his kind comments and tremendous support of my own writing attempts. This award is just another example of his generosity. His blog is terrific! If you get a chance, be sure to stop by and visit, he'll make you feel right at home. I PROMISE, you won't be disappointed!

Anyhoo, Shady has instructed me that the rules of accepting this award are to list five things about myself, then pass the award along to five other bloggers.

Some may say I've been RIDICULOUSLY open in this blog, and there's very little LEFT that one wouldn't already know about me, but let's see what I can do...

1. I was terribly afraid of the dark as a kid, WAY after most children typically get over the fear. My younger sister and I shared bunk beds in our room, and I always made an excuse as to why SHE should be the one to get out of bed and go across the room to hit the light switch each night instead of me. I blame my overactive imagination. Yeah, that's what it was...my imagination! (Pathetic!!)

2. I am a doll collector, but not in the weird, creepy, always-tuned-to-QVC kind of way. My grandma Simmons (aka: the most awesome person in the UNIVERSE) saved all of her dolls, my mom's dolls, and my dolls in her spacious walk-up attic. When she died, I received this precious stash, and they all reside in my guest rooms to this day. None of them are worth anything, monetary-wise, because they've all been played with a "loved" a great deal. No original boxes here. But they are so precious to me. Especially my sweet Tubsy doll, to whom I actually devoted this entire blog entry.

3. I have follicular lymphoma. It's lazy and low grade, and I only have to think about it twice a year now, when I undergo a neck, chest, and pelvic CT scan to make sure it's not becoming active. It was terrifying when I got the diagnosis, but for almost four years now, each scan has provided a "no new growth" result, and no treatment has been necessary. It's still a little daunting to know that I have cancer, that it will be with me for the rest of my life, and that I will never be able to call myself a "survivor," but I remind myself daily that it could be much, much worse. (To the left is a picture of me with my second opinion doctor who was convinced I needed to start chemotherapy immediately. She was WRONG!!)

4. For thirteen years, I performed at Universal Studios, in the Terminator 2/3D attraction, as Kimberley Duncan (the annoying host in the ugly red suit!). I got "choked" by a cyborg and thrown back onto a hidden mat nine times a day (stunt pay!!), and it was the best job I've EVER had! I loved every day of my thirteen years there, and I only left when my sweet husband was promoted and we were required to move (Alan's the ONLY man for whom I would have left that awesome job!).

5. I run every day, usually around 3.5 miles or so. I don't run because I like it, I run to keep my dress size in the single digits. I wrote this blog entry about my relationship with running. People thought I was a little "touched" when they read it, but I swear it's the truth. That being said, my husband talked me into entering the 5K Sunset Run in Key West last July when we were there for our yearly trip. I told him I was on vacation and didn't want to run, I wanted to drink margaritas on the pool deck. He persisted, promising me drinks AFTER the run, and I caved. It was 9000 degrees, and the sun was blistering. It was, by far, the worst 24 minutes of my life. Then, I learned that I placed first for my age group! NEXT year, we're skipping the run and going STRAIGHT to the frozen drinks!!

Well, there you have it, Shady! Five (somewhat?) interesting things about me that you may not have known before. Hope you found it riveting!! Thanks again for your kind words, and for this sweet award, I really do appreciate it!

Now, to bestow the award to five other blogs I admire:

1. Red Shoe Chronicles
2. Reforming Geek
3. Mumsy's Place
4. The Blog O' Cheese
5. Along Life's Highway The Yard Art Game

Not only are these blogs terrific, the authors are dear, thoughtful commenters as well, and I greatly appreciate them!

Hope everyone has a fabulous weekend! Thanks to Shady, mine's already been made!!

Thanks for Reading!

Back to Normal...

2011-01-03T13:48:00.002-05:00

Oh, is there anything sadder than the day you take down your Christmas decorations? I don't think so. You put them up with so much joy, so many high expectations about the approaching holiday season. Then, in a flash, it's over, and all the bright red bows, shiny ornaments and felt snowmen get crammed back into their boxes for another year. Geez, I hate it!

How was your Christmas? We just returned home this morning from a wonderful trip to see both of our families for the holidays. This was no small feat, since my family is located near Cleveland, Ohio, and Alan's relatives reside much further south in Gadsden, Alabama.

But we saw them all, got to see everyone open the presents we chose for them, shopped the after-Christmas sales, and ate enough high-calorie homemade cooking to last a LIFETIME! So many happy memories were made, so many dear ones we got to squeeze and remind how much they are loved.

And now, just like that, it's all over. January is here, and my beautiful, festive decorations sit here before me, telling me it's time to pull out the bins and pack them away for another year. I know this, but I feel like the child that wants to cling to the magic of Santa and presents for just a little while longer. Maybe one more night...

Phyllis' Christmas Treasures

2010-12-21T09:53:00.000-05:00

REPOST ALERT!!! I wrote this last December when no one was reading my blog except my siblings and a few close friends. I thought I'd bring it back and see what you think. Hope you like it...

Meals on Wheels is a fantastic organization serving countless communities in states across the country. It's premise is simple: provide hot meals to senior citizens and shut-ins who are unable to afford and/or prepare the meals for themselves. During the time that Trixie and I were involved with our nursing home visits, organized through the SPCA of Central Florida, an urgent call came through from the Meals on Wheels people.

Apparently, there was a growing concern that many of their clients were not consuming the delivered meals themselves. They were going hungry because they were feeding their rations to their own pets instead. They couldn't afford dog or cat food, so they were giving what they had to their precious companions. The organization asked if there was anything the SPCA could do to help them.

I'll always be so proud of how quickly and efficiently the president of the SPCA of Central Florida, Barbara Wetzler, responded. Within just a few weeks, she had convinced Tupperware to donate dozens of large containers, sent out word that dog and cat food donations were being accepted, got a list of names of clients and their mapped-out locations, and rounded up a core of volunteers to make the deliveries. There is a special place in heaven for Barbara Wetzler!

When word was sent out about the need for delivery people, I signed up without hesitation. I'm always looking for ways to honor the memory of my sweet Grandma Simmons, and I knew she'd love the idea of taking care of senior citizens' pets this way. At the orientation, the rules were pretty cut and dried: each driver would receive three names with a corresponding map. On the day of your delivery, you simply dropped by the SPCA, dropped off your empty bins, picked up new, filled ones, and set out. They asked you to call each client in advance each month, as many would be hesitant to answer the door if they didn't already know you were coming by. They also advised letting the phone ring several times, old bones take a little longer getting out of chairs and walking to the phone!

I was eager to get started and set out as soon as I left orientation. My first two deliveries were very similar. The clients greeted me, let me pat their dog or cat's head from my place on their front stoop, then waved a cheery "good-bye" and quickly shut the door. My last stop was at a tiny house in a poor neighborhood. It looked like it might have been a nice, family community at one point, but that time had long passed. Now the surrounding houses were in disrepair and in great need of new roofs and paint jobs. The house on my list had a decent sized yard surrounded by an ugly chain link fence. I glanced down at the name on my list: "Phyllis -- cat." I grabbed the bin of cat food and lifted the latch on the gate, then proceeded up the front steps and knocked on Phyllis' door.

After several minutes, I heard the deadbolt turn and watched as the door moved inward. There in the doorway stood a tiny woman with long, grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing a house dress identical to my Grandma's, and large, thick coke bottle-lensed glasses. Tight around her neck was the type of apparatus found on patients that have undergone a tracheotomy. She smiled and placed a finger over the front hole to speak in a breathy voice, "You must be Joan! You look just like I knew you would when I heard your voice on the phone! Come on in!"

Phyllis led me to her neat, cozy kitchen, sporting wooden cupboards with black hinges and knobs. She told me to just set the cat food under the sink and have a seat with her at the table. On her table sat a large tray containing several prescription bottles. In the course of our conversation that first day, she told me about her many ailments: the tracheotomy, diabetes for which she gave herself daily injections, poor eyesight and hearing (her phone had one of those blinking light attachments that alerted her when a call was coming in), severe arthritis, and some brushes with cancer. It was funny, though, how her "malady listing" didn't come across at all like complaining. Phyllis seemed to accept the fact that her body was wearing down, but was also truly fascinated with the modern medical procedures being employed to keep her going. I found myself recalling all of the Alzheimer's patients Trixie and I had visited at the nursing home. Many of them, despite their severe mental limitations, were otherwise physically healthy as horses. Phyllis was exactly the opposite. Her poor body was breaking down, but her mind remained sharp as a tack. She remembered exact dates when telling stories, often beginning, "In June of 1962...no, excuse me, it was JULY of 1963..."

Phyllis became my favorite delivery stop. I'd always save hers for last because I knew she'd expect me to come in and "sit a spell." When I was picking up her cat food, I decided I wanted to bring my new friend a treat as well. I knew with all of her diet restrictions that a food item was out. Then I was at the Hallmark store and spotted a small stuffed animal cat. I had seen similar ones on the shelf of her living room, so I decided maybe she'd like another.

I entered her kitchen as always that day, placed the cat food bin under her sink, then handed her the gift bag. "Just a silly little nothing for you," I told her. She unwrapped the tissue and held the little cat up close to her weak eyes. She turned to me, gave me a huge smile, and hugged it to her face, cradling it like a doll. I became addicted to that smile. I couldn't get enough of it. So, every month I arrived with a new gift, usually of the stuffed variety. That beautiful, sweet smile was my payment, and she always gave it generously.

I should've realized that I was over-doing it with the gift giving, however, because I soon learned that Phyllis felt the need to reciprocate. I arrived one day to find a large cardboard box sitting at my place on her kitchen table. "Have a seat," she instructed me. She explained that she'd been going through some things and came across this box of her Christmas decorations. She said she wasn't going to be putting them out anymore, and she'd like for me to have them (she'd been noticing my holiday sweaters!). I told her I'd be happy to help her adorn her home with the decorations if she'd like, she didn't need to get rid of them. She waved my suggestion away with a wrinkled hand and reached in to pull out her first treasure. It was a six inch soft plastic reindeer. At least that's what I think it was. The paint was very faded and the tip of it's tail was broken off. There was a hole on the underside of it's belly where you could place a small light bulb to illuminate it, but that was long gone. She turned it around in her hand and looked at it with dreamy eyes, then placed it on the table. Then she reached in the box and pulled out the next item, a plastic, faded snowman. She brought out item after worthless item, unwrapping each from it's paper towel, placing it on her table with the delicacy usually reserved for Faberge eggs. She never offered a story to go with any one object. She just smiled while she silently held each of them up to her face, then set it back down again.

When all the items had been unwrapped, she turned to me and asked, "Well, what do you think? Would you like them?" I told her that I really thought she should hang on to them. "Nonsense!" she quipped, "I'm too old to be messing with them anymore. If you don't take them, I'll just donate them to the poor." I told Phyllis I would take them, thanked her for her generosity, and promptly placed them in my attic when I got home.

Phyllis' health continued to deteriorate. I arrived one month and she greeted me at the door, clearly distracted about something. After a little prodding, I got her to tell me. She had been losing so much weight that her doctor had surgically inserted a feeding tube into her stomach. She now "fed" herself twice a day with a bag provided by the hospital, and was no longer a candidate for Meals on Wheels. She was terrified that this also meant she would no longer be receiving cat food. I grabbed my friend's sweet, leather hand and told her that as LONG as she needed it, I would be bringing her cat food.

The next month I dialed Phyllis' number to tell her I'd be by that day. The phone rang and rang. No answer. "Probably just at one of her doctor appointments," I told myself, trying not to think about the alternative. When no one answered later that day, I knew I had to do something. I found the number of her social worker, Mary, who had been providing her general care and rides to the doctor's. She confirmed my worst fears, Phyllis had died. Mary told me that she'd arrived at Phyllis' home one morning and found her still in her bed, no sign of struggle. Phyllis had died peacefully in her sleep.

When someone like Phyllis passes away, someone who had no family and so many physical ailments, we tend to feel relief that they're no longer in pain and now hopefully reunited with their loved ones in the hereafter. But truthfully, I missed my friend and her beautiful smile.

I was packing up the house in Orlando last year in preparation for the big move to Pennsylvania when I came across that box of Phyllis' decorations. Such silly, worthless trinkets, but so dear to one. I wished I had prodded her more about the stories behind each of those pieces. We were in the process of some major downsizing for the move, and I knew I couldn't take the box with me, but I also didn't have the heart to throw them away. I decided to honor Phyllis' second wish and take them to "The Poor." I don't know if Goodwill would find any use for a box of faded Christmas trinkets, but I'd like to think that someone found them as beautiful and special as Phyllis did, and have them displayed on their table this Christmas.

As I write this, I look around my living room at my own decorations. As much as I cherish them and the Christmas memories they invoke, none of my felt santas or folk art angels posses any monetary value, that's for sure. I'm sure someday, after I'm gone, my worthless treasures will all be boxed up and taken to Goodwill. I just hope "The Poor" truly appreciates the intense awesomeness of a fabric moose wearing a "noel" sweater, or a snowman wearing a stocking cap on snow skis!!

Merry Christmas, sweet Phyllis.

Filling My Purse

2010-12-19T21:18:00.003-05:00

My mother tells me that when I was a little girl, I never went ANYWHERE unless I had four things: my doll, a string of wooden beads around my neck, a pair of white gloves, and a purse (Imagine the ENORMOUS hit I was in Kindergarden!) I don't remember a whole lot about that time, but I DO remember getting a new purse with Grandma Simmons once. It was one of those shiny white patent leather numbers, VERY elegant!

A problem arose, however, when it came time to actually FILL said purse. It's not like I had a wallet, I certainly didn't have any money. So, Grandma Simmons gave me a big wad of Kleenex, an old empty compact, a used-up lipstick tube, and a key (no one was quite sure what the key opened, but it helped to add weight to my new purchase!). Needless to say, I rarely opened that purse, unless the need for blowing my nose arose, of course.

I've been thinking a lot about that purse lately. Let me tell you why...

When we recently moved into our new rented house here in Franklin, Tennessee, we quickly learned that there was WAY more room than we were used to in our former homes. Guests will be VERY comfortable when they visit, there's plenty of spare rooms and bathrooms for ALL!

But downstairs, in the finished basement, sat a nice big room overlooking the backyard, complete with it's own bathroom and huge walk-in closet. I think it was initially intended to be a mother-in-law suite, but since both our mothers have very comfortable homes of their own, Alan suggested I use the room as my office/sewing room. He encouraged me to decorate it however I'd like (although, since we're renting, painting the walls or changing the carpet is out of the question!).

The thought intrigued me. You must know that throughout my whole childhood, I shared a room with my sister. We slept in wooden bunk beds constructed by my dad, covered with simple blankets that my grandmother sewed. None of us actually experienced the "girly" rooms our friends all seemed to have. I decided this was my chance to create my very own "Girl Cave!"

Yellow has always been my favorite color, so I made sure everything reflected a yellow, lacy, flowery theme! And since yellow is definitely not the "in" decorating color at the moment, I had to do a lot of creating on my own! Like the two lamps in the picture above. I covered the shades with yellow fabric, added a ruffle on the bottom, and attached sweet pink ribbon roses around the ruffle! (You can vomit now, I understand!).

I covered a bulletin board and the border of a dry erase board with yellow floral fabric, then attached all of my family photos to each of them to inspire my writing! The dry erase board has future blog topic ideas scribbled on it.

Also, for my early readers, that's Tubsy sitting on the shelf, no Girl Cave would be complete without your favorite childhood doll!

To the right is a picture of another wall, which holds boxes containing my fabric, laces, ribbons, trims, yarn, patterns and such. A framed photo of Dad, the original spouter of the phrase "Anything Fits a Naked Man," and subject of many of my blog entries, sits in a frame on the shelf, covered with my yellow floral fabric! Now, if I could JUST get better at actually SEWING things!

So, what do you think? Kinda cool, huh?

Except, here's the only problem: just like that empty purse Grandma Simmons bought me all those years ago, I look at my new pretty room and think, "Now, I have to fill this room with superlative blog entries!" A room as grand as this can only be used properly if wonderful, thoughtful, high quality ideas are being created there! Talk about PRESSURE!!

I'll be honest with you, as I write this post, I'm sitting in my living room with my computer on my lap. I used the excuse that I wanted to be near the Christmas tree, and I really wanted to catch the Lawrence Welk Christmas special on PBS (oh, shut up!). But the simple truth is, I'm a little bit afraid of my new room. I've gone down there to read, work on crafts, fill out my Christmas cards, but so far, no writing! Isn't that silly?

Has this ever happened to you? Where do YOU write? Any words of advice to get me down to my pretty girl cave? I could REALLY use them! Also,

Thanks for Reading!!

Weirdest Couple EVER!

2010-12-15T08:09:00.000-05:00

Even if you've only spent five minutes at the mall, supermarket, or doctor's office this past month, you've undoubtedly heard this duet featuring Bing Crosby and David Bowie. I wanted to feature it today and share with you some fun facts I recently learned about this particular performance. Mainly, I just LOVE it, and personally, can never get enough of it, no matter HOW many times it's played during this season!

The piece was recorded in September of 1977, and appeared on Bing Crosby's "Merrie Olde Christmas" special that year. Apparently, Bing's children were big Bowie fans, so David was asked to appear on the show and sing "Little Drummer Boy" with Bing.

A problem arose when Bowie arrived on the set, was presented with his music, and declared, "I hate this song. Is there something else I can sing?" This sent producers and songwriters on the show scrambling, but they managed to go off into a corner and quickly compose the "Peace on Earth" melody and words. (Can you IMAGINE?!!)

There are two things that strike me each time I watch this clip. First, is the mutual respect each of these men show to each other. David Bowie, who was 30 when this was filmed, happily performs the opening corny lines with ease, and Bing, 77, does a great job at poking fun at his age and passing star power. I think it's truly lovely. Second, is how beautifully their voices compliment each other. It's easy to understand why it's such a timeless hit.

The last thing you should know is that Bing Crosby died just one month after this was filmed. The first time the public saw the special that December, Bing has already passed away. Such a lovely thing to leave us with, don't you think? My favorite part is the very end, as the last note is held, and Bing simply remarks, "It's a pretty thing, isn't it?" Nice.

I apologize for the short commercial you have to watch before the clip begins, but I promise it's worth it! Enjoy!

Bing Crosby & David Bowie - Duet
Uploaded by beautifulcynic. - Explore more music videos.

Positively Positive

2010-12-10T10:41:00.005-05:00

One of the major unpleasantries of finding out you have cancer (besides the obvious!) is the task of informing all of your friends and family. In my case, since my lymphoma is low grade and slow moving, I usually began with something like, "First off, I feel completely fine, and I'm not going to die. Secondly, I have cancer." What usually followed was an open mouthed, wide-eyed gasp, then a plethora of questions. I'd work very hard to put my loved ones at ease, and answer all inquiries as honestly and openly as I could.

Usually, after all of the fears regarding my condition and the tests I was undergoing were laid to rest, a different form of questioning would begin. "How did you first notice something was wrong?" "Why did you decide to go to the doctor?" I'd answer, knowing the reason for this particular interrogation was for their own benefit. They were saying to themselves, "Have I ever noticed lumps in MY neck?" or "Should I be going to my doctor for a thorough check-up?"

I understood completely. Cancer is scary. Before my diagnosis, whenever I would hear of a celebrity or friend of a friend who had been stricken with the disease, I'd immediately look for a reason. "Well, he was a pretty heavy smoker," or "Her diet was really terrible, she didn't take very good care of herself." I'd justify their illness, placing my OWN healthy lifestyle on a different level, assured that this would never happen to ME, because I took CARE of myself. Now I realize how ridiculous I was being, but there it is!

So imagine my reaction when I revealed my "cancer news" to one of my coworkers as we sat in our dressing room and prepared for the first show of the day. She reacted much the same as the others, and began with the questions. Then, she said something no one before ever had: "Well, you know, if you had had a more positive attitude, you could've nipped this thing in the bud, right from the start."

Two things immediately popped into my head (after my initial anger began to subside):
1. I am one of the most positive people I know, and
2. Did she just have the audacity to accuse me of causing my own illness because I didn't SMILE enough to her liking?

It's been over three years since that conversation in the dressing room, and I must admit, it still gets to me a little bit! But it's made me think quite a bit about positive attitudes, and how many of us believe it affects our health. I'm going to give you my own opinion today. It won't be popular, I assure you, but I hope you'll stick with me and hear me out! Here goes...

Positive thinking has nothing to do with preventing or curing illness.

Wow! Did that ever feel good to get off my chest! Now, let me explain why I came to this conclusion:

First off, let me say that I'm a HUGE fan of a positive attitude. I DESPISE sullen sad sacs who seem to find great joy in telling you of all the things wrong in their life, preferring to sort of baste in their own misery rather than do something about it. I try very, very hard, on a daily basis to look on the bright side, to count my blessings and focus on the GOOD in people.

I also think my positive attitude has served me well as I accept that cancer will be with me for the rest of my life. I don't sit around moping, dwelling on the fact that I have these tumors in my body. I focus on the fact that they are lazy and low grade, and that I am currently extremely healthy and hardy. When I go to my doctor's appointments, CT scans, and other various testing facilities, I remain upbeat. I joke with the nurses, simply turn my head and ignore the pain that emerges when the needle goes into my arm, and thank the staff for taking care of me as I leave. I KNOW this has helped my overall outlook about this disease I've acquired. But will all of this CURE me? Absolutely not, in my opinion.

May I provide a few examples to back up my claim?

Patrick Swayze: I was an enormous fan of Mr. Swayze during the Dirty Dancing/Ghost years. Being somewhat of a dancer, I always admired his talent and the way he made dancing cool (even for guys!). I think what I admired about him more, however, was his dedication to his sweet wife, Lisa. They had been high school sweethearts, married ridiculously young, and despite his eventual rise to fame and the knowledge that he could have any young new starlett of his choosing, he still talked about how much he adored his wife.

When Patrick was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer a few years back, things looked very bleak, indeed. To everyone, that is, except him. He took on a new TV series, appeared on cancer fundraising telethons, and told Barbara Walters, in an exclusive interview, that he was going to FIGHT this cancer, and he was going to WIN! Now THAT'S positive, ladies and gentlemen! But Patrick didn't win. He gave it all he had, smiled till the end, and finally passed away this year, his sweet wife at his side.

Elizabeth Edwards: Do we really need to go into what a strong, positive lady SHE is? My goodness, this woman went through and survived her teenage son dying in a car accident, a cheating husband who fathered an illegitimate child, and learning on the day of her husband's losing the election for vice president that she had breast cancer. Where the rest of us would have been reduced to a pile of soggy, limp tears with just HALF of those tragedies, Elizabeth persevered. She campaigned for health care, wrote two books about her life, hoping to encourage others, opened a furniture business, and raised three children in the process.

It appeared she was beating her cancer until recently when she learned it had spread to her liver, and there was nothing more to do. She had hoped to live eight more years, so she could see her youngest child graduate from high school. She lasted only a few more days.

Randy Pausch: I just love this man! If you looked under "Positive Attitude" in the dictionary, surely Randy's picture would be the first to appear. He was a college professor at Carnegie Mellon University and author of the awesome best seller, "The Last Lecture." Although he taught computer science, he was mainly known for his inspirational lectures. He was all about taking chances, going after the thing you really wanted but most feared, and grasping life with both hands. His energy and attitude were infectious.

Then Randy was stricken with pancreatic cancer. Although he was determined to fight the disease with everything he had, he knew that his time could be limited, and made every effort to live each remaining day to the fullest. His lectures reflected that. He died in 2008 of complications from his cancer.

You would be insulting all three of these amazing human beings if you even suggested that their attitudes had anything to do with their diseases. They were awesome, thriving, positive people, and they passed away anyway. It was, I believe, their time. Nothing more.

I know what you're thinking right now. "Geez, Joan, what a DOWNER! Don't you think you're being incredibly pessimistic by saying all of this? Saying that there's no hope, even if you have a good attitude?"

I wouldn't blame you if you thought that way, but I'm here to tell you I believe it's just the opposite. Because when I finally realized that my attitude had nothing to do with my cure, I began to RELAX. When I was laying on the table and the nurse was drilling into my hip bone to extract a bone fragment to test, and I thought to myself, "MAN, this really SUCKS," I knew I wasn't dooming myself to certain death.

I was so relieved to finally have permission to be afraid, to sometimes hate the process, and not worry about it affecting my health.

Will I continue to smile and crack jokes with the hospital staff, and sing "Tell Me Something Good" to my oncologist as he enters with the results of my most recent CT scan? Absolutely. But if I'm having a bad day and the ugly lumps on my neck are visible and terribly frightening, I will allow myself to cry. And I won't worry that I'm committing suicide by doing it.

I've probably made a few of you angry today. I want you to know that I understand, and I completely respect your opinion if you disagree. But maybe there's someone out there that is going through what I did, with an illness of their own. Someone who keeps smiling through the pain and fear, and still continues to get bad news, so they're beating themselves up that they're somehow not being positive ENOUGH. I want you to know I release you. You're doing everything right, and you'll get through this, just relax.

And if someone ever has the nerve to accuse you of causing your illness because of your attitude, do what I do. Smile, flip your hair, walk away, and tell them, "Have a nice day."

Thanks for Reading!

Mane Issue

2010-12-06T12:59:00.006-05:00

One hundred years ago, when I was in my twenties, I used to look at old women (you know, those in their 40's and 50's) and feel pity for them, for just one reason. So many of them seemed to have followed along with the hair trends of the times for awhile, keeping up with the popular hairstyles. Then, they hit an era and just stopped trying. They just appeared to quit, from my young perspective.

They kept up with the beehives of the sixties and the hippie, straight, middle-parts of the seventies. But when the big, full, teased-bang look of the the eighties hit, they gave up. Back they went to their set-and-bonnet-dryer look, comfortable once again, uncaring that they were committing the most egregious of fashion faux pas. I'd gaze upon these poor, clueless women, shaking my big haired, Madonna-bowed head in quiet disdain.

But I've been thinking a lot about those comfortable "old" ladies recently. They'd really get a kick out of me now, I'm sure. Because I'm there. I realized this a few days ago. Here's what happened:

Unlike my older counterparts, I've done pretty well with keeping up, if I do say so myself. My hair is thick and naturally curly, and although the Dorothy Hamill short bob of the early seventies was a complete disaster, the Farrah Fawcett "feathered" look was quite achievable. I bought a set of hot rollers that became my new best friends. I got ridiculously fast at rolling my hair every morning, and it was definitely worth the effort, in my sixteen year old mind. I thought I looked AWESOME!

Then came the glorious 80's. I was in college when the "Big Hair" fashion hit. People, my hair was BORN for this style! Getting ready in the morning took about seven seconds. I'd simply turn my head upside down, crank the blow dryer to "high," and blast my hair until it was one big, majestic "poof." Then, I'd flip it back, throw on a headband (large Madonna bow attached), sweep my bangs off to the side, and, TA-DA... DONE! I REALLY loved the 80's!

So, there I was, having a grand old time in the era of big hair, when THIS happened:

Jennifer FREAKING Aniston!! Curse her and her thin, straight, straight hair!! I tried, folks, I really tried! I bought a flat iron, applied straightening shampoo and conditioner, and read article after article on "How to obtain Jen's sexy, sleek look!" Usually, it was a disaster! Occasionally, I'd find the right combination of product and styling tool, and achieve the flat look. But soon the humidity would take over, and my curls would begin to form, refusing to be silenced!!

It was a hard time for me, let me tell you! Even my former spiralled comrades were jumping ship and sporting the new flat style. Gloria Estefan and Nicole Kidman, once big, curly-haired goddesses, now looked like THIS:

And THIS:

Et tu, ladies? It became abundantly clear, I was standing on a sinking ship! So I smoothed my hair as best I could, and managed to make it through that dark time, or as I refer to it: "The Sleek Years."

Then, one GLORIOUS day, the curls began to emerge again! Celebrities were showing up at awards ceremonies with cascading, twirly locks. I was elated! Recently, I'd go to my hairdresser and simply say, "I'd like a good, layered cut to accentuate my curls," and watch as they snipped and shaped my mane. The result was always a little disappointing, though, I must say. They'd style my hair kinda messy, and the curls would always be dangling over my face and eyes. "Weird that I can't get a good cut these days," I said to myself.

So, I arrived a few days ago at my color/cut appointment determined to leave looking like a curly goddess. I spent SEVERAL minutes describing EXACTLY what I wanted to my stylist, and she smiled and said we could DEFINITELY achieve the look I was requesting. She left to mix my color, and I sat back, content that my message had FINALLY been received!

She colored, cut, then began the styling process. She attached a diffuser to her blow dryer, then, turned me around away from the mirror. She tugged and pinched at my locks, happily humming away. Soon, the other stylists were walking by, exclaiming things like, "Wow, that looks GREAT!" and "You have beautiful hair!" and "That's EXACTLY how I'd want my hair to look if it was curly!"

WOW!! I began making plans to call Alan, he was going to need to take me out on the town to show off my amazing new style! I couldn't WAIT for her to turn me around to view this piece of artwork for myself. Then, she did. And, there, staring back in the mirror at me, was THIS:

Yep.

So, dear old ladies of my twenties, I owe you an enormous apology. Because I am now YOU. I left that hair salon, went home, washed my hair, applied mousse and styling gel, threw my head upside down, blew it dry, inserted the largest Madonna-bowed head band I could find, cranked-up some Wham! on my stereo, and danced around my living room in wild abandon. Because as far as me and my hair are concerned, it's 1984, Baby!!

Thanks for Reading!!

Plenty To Be Thankful For

2010-11-25T05:00:00.000-05:00

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends!! I've been saving this clip especially for this day, I'm so excited to share it with you!

This one's from the movie, Holiday Inn, starring Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire. The film features the amazing music of Irving Berlin. In fact, it was this movie that premiered Berlin's classic, "White Christmas." Can you imagine sitting in a movie theater and hearing that song sung by Bing for the FIRST time? Heavenly!

But I've chosen another song from the movie for today, the one that appears in the Thanksgiving segment. It's called "Plenty to be Thankful For," and I just love it, particularly when it's sung the incomparable Bing.

The artist who compiled this video uses several clips from the movie, along with photos of Bing's brother, Bob Crosby and his big band. Apparently, Bob's orchestra performed the accompaniment for this number, so he's given his due praise as well!

Anyway, I think the pictures are terrific, including those of Bing's pretty love interest in the movie, Marjorie Reynolds. Is it just me, or does she remind you a little of Katherine Heigl in these photos? See what you think!

I'll warn you before you listen, though, this tune is CATCHY! I DARE you not to be humming it while you enjoy your turkey and mashed potatoes today!! Enjoy!

Special Delivery!

2010-11-20T19:34:00.003-05:00

I'm not someone who could ever be accused of having OCD. Dirt doesn't bother me in the least, dust collects on my furniture for weeks before I finally break down, pull out the Pledge, and get to work.

I must confess, though, that there is one area in which I can become tremendously obsessed: Christmas cards!

Each year, I take excruciating care choosing the perfect cards, stationery on which we'll print our yearly letter (yeah, I'm one of THOSE people who writes an "update" letter!), and return address labels. I even make sure the stamps are festive! Most years, I've even subjected poor Alan and Trixie to donning our Christmas finery, setting the timer on our camera, and taking a photo, which I also include in the envelope!

After I've acquired all the supplies, I hit "shuffle" on the Ipod Christmas playlist, then sit down to write a personal note in each card. It's usually just a few lines, telling my friends and family how much I miss them, and wishing them a happy holiday season. It takes a while, I have a long list of names. But I honestly enjoy it, because it makes me think of each one of my cherished loved ones as I hand write their names and the names of their children on the inside of each one.

Here's where the OCD comes in: I make sure I have ALL of this done and in the mail the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. Why? Because that means my Christmas card will arrive in the mailboxes of my friends and family on the day after Thanksgiving, the FIRST official day of the Christmas season! Seriously, I NEVER miss! And my loved ones know it, too! One year, we decided to save money and skip the card sending. Just about EVERY card I received that season said something like, "We didn't get your card the day after Thanksgiving! Are you guys OK?" Like I said, it's a sickness!

I guess I put so much effort into my cards each year because I enjoy RECEIVING them so much. I LOVE the beautiful wintery scenes on the front, and the enclosed pictures of growing children in pretty velvet dresses and small bow ties! I LOVE the enclosed letters, telling me what everyone's accomplished over the year, and the plans for the year ahead.

Which leads me to a small pet peeve I've had for a while. Would you mind if I rant for a moment? Have you ever gotten that card in the mail that has the family's names already printed on them? They look beautiful, no doubt. But I've received so many that have no handwriting in them at all, not even our names listed at the top. This means the card went directly from the box to the envelope. The envelope, by the way, has a computer printed stick-on label with my address on the front. This means the sender of this card thought of me for exactly two seconds, when they peeled the label off the sheet and placed it on the envelope.

I know most people are MUCH busier than me during the Christmas season. I don't have children's school holiday programs to attend, or dozens of family members coming to my home for Christmas dinner. I really do understand that sometimes, pre-printed cards and peel-and-stick labels are all some can manage. But I genuinely believe that it's a waste of a stamp.

Christmas cards, in my opinion, are supposed to say, "Hey! I was thinking of you! Maybe I don't get to communicate with you all year, but I wanted you to know that I love you, I cherish your friendship, and I want you and your family to have a merry, merry Christmas!" When you stick an address label on an envelope and enclose an impersonal, pre-printed card, you're saying, "Hey, at least I put forth an effort."

What do YOU think? Am I being ridiculously old fashioned? Do YOU still send holiday cards each year? How do YOU do it? I'd love to hear your opinion! Well, I've got to run. Those envelopes don't address themselves, you know...

Thanks for Reading!!

Working Proud

2010-11-10T18:02:00.000-05:00

Right or wrong, my Dad often judged a man by his work ethic. If you worked like a dog, weren't afraid of getting your hands dirty, and never watched the clock, Dad had a very high opinion of you, indeed.

In fact, when I reunited with my high school sweetheart, Alan, ten years after we graduated, Dad was not pleased. He was remembering the smart-alecky, black concert t-shirt wearing, long hair sporting seventeen year old that I had dated a decade before. I wasn't concerned, however, because I knew JUST what to do to change Dad's mind about Alan.

I wrote Dad a letter and told him I understood his concern, but that he needed to know about all the things that Alan had accomplished since we last saw him. Then I wrote about Alan's four years in the Marine Corps, followed by the four years that he worked a full time job as a waiter so he could pay his way and attend college, full time, at the same time. I mentioned that he worked so hard, he didn't have to take out any student loans. He made the money that was needed each semester in pure sweat by busting his hump. Guess what? Dad was convinced. He welcomed Alan into his home, and eventually walked me down the aisle to meet him on our wedding day!

But there was another area of the job that Dad always talked about: pride in your work. He taught us that any job we were performing, no matter how big or small, should be done with an enormous amount of care and pride. He led by example in this area. In the summers when school was out, he had a carpentry business doing remodeling work. He did it all, kitchen cabinets, back decks, even hand crafted frames for paintings. His small business ad in our local paper simply displayed his name and phone number, along with one quote: "No Job Too Small."

His clients were often stunned when he'd tell them the date in which he'd begin his work, then actually SHOW UP on that day, ON TIME! This was unheard of in the construction business. Except, of course, in my Dad's business. Because Dad took pride in his work, and it showed. More than one stranger came up to me at his wake, took my hand, and said, "Your Dad remodeled my kitchen! He did a terrific job!" Amazing, right?

That being said, my Dad would have loved my new nail technician, Tommy! As you know, we've just moved to our new home near Nashville, TN, and that means starting all over with doctors, vets, hair stylists, and of course, nail techs. I decided to check out the salon closest to our house, especially because it had a huge sign over its front door reading, "New Management! 20% Off All Services!" When I walked through the entrance, a smiling, short Asian man approached me and shook my hand.

"Hello!" he chirped, "I'm Tommy! I'm the new owner of this salon! What can I do for you?"

I explained that I was new to the area and needed a fill. He grabbed my hand and looked at my nails, running his thumb over the surface of my index finger. "Oh, yes! I'd be happy to!" he said, "I can make these look BEAUTIFUL! Come, have a seat!"

Still holding my hand, Tommy led me to his work table, pulled out my chair, and walked around to the other side. But before he sat, he asked, "Would you like something to drink?" He then listed several beverages, including water, soda, and wine. After I declined, he sat down and got to work.

Tommy asked me a few questions about moving here and how I liked living in Tennessee, and I answered them all. But I was really curious about this energetic, nice man, so soon I was the one asking questions. Tommy answered them all, that enormous smile never leaving his face. He told me he had been a nail tech for over ten years, always working in the shops owned by his cousins and other relatives. He'd work for one until the business was up and running, then he'd move on to the next one to help with THAT opening. About two years ago, the opportunity arose to own a shop of his own, and Tommy considered it. But in the end, he said, he felt he still had a lot to learn about running a business, and decided to wait a while longer before taking the big step.

Two years later, when the shop in which we were currently sitting became available, Tommy decreed that it was time, and took the big plunge! The next thirty minutes were filled with Tommy's exited explanations of all he was planning for his brand new salon (he had only owned it one short week!).

He pointed out the walls he had painted ("That red was too harsh, the light brown is much more relaxing for my customers!"), the new pedicure stations he inserted ("It was more expensive for the glass foot bowls, but they look MUCH nicer!"), and the brand of nail acrylic he insisted on using. He said it was more costly than the kind the other salons carried, but that it looked nicer on his clients, and would last longer, so that's ALL he was going to use. Tommy talked and talked, and I began to say a silent prayer as he worked, asking God to bless this awesome man and this business that he clearly cherished so much.

I'll soon be rejoining the work force here in Nashville. I have a BFA in Musical Theater and am ridiculously unqualified for just about everything but performing onstage. I'll also be looking for a job during the worst period of unemployment in our country's history since the Great Depression. But as I set out in my business suit and pumps, briefcase in hand, I'm going to try to remember Dad and Tommy. I'm going to try to convince my potential employer that if they hire me, they'll be getting someone who will show up on time, will work extremely hard, and will take enormous pride in each aspect of her duties (even if that involves flipping burgers!).

I've been back to Tommy's salon three times since that first day, and on each visit I've noticed that it's always much busier than the time before. Dad wouldn't have been surprised. He knows that if you take pride in what you're doing and give it everything you've got, success is sure to follow. In fact, after that first encounter with Tommy, if you had asked Dad, "Do you think this guy's business will succeed?" Without hesitation, his reply would have been Classic Dad: "Is the Pope Catholic?"

Thanks for Reading!!

Happy Halloween!

2010-10-29T07:39:00.004-04:00

Don't you just love this time of year? Time for hot apple cider, The Great Pumpkin on TV, pumpkin spice lattes, and my very favorite: cute, costumed children ringing my doorbell and demanding candy! LOVE IT!!

Now I have a new reason to love Halloween! You may remember that in an earlier entry, I posted a video made by the acapella singing group "The Blanks," featured on the TV show, "Scrubs." They're my friends from college, and I just couldn't be more proud of them!

Well, my awesome, talented friends have just released a new video, just in time for Halloween! It's wonderfully silly, just like them! Grab some apple cider, sit down, push "play," and enjoy!!

Dad's Key to Joy

2010-10-12T13:14:00.006-04:00

Every June, at the conclusion of the school year, my Dad and several of his fellow teacher buddies would load their cars with fishing poles, burgers, buns, beer (Pepsi for Dad), and flannel shirts. They'd hitch up their boats and caravan for ten hours, through Erie, Pennsylvania and Buffalo, New York, over the Peace Bridge to a small marina located on the Key River in Ontario, Canada.

There they'd park their cars, jump in their boats and ride seven more miles down the bendy, gorgeous waterway to a small cabin owned by one of the teachers, Mr. Barrett. They'd spend a week fishing, eating, singing oldies around the kitchen table, fishing, laughing, pulling pranks on each other, and fishing some more. It was a wonderful tradition, and one they kept up for several years. They even made t-shirts emblazoned with their self-appointed name: The June Crew.

Dad anticipated that week all year long, and always returned home from the trip relaxed and happy. Mr. Barrett was generous enough to invite our entire family up to the cabin each August, so we got a chance to see this magical place for ourselves. We have many, many happy memories of fishing and swimming along the rocky shore of that glorious Key River, and I'll never forget them. But deep down, I think I always knew that Dad had MUCH more fun when he was there with The June Crew at the close of every school year.

So you can imagine my delight when my sister Laura sent each of her siblings a DVD last week, copied from a video she found when going through Dad's things. It was titled "June Crew. June 8th, 1990." I popped in the disc and held my breath as the image of happy, smiling men loading their boat at the Key River Marina appeared. I recognized them all immediately as my Dad's dear friends and fellow educators.

Two things became apparent immediately. The first was you never saw my Dad. He was constantly behind the camera, talking to whomever he was taping at the time. The second was that you could hear my Dad's voice distinctly, and I've never heard him sound so happy. He laughed constantly, even appearing to giggle in some places.

It's important to remind you here that my father was a constant worrier. From the days of his youth when he was forced to pick up the slack for his alcoholic father, to his adult years raising his own large family, Dad fretted about EVERYTHING. He worried about money and about the safety and purity of his children. He was constantly imagining he "smelled smoke" in the house and kept all the doors locked at all times, even though we lived in the middle of nowhere on a quiet cul de sac. He was always, always tense. Except for that one week in June.

As he followed the men loading their boats and mugging for the camera, the anticipation in Dad's voice is unmistakable. He asks them dumb, silly questions, like, "Are we gonna catch a lot of fish on this trip?" When the inevitable reply was, "You betcha!" he'd laugh and yell back, "Atta boy!"

As I watched the DVD from start to finish, wiping a tear away at some particularly sweet moments, a thought occurred to me. I don't know if I've ever been as happy as my Dad sounded on that tape. I've been in some great places with gorgeous scenery, with awesome company, but I'm not sure if my voice has ever sounded as exuberant and giddy as Dad's did as he rode on his friend's boat down that Key River. I'm so grateful he had that week every year.

How about you? Do you have a place that makes you deliriously joyful? Do you have a yearly gathering with friends or family that you anticipate, and never disappoints? Oh, I hope so! Everyone, at some point, should sound like Dad did on that tape. It's my wish for you today. I hope you find a place that you can share with the people you love the most in this world. A place that makes you relax and smile, but also invigorates and inspires you!

If you've already found that place, will you tell me about it now? I'd LOVE to hear about it! And as always,

Thanks for Reading!!

Time to Celebrate!!

2010-09-20T22:07:00.001-04:00

I passed a bit of a milestone a few weeks back: On September 1st, 2009, I officially started this blog! My husband had been encouraging me to exercise my writing skills, and assured me that this would be a great way to start. So, nervously, I did!!

I thought I'd post that very first entry today, as a belated anniversary celebration. I must tell you, I was TERRIFIED! I figured no one would care about my silly stories, and I felt so vulnerable sending them out into the blogosphere! I was so sure I'd get nothing but negative feedback, I initially disabled the comments option.

What I found, instead, was this lovely, encouraging blogging community that has been so wonderfully supportive through every step of the way! Thanks to ALL of you! I really, really appreciate it!

So much has changed in just one short year since I started this blog. A year ago, I had just moved to York, PA, and my Dad was relatively healthy, living a happy life of retirement with my Mom in Florida. Today, I live in Nashville, TN, and my Dad has passed away. I'm so grateful I was able to record some of the wonderful memories of Dad on this blog, for all eternity. Although he never read any of my stories, I'm certain he'd be proud of the words I've written here.

So, here it is, my first entry, from one year ago. Can't you just HEAR my knees knocking?...

In The Beginning...

So, I've decided to join the ranks of Those-Who-Think-They-Can-Write-And-Who-Also-Think-That-Others-May-Even-Want-To-Read-Their-Stuff! Thanks to my husband Alan's gentle urging and reassurance that my technologically-challenged brain can actually maneuver this baby, I officially throw my hat into the literary ring.

So, here's my story: I'm a 45 year old white female, raised in the suburbs of Cleveland, Ohio. It was in school there that I received my first creative writing assignments and discovered that I really enjoyed completing them. In seventh grade, my english teacher read one of my fiction essays out loud to the class. I was both mortified and completely jazzed. My mom bought me a thesaurus for my birthday. I was going to be the next Ernest Hemingway.

Then I was cast as the lead in Nordonia High School's musical production of "Anything Goes." That was it. My thesaurus never stood a chance. I became a musical theater major at Syracuse University, graduated, and began my quest for the great Broadway Stage. What I didn't figure on was how miserable I'd be living in New York City. I hated it. I gave it a few good years, did a few decent shows and somehow ended-up moving to Orlando, Florida. I spent sixteen years there, thirteen of them doing the Terminator 2/3D show at Universal Studios. It was a fantastic, awesome gig, and I loved every minute of it.

But, my stud of a husband (you'll hear more about him in later entries) got promoted, which brings us here to our new current residence in York, PA. So, with the lights of the theater fading behind me now, I keep spotting that old worn thesaurus out of the corner of my eye. It beckons me to give my first love a try. I decided to listen.

The name of my blog is a nostalgic nod to something my grumpy, old, Irish dad used to say. He had a lot of sayings: "Hit the Bricks!" (Get Out of Here!), "Tough Tarantula!" (Sucks to Be You!), or "Not too shabby!" (You did good, kid. I am proud of you!). When he was fishing off the deck of his beloved boat, a can of Pepsi in hand on a sunny afternoon, he'd lean back in his chair and say, "I wonder what the poor people are doing today!" But my favorite Jack Donnelly quote growing up was the classic, "Anything Fits a Naked Man." Simple, but true, no? Hard to complain when you're in need!

It is with that quote in mind that I undertake this new adventure. I'm just going to test the creative writing waters once again, naked as I am! Hope you enjoy...

Showing Up

2010-09-07T09:51:00.007-04:00

This won't be a long post today. I just wanted to drop in and thank all of you for your kind, supportive words regarding my Dad's death.

To all my dear friends and acquaintances from out of town who called, e-mailed, facebooked, and sent lovely hand-written notes, thank you. I can't tell you how much it means to me.

You should've seen Dad's wake. There wasn't an empty parking space at the funeral home, because so many people came to pay their respects to this brother, uncle, friend, colleague, and teacher they knew and loved.

Dad's former students were the ones that touched me the most. You may remember from an earlier post that Dad was a high school shop teacher for several years (although he hated that term, and insisted we call it "Industrial Arts."). His students were often not the most academically gifted in the school, but Dad's class offered them a chance to excel at something else; working with their hands and creating something to be proud of.

Imagine how much it meant to my siblings and I to have these grown men approach us as we stood next to Dad's casket, and tell us how profoundly Dad affected their lives. They could have bought a sympathy card at the grocery store, signed their names at the bottom, and mailed it to the house. But they didn't. They showed up. And I'll never forget it.

They put on suits and uncomfortable shoes, combed their hair and drove a few towns away, just to pay their respects in person. They grabbed our hands and looked into our eyes and told us how much they appreciated our father. And I'll never forget it.

There were others who showed up, too. Like the now grown-up boys who lived next door to us thirty years ago. They used to make Dad crazy because they mowed the lawn in their bare feet (safety hazard) and yelled loudly at each other during spirited games of whiffle ball played in their backyard. We hadn't seen any of them in years. Yet, there they were, to grab our hands and gently say, "So sorry to hear about your Dad." They showed up. And I'll never forget it.

Then there were my friends. Not friends of Dad's, mind you (although there were plenty of those, too), MY friends. High school friends who didn't know Dad that well, but came to comfort ME. They showed up with warm hugs, handing me their phone numbers written on slips of paper for "if you just need to talk, or get away for awhile." Gay, my childhood friend, and her parents, whom I haven't seen in over two decades, showed up. And I'll never forget it.

Many of the people I've mentioned above don't read this blog, and will probably never get this message, but I hope you'll indulge me as I send it anyway:

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Not only were you a tremendous comfort, you taught me an invaluable lesson. Showing up means much more than I ever imagined. Before that evening, if my childhood next door neighbor had passed away and I learned about the funeral, I may have penned a quick note to their children and dropped it in the mail, feeling really good that I "reached out." But now all that has changed.

I will show up. I will curl my hair, put on makeup, hose, and a dress, and I will be there. I will wrap my arms around you, and remind you how loved you are. You have my word. Because based on my experience, it's the absolute best thing I can do.

Thanks for Reading.

Turn, Turn, Turn...

2010-08-30T23:47:00.003-04:00

Rest in peace, Dad. I'll miss you.

xo, Joan

Sigh....

2010-08-18T12:01:00.004-04:00

I've mentioned in previous posts that I'm an enormous fan of the big band era, and the music of the 40's. Give me Bing, Frank, and Rosemary on my car radio and I'm good for HOURS!

My XM radio's 40's station is where I recently discovered, and fell in love with, the voice of Margaret Whiting. The recordings of her performing Moonlight in Vermont, A Tree in the Meadow, and my personal favorite, You Do, are so clear and pretty, they've actually reduced me to tears.

So I went on YouTube today to try and find one of those recordings to share with you, and was disappointed when I found none. I instead came upon THIS lovely piece, The Lies of Handsome Men, and I knew immediately it's what I wanted to post today.

Like Rosemary Clooney, Margaret performed well into her later years, when her voice was much older and harsher. This is a recording from those "twilight years," so you won't get to hear the clear, sweet tones of her earlier days. But I think it's lovely, in it's own way. And the slide show is just, well, DELICIOUS! Swoon with me for a minute, won't you?.......

Priceless

2010-08-06T12:29:00.004-04:00

My sister, Jen, and I had a heated debate recently. It was the day after basketball star, Lebron James, Ohio native and player for the Cleveland Cavaliers, broke the collective hearts of an entire city when he announced he would be "taking his talents to South Beach," and leaving to play for the Miami Heat. The televisions stations in Cleveland spent the next several hours mourning their exiting hero's decision, interviewing fans that quickly progressed from being heartbroken to really, really angry.

Despite growing up under the same roof as our father, the athlete, coach, basketball referee and ultimate Cleveland sports fan, Jen never shared the same sports enthusiasm as the rest of us. I don't believe she ever really "got" the whole thing. She declared that day that the worship this country bestows on it's spoiled, overpaid athletes is despicable, and we should all be ashamed for wasting our time pining over their childish antics.

Truth be told, I was never a fan of Mr. James. He definitely, in my opinion, fits the description of the overpaid, spoiled athlete with multiple character flaws. He was born and raised in nearby Akron, Ohio, and played for the Cavaliers for seven seasons, never achieving a championship, often because he appeared to simply quit when they reached the playoffs. He showed up at Jacobs Field wearing a Yankees cap while attending an Cleveland Indians playoff game. In Cleveland. The Indians were playing the Yankees. At a Cleveland Browns home game, he playfully tossed the ball on the sidelines with the quarterback. Of Dallas. The team the Browns were about to play. Classy stuff.

When you view childish, disrespectful antics like this, you can certainly understand Jen's point. Yet I strongly disagreed with my dear sister about my city's devotion to it's teams and players therein. Go to ClevelandBrowns.com and click on the "Community" tab to see all the ways the Browns organization is involved in the city and it's surrounding suburbs. The players and coaches have built playgrounds, read to children in the Cuyahoga County Library, fed the homeless in soup kitchens, and built homes for Habitat for Humanity. They sponsor youth football camps and provide "Family Day" at training camp. I know all other NFL teams have done the same.

Then there are some true classy players. Talk to Josh Cribbs, Browns star kick-off returner and graduate of nearby Kent State University. Ask him how much he loves the city of Cleveland and it's people, but make sure you've alloted plenty of time for his response (Josh tends to gush!).

There's former quarterback and hometown hero Bernie Kosar, who nearly brought the Browns to the Superbowl back in the 80's. He's on the Browns staff now, and commentates the preseason games for the local TV station. There's not enough space on this blog to list all the charities Bernie has founded to aid the people and children of the city he loves. No spoiled brats here.

But there was something else I wish I had mentioned to Jen when we were debating that morning. Ironically, we were doing so in the nursing home room where my father lay, sleeping peacefully in his bed in the corner. I wish I had pointed to my weak, slumbering father and told Jen the story about a preseason game that Dad and I attended several years back. My first husband had just left me a few months earlier, and I was in the process of putting my life back together, one piece at a time. Dad was never a great consoler, but I was back home for a few days, so he suggested we head downtown and try to scalp a couple of tickets to watch Bernie and the Browns take on Kansas City.

Dad was a FIERCE negotiator, and after talking some poor sap down to a few bucks per ticket, we took our seats in the old stadium and prepared for some Browns football. Because Dad both played and coached football, he is extremely knowledgeable about the game, often telling which plays would be called before they were even set to snap the ball. We watched Kosar (Dad was a big fan), and he made predictions about the upcoming season, how he thought our struggling team would do. It was a great night. All my worries about my marriage, my financial situation, and my future faded away as I sat there sipping a Pepsi with Dad, watching our beloved team and dreaming about the season ahead.

The Browns won that game. And the next morning, a rerun of the game was shown on the local television station. Dad and I took a seat on the couch and watched it together AGAIN, saying things like, "Oh, here comes that play where he faked right, then hit the receiver in the end zone!" We cheered just as loud the second time through.

Yes, we probably place far too much emphasis on sports in this country. And the people of Cleveland should probably get over the despicable shunning of their once glorious "King James." But for THIS Cleveland fan, rooting for my team and admiring it's players goes far, far deeper than buying a jersey that supports a millionaire's salary. These players and this team represent my city, and the people who live there. People who get together and cheer for them, year after heartbreaking year, simply because they're "our team."

And most importantly, they have provided the only thing over which my Dad and I have deeply, sincerely bonded. And THAT, my dear sports fans, is priceless. Or as Dad would say, "not too shabby."

Thanks for Reading!!

Oh, Barry!

2010-08-03T00:01:00.017-04:00

Those of you who've been with me for a while may remember my shameful admission several posts ago. That's when I revealed my tremendous love for Barry Manilow back when I was in high school. I know, I know!

In my defense, I don't think it was any "Tiger Beat Puppy Love" kind of thing. It's that his sappy, unrequited love songs were just prime stuff for a young girl pining over her first loves. I mean, if you were sixteen back in the late seventies and your boyfriend just broke up with you, TELL me you wouldn't have listened to "Looks Like We Made It" ninety-seven times in a row! I DARE you!!

Seriously, though, although I rarely listen to Barry's songs today, I have to admit the man is a tremendously talented musician. He also has a wonderful self-deprecating sense of humor that makes me giggle. We all need not take ourselves too seriously!!

So, in a bit of a nostalgic mood, I've chosen this clip of one of my favorite Manilow tunes, "Somewhere Down the Road." Although I wish he were playing the piano himself, I love how the orchestra sits behind him, silent, while the only accompaniment is heard from offstage. I also love the fact that his voice is a bit hoarse, not sure why.

This song came out shortly before I graduated. That was the time that my husband, Alan, and I, high school sweethearts, had decided to go our separate ways. Those of you who are familiar with our story know that we reunited and married some ten years later. I think that's why I have a particular fondness for this song, and the line, "We had the right love at the wrong time..."

It's not a really long clip. C'mon, take a look back with me. I won't tell...

The Only Necessary Word

2010-07-29T21:38:00.007-04:00

Captain Tony Tarracino is a legend in Key West. Born in 1916 in Elizabeth, New Jersey, he fled to Key West as a young man, barely surviving a severe beating provided by some Mafia thugs pursuing him after discovering his gambling scam. To say The Captain lived a colorful life would be the same as stating that the surface of the sun is a little warm.

Throughout his 92 years on this earth, Tony worked on a shrimp boat, captained his own fishing charter boat named The Greyhound, and served as a gunrunner during the Cuban revolution. He owned and ran one of Key West's most popular bars, Captain Tony's Saloon, and it was there he gave a young guitar player his first break. The kid had just bombed out in Nashville, and had come to Key West to try and become a bar musician.

Tony liked the kid and, although he already employed a featured band, offered to let him play during the musicians' ten minute breaks, for ten dollars and three Budweisers per night. That kid, Jimmy Buffett, accepted, and the two became great, life-long friends. Buffett's ballad, The Last Mango in Paris, is a tribute to his friend and first boss. When Captain Tony ran for Mayor of Key West one year, Buffet served as his campaign manager. He won.

But all his other outlandish accomplishments aside, Captain Tony seems best known for his philandering with the opposite sex. If prompted, he would proudly tell you of his thirteen children, born to eight different women. Even in his final days, he kept court on a barstool at Captain Tony's Saloon, posing for pictures with the tourists, signing body parts of buxom women who smiled and giggled when he gave their ample rear ends a flirtatious squeeze as they turned to leave. In his golden years, he talked of how much he loved the scent of women, and how much he enjoyed the feel of their soft skin.

Alan and I were actually enjoying a beer at Captain Tony's Saloon a few years back when The Legend appeared and took his seat on his bar stool throne. Immediately, a crowd gathered and a line of autograph seekers and picture posers formed in front of him. I had heard a little of Mr. Tarracino, and I turned to catch a glimpse of the Old Salt, but I honestly had no desire to meet the man. As a first-hand victim of an adulterous ex-husband, I don't have much patience for those who proudly boast of their infidelities, legend or not.

But when we were visiting Key West once again last week on vacation, a title emerged as I perused a shelf at the local bookstore: Life Lessons of a Legend. It was a book written about Captain Tony, by an Iowa School Superintendent and Parrothead, Brad Manard. Brad met Tony one night as he visited his saloon on vacation, and asked if he could write his story. He spent a week dining and interviewing the man, getting his incredible life lessons down for all eternity.

I read the entire book on my flight home, and I have to say, I was too quick to judge Tony Tarracino. Because despite his questionable decisions regarding women and an arguably nasty gambling habit, I found myself genuinely liking the man.

Tony had a word that drove him through life: Compassion. He said it was the only word in the dictionary worth anything, and all the other words "should be thrown out." Compassion was the only necessary word. Tony showed it in the way he treated people. He loved people (not just the women), particularly when he served as mayor of Key West during the early 90's. He said he felt like the father of 28,000 people, and he treated the citizens who elected him as his children. The local merchants say that it wasn't just that Tony loved Key West so much, it was that he loved the PEOPLE who resided there even more. He was a wealthy businessman at the time, but he fought tooth and nail to protect the "little guy" from the big business moguls who threatened to take over the island, pushing everyone else out.

He was a chronic over-tipper and knew most of the homeless by name. He helped them as best he could, never judging their situation or questioning their downfall. His friends say that he felt so lucky to have the privilege to give to those down on their luck, and he did so with a happy, loving, compassionate heart. He talked incessantly about finding "the jewel" in others. He contested that even the most ornery old cuss had a kind, tender spot, way down deep somewhere. He believed that if you looked hard enough, you could find it in everyone. He always had a kind word for everybody he met.

I wish I had left my Coors Light on the table that day and strolled over to Captain Tony's barstool. I'd have shook his hand and thanked him for reminding me to be slow to judge (even when it came to philandering old men), to search for the good in people, and to practice compassion above all else.

Captain Tony died on November 1, 2008, surrounded by loved ones and family. The entire island of Key West cried that night for their lost legend and father. Then, they lifted their tropical drinks in a toast to him, and promised to carry on the lessons he'd spent a life learning. I've decided I will, too.

Thanks for Reading!!

Singing for the Smile

2010-07-20T21:10:00.009-04:00

My Dad was the first of his generation in his large family to graduate from college. He worked the night shift at the steel mill, spent a few summers as a garbage man, but he paid his own way and graduated with a degree in education from Kent State University. Education was really important to Dad.

He wanted to make sure each of his kids had the opportunity to attend college as well, and did everything he could to encourage us.

For me, this involved visiting three schools in particular: Ohio State (Dad is an ENORMOUS Buckeye fan and tried his best to sway me in that direction!), Syracuse University, and Cincinnati Conservatory of Music. The latter two required not only to be accepted academically, but also to pass a singing/dancing audition before being considered for their Musical Theater departments. Dad freed the time from his ridiculously busy teaching/coaching/refereeing schedule to drive Mom and I to both schools the summer before my senior year.

I really liked Syracuse from the moment I arrived on campus. The theater professors were welcoming and genuinely nice. Each potential student was called individually into a small mirrored room to sing our selections and perform a short dance routine to a small panel of teachers, smiling behind a table. I left feeling good about my audition and hopeful for some positive results.

Then came the trip to Cincinnati. The CCM campus was quite large, the staff a bit stiff and unsmiling. Immediately upon arriving, approximately 30 of us auditioners and our parents were corralled into a large room and told to sit in the uncomfortable plastic chairs that faced the front, where a giant piano sat. Just in front of the piano was a long table, where there were seated several music/drama/dance professors, all sporting unfriendly scowls. The auditioners were asked to take seats in the chairs nearest the front, the parents were to remain in the back.

An older, white-bearded man arose from the table, mumbled a few words of greeting in a forced british accent, then called the first boy's name to begin his vocal audition. The boy arose, gave his music to the accompanist at the ginormous piano, then nervously took his place on the "X" marked on the floor as instructed by Mumbles. He began his number, revealing a lovely tenor voice, and as his fear seemed to subside a bit, a delightful personality emerged. The kid was really nailing it! Nailing it, that is, until Mumbles held up a hand and yelled, "STOP!" The boy, mortified and shocked, stopped mid-note, and looked down at his accuser with worried eyes.

Then this pompous old bearded jerk proceeded to tell this sweet boy all of the ways that he had failed with this particular piece. He gave him fierce criticism that was far from constructive, then told him to start again. Shocked and shaking, the boy began again. But it was hopeless. Fear had returned to stay, and the man finally cut him off once again with a "Thank you. That is all." Defeated, the boy exited and sat down. His face was so red it permeated to the tips of his earlobes.

I watched as, one by one, this man berated each young applicant, always with a great deal of mock exasperation and stinging words. Every once in a while, he'd decide he liked someone, and would let them finish their number. This, however, was rarely the case.

Looking back, I'm pretty shocked at my reaction to all of this. I didn't crumble in fear. I think I was pretty sure by then that I didn't want to attend this school, with this group of hostile teachers. I already knew I wanted to go to Syracuse, if they chose me. So, I honestly had no anxiety. None at all. I liked my prepared song, "Cockeyed Optimist" from South Pacific. It had an easy range, and gave me a chance to show a little personality. And besides, there was a full audience of parents out there for which to perform! I decided to focus on that and forget about the pompous jerk who would most certainly be cutting me off!!

When my name was called, I handed my music to the accompanist and walked calmly to my mark. I smiled at the crowd, and nodded for her to begin. As my intro was playing, I looked up and spotted my Dad, standing, in the back of the room. He stood out, not only because all the other parents were sitting in chairs. Dad stood in the back, arms crossed, leaning against the wall, with a look of intense FEAR on his face. He was terrified!

I flashed him a quick smile before beginning my number. It was the best I could do. I was proud of it. Mumbles DID, in fact, stop me, about three quarters of the way through my song. He gave me a few notes, then asked me to begin again. I did. This time he let me finish. I was satisfied with that. But as I turned to walk off, I glanced back at Dad. He was still standing, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. But on his face was the biggest, warmest, proudest smile I'd ever seen. I put it there. Dad was proud. Really, really proud. Can I tell you how amazing that felt?

I didn't get accepted at CCM. I did go to Syracuse University, where I performed in many shows, as well as some after graduation. Dad attended almost all of them. He always offered a big hug and a "nice job!" after each one, always telling me he was proud of me. But none of those reactions were as wonderful as that day in Cincinnati. That's the day when I not only calmed my Dad's fears, but I made him believe in me.

Thanks for Reading!!

That's an Irish Lullaby

2010-07-11T22:00:00.004-04:00

My dear blogger friends, I write today with a bit of a heavy heart. I've just returned from a few days spent with my siblings, as we placed Dad in a nursing home back in our home state of Ohio. He was living a contended life of retirement with our Mom in Winter Haven, Florida, when he suffered a stroke on Christmas Eve, from which he has has never recovered.

The truth is, these may be my father's last days. The vibrant athlete, carpenter, coach, and teacher who worked his ass off to provide for his large family is now finding it difficult to sit up in bed. He's not in pain, and he appears to be in good spirits. Dad just appears to be slowly fading away.

I've decided I'm not yet ready to write about my own heartache over the whole situation, nor the surreal reality my brother, sisters, mother, and I are now forced to accept. Maybe another day.

Instead, I'd like to share this lovely Irish lullaby, sung by Bing Crosby, from the movie Going My Way. I believe it was the first song we kids learned. Dad taught it to us. Will you indulge me?

"Liberty Will Reign!!"

2010-07-04T07:01:00.004-04:00

Hey Everybody! I've been gone for a bit, anything interesting happen here while I was away?! Ha! I'm so glad you finally got to meet my awesome husband! Isn't he the coolest? And by the way, don't let him fool you, he's been carrying me for over twenty years!!

Anyway, in honor of today's 4th of July holiday, I wanted to post something patriotic and moving! I looked at several clips of groups singing the national anthem, scenes from the stirring musical 1776, and nothing seemed to grasp what I wanted to express today.

Then, I found this tremendous clip from the HBO miniseries, John Adams. Have you seen it? It's really tremendous, and among other things, displays exactly how hard our forefathers fought, physically and politically, to ensure the rights we so casually enjoy today. John Adams was particularly passionate that EVERY man, no matter what status, should enjoy their God-given rights of freedom and liberty.

This is a clip very early in the series, where the men are just beginning to assemble the members of the Continental Congress that would compose and sign the Declaration of Independence. They asked Mr. Adams to give a speech that will inspire the crowd, and make the case for revolt. These are John Adams actual words. I DARE you not to get goose bumps when you hear the actor Paul Giamatti speak them now....

Rescue Me

2010-06-29T00:01:00.032-04:00

Hello Naked Man Readers! I am Joan’s husband Alan and for some time she has asked me to “drop by” and bang out a few words so that you would all know I actually existed. The problem with that, of course, is that I am no writer, and the dilemma of subject always poked me in the eye. Isn’t it funny that you can live for four decades and still pause and stare at a blank piece of paper?

But today as Joan and I ran on a nearby trail I watched her cute butt for about 25 minutes and realized that there have been times in my life I have turned to her to rescue me. I was running very close behind her because I needed her to pull me through the 5K we were running. For those of you who know us personally you know that despite spending years in the Marine Corps and working on my feet my entire working life, I have never been able to outrun Joan. I finally realized that a couple of years ago when she beat me by several minutes in a half marathon despite my longer legs and months of training for that specific race.

But so what? I needed Joan to pull me around the track this morning just like I needed her to pull me out of a very dark time in my life almost exactly 20 years ago. So really this morning was nothing new for me.

Twenty years ago this summer I was in a very dark place. My first marriage had been crumbling and most of the crisis in the relationship was my fault. Laurel and I had been married for seven years during which time I completed my service in the Corps and both of us had worked our way through college without ever getting a hand out, a loan or a grant of any kind. We just worked our butts off to finish school, and we did. But the time of mission and purpose came to and end, and so did our relationship. We spent time apart and I began to drink. When Laurel was nervous about how much I was drinking I started putting vodka in my coffee so she could not smell it on my breath. I drank every day and eventually we split. But I was still in a terrible place. I continued to drink and did terrible things that summer 20 years ago. I hurt a lot of people and drank to hide from the damage I was causing. Like the character William Munny in the brilliant Eastwood movie “Unforgiven,” it wasn’t that I didn’t care about the pain I was causing. I did care. I cared so much I was drinking a half a bottle of Stoli everyday.

Thanksgiving of that year my mother and father came to my apartment in Atlanta to visit me. During the conversation my mom began reminiscing about my high school sweet heart, Joan. Mom had stayed in touch with Joan and wondered aloud if I had.

“No” I said. But I felt a warm spot in my heart when I started thinking of her. We had split up amicably shortly before I met Laurel as Joan worked on her degree at Syracuse. Eventually Joan fell in love with a classmate there and they married. I had not seen Joan in over eight years.

But I had never forgotten Joan. If a 16 year old boy can truly be in love, then I had been with her in 1980. She was spectacular. Joan was beautiful, talented and a great kisser. Who doesn’t remember how wonderful your first was – in memory?

But I needed something to pull me out of the terrible hole I was falling into. Something tangible. Not a faded memory of someone likely to have gone through as many changes as I had since then. I needed someone to rescue me. What could be left of the Joan that I knew so long before?

I learned that Joan was in Syracuse, NY again and I called information (that is the way it worked back then, my younger readers) and got every derivative of J. Donnelly in the book and left them all the same penned message. “My name is Alan Emery; I went to high school with a Joan Donnelly. If she is at this number I would love to get caught up.”

Man did we get caught up… We spent weeks talking on the phone and for the first time in what seemed like ten years, I felt happy. I felt a sense of optimism and fun. And I quit drinking. When I came to visit her a month later I was already madly in love with her again. I walked up the stairs to knock on her door and paused for a second before knocking. I had never felt the butterflies so significantly before. And after knocking I heard Joan ask “Are you ready?”

How could she possibly know how ready I was?

Now twenty full years after our reintroduction she has continued to rescue me. Just like Claudia rescued Will Munny from his dark days. "She cured me of my wickedness” Munny would say. After losing my job on my 15th anniversary, and the phone call from her doctor telling us that Joan had an incurable form of Lymphoma, times for us were pretty tough. I had never gone without a job and I could not ask Joan to be the strong one. She was dealing with enough already. So I found a job quickly and soon knew that I was in a much better position with this new company than I ever had with my old company.

But soon after taking the job an amazing opportunity came my way to accept a promotion that would move us far away from everything Joan loved about Orlando – near her mother, a job she had loved for 15 years, a cancer doctor that always told her it was going to be OK and some wonderful friends. But Joan gave up all of that to let me have what I wanted out of my work experience. And remarkably, she is doing it again just one year later as we prepare to move again.

I often wonder if I deserve the things I have in my life. Quickly I realize that I do not. But like Will Munny says: "Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it." Clearly for me it does not. But in my moments that I mourn the man I used to be, I am reminded by Joan of whom I have become. And when reminded of that, I know it is Joan who tossed me the rope and rescued me to become who I am.

My Friends Are Famous!!

2010-06-26T18:52:00.006-04:00

I had the supreme pleasure of attending a performance of The Blanks last night with some terrific friends. You may know these guys from their many appearances on the hit TV show Scrubs. They're the acappella group that Ted, the lawyer played by Sam Lloyd, leads in song in various locations throughout the hospital.

They're also good friends of mine, and former fellow musical theater classmates when we attended Syracuse University together many, many years ago. The performance was completely amazing, and we had a wonderful visit afterwards and got all caught up.

What a terrific evening! I'm so proud of my friends, and all they've accomplished. I'd love for you to watch this and tell me what you think. Besides being ridiculously talented and hilariously goofy, they are wonderfully kind, awesome men. I can't wait to share their talent with you!!

Courtesy Isn't Common

2010-06-22T15:49:00.004-04:00

Now that Alan and I are moving, I can finally say out loud what I've been trying to ignore for over a year now. My current home town is an extremely unfriendly one! Seriously, I've never lived in a place where making friends was so difficult! Even at the organizations where I volunteer, although I feel I am well-liked, no one has really bothered to get to know me, despite my own attempts to do the same for them. For instance, at the senior center where I've worked for the past six months, a woman recently referred to me as "That Lady That Calls Bingo." She hadn't bothered to learn my name. In six months.

But, I'm a big girl. If we were staying, I'd have adjusted and persisted in finding some genuine friends. But since we're leaving, I no longer seem to be able to find the energy to try! I have, however, learned a valuable lesson from my experience here. Once I'm in my new home, in my new town, and eventually connect and make friends there, I will ALWAYS be the first one to reach out to newcomers.

I will be the first at the new neighbors' door, a plate of fresh-baked cookies in my hand. I will approach the new girl in my Zumba class, and bring her over and introduce her to my friends. If we're going out for coffee afterwards, I'll invite her to join us. When I'm working or volunteering somewhere, and a new girl is hired, I will make a genuine effort to engage in a conversation with her. I will ask about her family and her hobbies, and I will remember her answers. In short, I'll do all the things I wish someone here had done for me. You have my word!

I wrote the following post back in October, just a few months after we had moved here. At the time, I thought it was just a silly little entry, because I knew eventually I'd find the "kind, thoughtful" people. That wasn't really the case. See if you can identify someone in YOUR town like this:

To Every Teenage/Twenty-Something Cashier at the Grocery Store/Department Store/Garden Center Where I Shop: Yes, I know you don't want to be here, working for minimum wage so you can afford all that thick, black eyeliner and those low, low, low-rise, skin-tight jeans you're wearing. I know you've got much better things to be concentrating on, like the fact that you think your boyfriend may be cheating or that you may have just flunked your biology pop-quiz, stuff that's WAY more pressing than ringing up my silly birdseed and potting soil.

But here's the thing: this is your job. You're being paid to be here. And guess what? This is life! Like it or not, we all have to do stuff we don't want to do every now and then. Maybe you should join the rest of us, stop pouting, and ring up my stuff. And would it really kill you to smile once in a while? You don't even have to show teeth or anything, just a little turn-up at the corners of your mouth when I make eye contact with you and cheerily say, "Hi!" would be just AWESOME! And while I've got your attention, can you and I make a deal? If you promise to stop staring at my (adorable!) pumpkin sweater in horrified disbelief, I'll pretend that I can't see your ass-crack every time you bend over in those jeans you painted on this morning. Deal?

To the Guy I "Waved-In" When There Was a Line of Traffic Backed-Up at the Light: Remember me? I was the person in the copper Infiniti FX who watched you sit there at the exit of that gas station while SEVERAL cars drove by, refusing to let you merge-in. I'm the one who stopped, holding up all the angry, horn-blowing, selfish drivers behind me to allow you in ahead of me. I even smiled at you, remember?

You were so taken-back by the fact that someone was actually being courteous that you hesitated at first, wondering if it was all some cruel joke I was playing. You seemed to wonder if just when you attempted to pull out, I would rush ahead, laugh, and then point and shout "Sucker!" at you. But I waited, and you pulled in front of me. Remember how you mouthed the words, "Thank you," then smiled and performed the international "wave of appreciation" that all courteous motorists know to do when someone has been thoughtful? Remember? You don't? Huh. Maybe that's because you NEVER DID IT!!! Seriously! You couldn't manage a simple "thank you" wave? Really?

To the Elderly Woman Who's Shopping Cart Bumped Into Mine Because She Was Walking Briskly, Looking at Breakfast Cereal, Instead of in the Direction She Was Going: Hey, everybody's done that, right? No big deal! But you know what the rest of us do when we've hit someone so hard that their cart rolls back on their feet (feet that were particularly SORE that day from an intensely strenuous morning run!)? WE APOLOGIZE! Really, we do! We say, "Oh, I'm so sorry! What was I thinking? Are you OK?" Seriously, that's what courteous, kind human beings do! What we don't do, usually, is what YOU did, which is SCOWL at me for having the audacity to actually be standing in a public place, inhabiting the same aisle as you, shopping for corn flakes! The NERVE!!

And Finally, To Every Man, Woman, and Child That I Have Passed On the Sidewalk or Trail While Running: I'm the girl wearing the black running pants, Cleveland Browns t-shirt, and unattractive bandana around my head. My "weapons" include a heart-rate monitor watch and a wash cloth I use to wipe the sweat off my face. When I make eye contact with you as I pass, nod my head and wave my hand slightly, cheerfully saying, "Morning," I'm simply greeting you. I'm not trying to "hook-up" with you, sell you something, or rape you. Would it really kill you to give me a simple nod back? I promise I won't follow you home or stalk your children at the bus stop. I'm just being friendly. And the truth is, when you completely ignore me like you always do, never acknowledging my presence, even though I run by you EVERY day, well it just hurts my feelings! There. I said it. (Seriously, is it the bandana that's off-putting?)

Wow! That felt GREAT! I hope this has cleared-up any questions you all may have had about how to behave like courteous, caring human beings on this planet. I know you've been waiting on pins and needles for me to give you these very instructions, and that you will now rush right out and implement all my excellent advice. Well, all I can say is-- You're Welcome!!

Thanks for reading!!

Home

2010-06-18T19:13:00.000-04:00

You've all been very patient with me over the past several weeks as my postings have been more and more infrequent. Please accept my sincere apology!

My only excuse to offer is that I've been a little distracted, as Alan and I have recently learned that we'll be moving once again.

It's all for positive reasons. Although we've only lived in our current home for a little over a year, Alan's company is transferring him to a much busier area, and one that is highly coveted by his colleagues. It's near Nashville, TN, where Alan's company's home office is located. The offer was a tremendous testimony to the fantastic job he's doing, and proof of how pleased the "Higher-Ups" are with his work. As soon as our current home in York, PA sells, we will be packing up and heading back down South.

This is relatively easy for Alan. One could definitely say that he and his two brothers were exposed to a very nomadic upbringing as children. Because of his Dad's job, they were constantly packing up and moving to the next town, forced to make new friends and adjust to each new school along the way. I've often said that although it may have been hard on him, the experience has really served Alan well in the long run. He is incredibly adaptive and makes friends easily, wherever he goes.

I, on the other hand, lived in the same home near Cleveland, Ohio, from the age of six months until I left for college at eighteen. My brother bought that house from my parents, so I can still visit and recall the wonderful memories created there. So, you can imagine, I'm not as skilled at the whole "uprooting process" as my dear husband. I love this house, as well as the birds and critters that visit daily and have helped make it "home."

But as I've packed the boxes and prepared each room for "showing" over the last several weeks, I've realized something else. Alan is my home. Wherever he and I are together, that's home. I know. It's ridiculously corny, but there it is. Do you have someone like that in your life? Someone who grounds you, no matter what the atmosphere may be like around you? That's Alan for me.

Billy Joel wrote a song that expresses this much better than I. This is an oldie of his, called "You're My Home," and this particular video is from a concert back in 1976. He's not an awesome performer, and I hate that he NEVER smiles, but my hope is that you'll focus on his lyrics, because they are tremendously lovely.

Here's one of my favorite lines:

"Well, I'll never be a stranger
And I'll never be alone.
Wherever we're together
That's my home."

Gets me every time!!

So, my dear friends, I promise to try harder, but I'm afraid I'll continue to be a tad distracted in the coming weeks. Please bear with me! In the meantime, let's watch Billy together and think about the awesome people in our lives that remind us what's really important, OK? (You may have to click and go to stupid YouTube again, but I promise it's worth the effort!)

In The Long Run...

2010-06-13T12:55:00.002-04:00

Last week I went for a seven mile run down a beautiful trail near my home. It was a gorgeous day with temps in the low 70's, zero humidity, and lots of tall, full trees shading my path. The birds sang to me along the way, and chipmunks scurried across the trail in front of me. To be honest, I can't think of a more perfect morning. Except that I was running. I really hate running!

Here's the thing, though. I run just about every morning, I have for the past twenty five years or so. I rarely miss a day. But I hate it.

I've incorporated sprints, hill repeats, the works. I wear a heart rate monitor and gage my workout effort and calories burned. I'm actually pretty fast. But I hate it.

I've had injuries (caused from running too much) that have required surgery. I stop running for the required rehab period, dutifully perform my physical therapy to recover properly, and am soon "hitting the trail" once again. But I hate it.

We made a move recently from Florida to Pennsylvania because of my husband's work. One of my only three demands issued upon moving was that he buy me a treadmill, so that I could continue running throughout the winter months. But I hate it.

Here's the thing: I run to keep my dress size in the single digits. Period. Throughout my life, I have searched (and searched!) for a more effective cardio-vascular exercise form that increases my heartbeat and burns fat as efficiently as running, and have found none. Cycling, aerobics, elliptical machine, stair-master, Zumba, swimming, Nordic Track, yoga, circuit training, all have failed in comparison. Running, quite simply, gives me the most "bang for my buck." I can run for 3.75 miles in 30 minutes and burn more fat than pedaling for an hour and a half on the bike, no matter how fast I go.

So, everyday, for 30-60 minutes, I run. Even though I hate it. I figure I can withstand one hour of hating something in order to enjoy the other twenty-three in non-fat bliss. It's a fair trade, don't you think?

A few years back, my sister, Laura got involved in a running group that trained for the Chicago Marathon. She LOVED it, and told me I needed to enter races in order to find running fun, as she had. I was skeptical. I told her the term "Fun Run" seemed like an oxymoron to me.

That same year, at Alan's restaurant convention in Vegas, the planning committee announced that they'd be holding a 5K run the next day, and encouraged all employees and their spouses to enroll. In Vegas. You know, hot, dusty, DESERT Vegas! Alan begged me to enter. I said no. He told me he'd buy me a cute new running outfit if I did. So the next day, when I showed up at the starting line in my cute new running outfit, I was a little amazed at how nervous I felt. I guess the butterflies helped, though, because I won! Yep. First for the ladies. Got a medal and everything! Alan proudly hugged me as I crossed the finish line. And as I gave him a sweaty, dusty hug back, I sweetly whispered into his ear, "Never again!" Because I hated it.

I've entered a few more races since then; a 10K, 5-miler, even a half-marathon. And I can honestly say I haven't enjoyed any of them. To the right is a picture of me, #869, just finishing a 10K race. Look how HAPPY I am!! Seriously, I see the joyful, smiling faces of my fellow competitors, and I honestly don't get it!

I subscribe to Runner's World Magazine, and in it the various authors discuss how when it's raining buckets outside, or the temperature is below freezing and the sun hasn't even come up yet, they still can't WAIT to lace up the running shoes and head outside! Freaks. All of them! Because the truth is, I'm out there running in the rain, cold and dark, too. I'm just the only one saying, "Boy, this really SUCKS!!"

But a funny thing has happened since I've been doing all this running over the years. I'm in great shape. Although my weight may fluctuate, my blood pressure is terrific, and my heart and lungs are strong and clear. Whenever I'm faced with anything remotely cardio-vascular in nature (mountain climbing, biking, hiking), it's usually relatively easy for me to accomplish. There are some medical specialists who even believe that my running habit has served in keeping my inherited lymphoma in the "lazy, not-ever-going-to-kill-me" stage, rather than the severe form that killed my grandmother.

So we've made our peace, Running and I. We tolerate each other quite well, I think. I give Running 30-60 minutes of my day, and in return, it gives me a healthy, low fat body and a glowing report from my physician every year. But I think we're both in agreement, no more stupid races. Those things are just ridiculous. Stupid. (Wanna see my medal?)

Thanks for reading!!

Dreaming of Galway Bay

2010-06-10T05:00:00.003-04:00

Today's video is brought to you courtesy of the tremendously talented singing ensemble, Celtic Woman. Chloe Agnew is the soloist for this particular number, Galway Bay. I am mad about these women, mostly due to the fact that their singing is so pure and lovely, it literally makes me teary. This performance was filmed last year, from Powerscourt House And Gardens in Wicklow, Ireland. I love how the audience recognizes the song during the introduction, applauds, and how Chloe gives them all a knowing wink!

You may have read this post I wrote about the visit Alan and I recently made to Ireland, the home of my ancestors. We've been back from that trip six years now, and I can honestly state that it's still the most beautiful place I've ever seen. I remember, as we drove through that gorgeous emerald countryside, thinking about the horrible potato blight that ravaged the land back in 1850. Desperate and starving, many families had no choice but to leave their family farms and the home of their ancestors to make a new life, in the United States and other neighboring countries. As I stood and marveled at those breathtaking rolling green hills, I couldn't fathom how difficult it must have been to leave a place so beautiful.

This song, I believe, was written by someone who has fled, and still dreams of his dear home back in Ireland. It always makes me a little weepy, especially when it's sung so movingly by the tremendously talented Chloe. My favorite is the last verse where she sings:

"And if there is gonna be a life hereafter
And faith, somehow, I'm sure there's gonna be.
I will ask my God to let me make my heaven
In my dear land across the Irish Sea." Nice!

The "share" factor has been disabled in this video, so when you click "start," it will ask you to click again, to watch it on YouTube. It's a tiny hassle, but I promise you it's genuinely worth the trouble! Please enjoy...

Food for Worms

2010-06-06T18:22:00.004-04:00

So what do you think of my new template? I miss my former one, but it completely crashed and burned, and is no longer available! Sigh! I've put this one in temporarily, but may keep playing with it! Keep checking back!!

Here's another repost. But it's a lesson I, in particular, could really use right now. I wonder if you do too:

Today I'm going to write about another favorite yearly trip that Alan and I take. Every July for the past ten years or so, we point the car south and drive until the road meets the ocean, in Key West. We love to go in July because this is when the town hosts their annual Hemingway Days, in honor of their famous one-time resident, Ernest Hemingway. It's AWESOME!!

The highlight of the festival takes place at Papa Hemingway's favorite drinking establishment, Sloppy Joe's Tavern. This is where they hold the extremely popular Hemingway look-a-like contest. Believe me when I tell you these men are SERIOUS about this competition! Picture a bunch of burley men with grey hair and beard, dressed head to toe in safari-wear. The contest lasts several days and includes a key-lime pie eating contest, talent show, and the "running with the bulls" race (the latter is performed using shopping carts dressed to resemble the livestock of Pamplona. It's a MUST see!!).

We love Key West and the flavor of that eclectic city. One year we decided to really explore the history of the place and took several tours of the old homes there. Key West boasts a rich history, particularly during the nineteenth century. This was an era when shipwrecks occurred daily on the island's off-shore reef. It was a time of pirates and yellow fever, slave ships and Indian wars. There are many huge mansions there built solely from the spoils of treasure found off of those wrecked ships.

There's a fantastic old cemetery there where you can wander amongst the crypts of the town's most famous citizens. The engraving on some of the headstones gives you an idea of the true character of Key West and it's inhabitants: "I Told You I Was Sick," "Devoted Fan of Julio Inglesias," "Good Citizen for 65 of his 108 Years," and "At Least I Know Where He's Sleeping Tonight."

That same year we decided to take a boat ride on the Yankee Freedom to the Dry Tortugas National Park, located seventy miles west of Key West. Here you can find Fort Jefferson, one of the largest coastal forts ever built. It became a prison during the civil war, and even housed the famous inmate Dr. Samuel Mudd. He's the doctor that was charged with conspiracy for treating the broken leg of John Wilkes Booth after he assassinated President Lincoln. It was a fascinating, beautiful trip, but one that soon became extraordinary when we boarded the boat to return back to the Keys.

Apparently, some Cuban refugees, trying to make their way on a make-shift raft to Miami, had drifted west and landed on the shores of the Dry Tortugas. Our country has a "dry foot" law regarding Cuba, in that if a refugee makes it to land, they are allowed to stay (after being processed by our government). Since transportation to and from the Tortugas is limited, they announced to us passengers that park officials would be escorting the Cubans back to the Processing Center on Key West by way of our boat. I'll tell you this, it was hard not to stare at the faces of those tired, relieved men. I thought hard about the intensity of the journey they had just endured.

But our surreal trip was not over. About a half an hour into our boat ride back, the captain again made an announcement. He said we'd notice that the boat was going to slow to a stop for a moment while they paused and performed a brief, two-minute ceremony off the back of the ship. I tore myself away from the exhausted refugees to see what was going on. Apparently, the parents of a long-time Key West fisherman were onboard. Their son had recently lost his battle with cancer, and they had with them an urn that contained his ashes, along with the gold medallion he always wore. The father held in his hand a paper with the exact latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates of where his son requested his ashes to be scattered.

The boat stopped and a crew member helped the elderly couple onto a small platform nearest the water. They both bowed their heads, then cast the contents of the urn out onto the crystal clear, windex-blue water. The last thing they tossed overboard was that gold medallion. As they both turned back, tears streaming down their faces, I struggled for something to say. There was nothing. So as the woman passed, I grabbed her arm, looked her in the eye, and gave her hand a squeeze. She patted my hand and said, "I'm just glad it's finally over." Indeed.

I returned from that trip to Key West with a different attitude. I kept

thinking about how brief the time is that we get on this earth. Seriously, it won't be long before they're giving museum tours of OUR homes, saying, "Here's the kitchen where they typically prepared the family meals. Notice the archaic microwave oven and twenty-first century juicer."

I love Dead Poet's Society, the movie in which Robin Williams portrays John Keating, the eccentric prep-school professor who challenges his young male students to live life to the fullest. My favorite scene is at the very beginning, where he takes his class out to the school hallway where a row of trophy cases stand. In them are old photos of students from many years before. Mr Keating tells the boys to lean in and get a good look at them. "Peruse the faces from the past," he says. He points out that the boys in those photos are just like they are now, "Same haircuts...full of hormones...invincible...eyes full of hope." But the only difference, he tells them, is that all the boys featured in those photos are now "fertilizing daffodils." They are all dead, and someday everyone standing there in that hallway would be joining them. "We are food for worms, lads." With that in mind, he asks his class to lean in and listen to what those boys want them to know. "If you listen real close, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you...'Carpe Diem. Seize the day, boys. Make your life extraordinary.'"

My Dad's sisters kid him that he still has the money he received for his First Communion stashed away in a drawer somewhere. He is ridiculously reluctant to spend his hard earned money. My mother suggested recently they spend some of their vast savings and take a cruise. My seventy-five year old father refused, citing that they needed to save that money FOR THEIR OLD AGE!

I know times are hard out there, and I'm certainly not suggesting we all blow our savings and rush off to invest in an Alpaca farm somewhere (unless that's what you really, really want to do!). But since that trip I've decided to focus more intently on making minutes count. Before they sprinkle my ashes or create my hilarious tombstone (I'm still working on my inscription!), I want to make sure I've left no stone unturned. I can assure you, those five Cubans on a makeshift raft decided they'd had enough of living under a cruel dictatorship and did something about it. Talk about seizing the day...

I'd like to think that starting this blog was a version of applying this practice. I was terrified to do it. When I initially created the blog, I didn't provide a space for comments, I was convinced I was making a large fool of myself. Now I love the feeling of accomplishment it brings me. I'm so grateful for the way old friends whom I haven't seen in decades have rushed to offer encouragement and support for this endeavor. Seize the Day. I love how the interpretation isn't "Gently grasp the edges of the day and give it a little tug." No! Seize it! Grab it like a shoplifter and RUN!!

The worms await us, dear friends. I challenge you to make this brief journey worthwhile. Do the thing that you fear the most. Book the trip you've been meaning to take. And while you're making travel arrangements, may I suggest the sunny, eclectic island of Key West? You won't regret it!

Thanks for reading!!

Adorned

2010-05-28T05:00:00.016-04:00

Apparently I've got Andy Griffith on the brain these days, because I've recently been thinking about ANOTHER of my favorite episodes! It involves the simple, sweet gas station attendant, Gomer Pyle. In this episode, Andy and Barney set up Gomer on a blind date with Thelma Lou's cousin, Mary Grace. Mary Grace isn't nearly as attractive as her pretty cousin, and since Gomer hasn't yet met her, he repeatedly asks Andy and Barney to describe her. They simply reply, "She's nice! She's real nice!"

The day of the dance arrives and the men show up at Thelma Lou's to pick up their dates. Gomer and Mary Grace are introduced and everyone sits down to make uncomfortable small talk. After only a few minutes, though, Gomer suddenly pops up, asks to be excused, and leaves. Everyone is appalled! Mary Grace fakes a headache and pleads with the others to go ahead to the dance without her. They reluctantly comply.

A short while later, Gomer appears at Mary Grace's front door, holding a small box which he presents to her. In it is a corsage. Gomer explains that he noticed the other two girls were wearing them, but Mary Grace was not. He left to try and find an open florist's shop so he could purchase one for her. "It wouldn't be right, Mary Grace," Gomer says, "for you to go to the dance unadorned." It makes me cry EVERY time!!

Remember corsages? In my high school, there were three formal dances held each year: Homecoming Dance, Winter Formal, and Senior Prom. I attended my share of them, and Alan was often my date. My sisters and I had a fantastic time shopping for our gowns, picking out our jewelry, and choosing our hairstyle. But the corsages were chosen and presented by our dates. We would tell the boys the color of our dresses, drop subtle hints about what kinds of flowers we liked, and they did the rest. We were in charge of providing the boutonnieres for their suits.

I think the corsage may have been one of my favorite parts of the entire evening! Alan had exquisite taste and provided me with just beautiful "adornments" for the dances, usually with roses, carnations, and baby's breath.

At homecoming, a group made and sold beautiful large white mum corsages. In the center, a green pipe cleaner bent into the shape of an "N" (for Nordonia High!) was inserted, and a delicate net cover held it all in place. We thought they were gorgeous. We girls wore them to school that Friday, then to the football game that evening. To this day, whenever I pass an arrangement of mums at the supermarket or garden center, I stick my nose deep into the center, inhaling the sweet scent that immediately takes me back to those glorious Fall days!

A few years back when Alan was the General Manager at a Bennigan's Restaurant, he employed a wonderful 40-something bartender. Barb was as skilled at pouring drinks as she was at engaging with anyone who pulled up a barstool and wanted to chat. EVERYONE loved her! On her birthday, Alan was going to have flowers delivered to the bar, but decided instead to have a corsage made for her. Barb LOVED it! She joyfully pinned those colorful flowers to her polo shirt and fluffed and sniffed them all day. When customers would ask about it, she'd happily reply, "It's my birthday!"

I miss corsages. Who would have guessed that those simple little clusters of ribbons, carnations, roses and net could provoke such wonderful, fairy tale memories? Memories of frilly gowns, high heels, heavily-sprayed Farrah hair, decorated gymnasiums, and slow dancing to songs by Styx and Journey. Sigh!

Alan has generously presented me with several gorgeous flower arrangements over the years, from roses to lilies, tulips and daisies. They've all been breathtaking and I've sincerely treasured each one. But I don't think any flowers will ever be as lovely as those he attached to my wrist back in that decorated gym at Nordonia High School. Actually, I think I'd give just about anything to be "adorned" once more!

Thanks for reading!!

Poor Horatio!

2010-05-26T18:34:00.003-04:00

Well, the writing ideas are waning. So while I sit and patienly wait for inspiration to strike, I thought I'd post another of my favorite clips from one of the best TV classics of all time, The Andy Griffith Show.

This is a scene from one of the earlier seasons, when Ronnie Howard, playing Andy's son, Opie, couldn't have been much older than five or six. Andy has just learned that when the school collected money for the Underprivelaged Children's Fund, Opie's donation was a mere three cents! Andy wants to have a talk with him!

Not only is this scene brilliantly written, check out the comic timing of this talented boy! Andy is merely Ronnie's straight man, feeding him lines so he can "knock them out of the park!" No wonder little "Ronnie" would grow up to become one of our generation's most gifted directors!

Anyway, this scene always makes me giggle, even though I've seen it hundreds of times. Hope it does the same for you today! Enjoy!

A Poundstone of Paula

2010-05-23T05:00:00.001-04:00

I've chosen a video clip for today that features one of my favorite stand-up comedians, Paula Poundstone. Paula actually came to my hometown recently, and Alan and I excitedly planned on attending her one-night performance. Then, at the last minute, Alan was called out of town on business. I went to see Paula anyway, BY MYSELF! THAT'S how much I love this woman!

I wasn't disappointed. I think my favorite quality of Ms. Poundstone's may be how unpretentious she appears. There's no grand "Ladies and Gentlemen..." announcement, no warm-up act to get the crowd energized. Before the lights even illuminated the stage, Paula was entering, giving a small wave. Once the audience figured out it was her, we broke into wild applause, and she waved it all away in order to begin her act. She performed brilliantly for hours. No warm-up act was necessary!

Immediately after the show she sat at a table in the lobby for a very long time, shaking hands and signing autographs. She also signed and sold copies of her autobiography, all the proceeds going to our city's local library. Chick's got CLASS!!!

Paula's specialty involves randomly picking someone from the audience to chat with, asking what they do for a living, them proceeding to make tasteful, non-offensive fun of them. It's completely improvised, completely brilliant, and completely HILARIOUS!

Here's a press clip written about Paula. I just couldn't agree more: "Armed with nothing but a stool, a microphone and a can of Diet Pepsi, Paula's ability to create humor on the spot has become the stuff of legend. Little wonder people leave Paula's shows complaining that their cheeks hurt from laughter, and debating whether the random people she talked to are 'plants'-- which, of course, they never are."

This is a clip of Paula's stand-up act from back in the eighties, and it's actually the first performance I ever saw of her. I think you'll see why I became an immediate fan. It's obviously very long, but my favorite part is right at the beginning. She has just been talking about how she owns three cats, and how she disciplines them with a squirt gun filled with water.

I actually tried to transpose this section and use it as a monologue for an audition once. I quickly learned that NO ONE can do this bit but PAULA!!

I hope you like it!

Mama's Day

2010-05-19T17:58:00.008-04:00

My love of birds is no secret to anyone who's ever known me, even for a short time. I've even written several posts about them: here, here, and here.

I think it all started about twenty years ago when I brought home my first pet cockatiel, Gracie. Gracie LOVED people, had so much spunk and curiosity, and taught me that birds most DEFINITELY possess distinct, hilarious personalities. We've owned a handful of birds since Gracie, all with varying quirky character traits. I've loved them all.

Caring for my avian pets has also opened my eyes to the amazing wild bird population just outside my back door. I can watch my feeder for hours, observing all the quirks and silliness of a male sparrow courting a female, or the downy-headed woodpecker who arrives each day, always landing on the same deck rail. He looks around, makes sure the coast is clear, then slowly, hopping, ascends the rail and digs into the hanging suet feeder. I just love it!

So imagine my supreme glee last April when we began to notice a nest beginning to form atop the hanging wreath on our front door. We soon learned it belonged to a beautiful robin, and I banished everyone in the house from using the door until she had successfully finished the nest, hatched her babies, and sent them on their way, however long that took. Trixie was not pleased!

But it soon became clear that our little Robin mama was perhaps a bit young and inexperienced. Her nest wasn't very solidly built, and it eventually tipped forward, dropping and breaking one of the two eggs inside. She gave up on the other, and we didn't see her again. I was terribly disappointed.

Then, this past April, I again noticed the familiar sticks, straw and mud appearing on our front door wreath. I was estatic!! I searched online and learned that robins often return to the same spot to nest each year. Our mommy had come back to give it another shot!! She had definitely matured, too. The nest she constructed this time was strong and secure, and soon we saw her perched on her new home, producing bright blue eggs.

But a few days later, she was gone from the nest. We'd see her in the small tree in the yard, LOOKING at it, but never ON it. I wanted to tell her, "I don't think you're doing it right!"

When a few more days went by with this same bizarre behavior, Alan removed the wreath and looked in the nest. Where there had once been three eggs, now only one remained. Something had gotten to them. Mommy was afraid, that's why she hadn't been back. She had pushed the last remaining egg deep down in the straw at the bottom of the nest, clearly hiding it from the predator that had taken the others. My heart ached for her. Still, she wouldn't leave her post in that tree, guarding her nest from afar.

We left for the weekend for Alan's family reunion. While there, I approached Alan's Uncle Paul, a farmer by trade, and a wealth of knowledge when discussing wildlife. I explained our "bird mama dilemma." Uncle Paul agreed that there must have been an attack of some kind and that the mama bird was probably traumatized. He said that there was nothing we could do, and suggested we clean the nest off our door when we got home, "before it starts to stink." I felt a little like crying.

Except that when we arrived home, there she sat, cool as a cucumber, atop her nest once more! I danced a celebratory jig! Alan gently warned me against getting too excited. "She was gone a long time, those eggs might not even hatch," he said. I tried not to think about it.

An online search once again revealed that robins usually lay four eggs. That meant there was a possibility that two still lay beneath our little mama. Also, the site said, the mother sits on the eggs for ten to fourteen days before they hatch. HOW was I going to stand the wait?

It was a long two weeks, let me tell you. We suffered through an unseasonably cold snap where the nighttime temperatures bordered on freezing. Then the winds picked up with a fierce vengeance, rattling the windows and bending the large trees outside. I'd lay in bed and think about that tiny nest, praying everything inside it would survive.

Mama hardly ever left. I'd walk to the end of the driveway to retrieve the mail, or water the plants near the front porch and gently talk to her, wishing I had Dr. Doolittle's gifts. She'd eye me warily, then get back to sitting.

Two weeks came and went, and there she sat, no change. By the end of the third week, I was beginning to think Alan may have been right. But why was that mama still sitting there?

I couldn't stop thinking about her. There she was, stubbornly perched on two perfect, beautiful blue eggs that were never going to hatch. So, so sad. As I watered my plants a few mornings ago, I looked up at her exhausted, worn-out face and gently said, "It's ok. You did your best. You can go." She blinked her eyes slowly at me and hunkered down.

I already knew I was going to write a post about her. I had actually composed several sentences in my head, sentences about knowing when to give up. I was going to write about how being stubborn and refusing to accept change can be a very tragic thing, indeed.

Then this afternoon, I arrived home to see THIS:

Two bald, frail, ugly, GORGEOUS babies! She did it! She withstood freezing temps, gusty winds, winged predators, and a bunch of experts who all predicted she would fail, and she DID it!!

So my dear readers and fellow bloggers, thanks to this little six-ounce, orange and black soldier, my post today is not at all about giving up. It's about persistence. It's about following your instincts and doing what you know is right, even when everyone else tells you you're wrong. Or crazy.

Maybe there's some job you're trying to complete, some impossible task that everyone says is hopeless. Maybe nice, well-intentioned friends and family are urging you to just give up. Maybe they're right. But if you asked a very busy mama feeding her babies on my front door what to do, guess what SHE'D say?

Thanks for Reading!!

Everything's Coming Up Rosie!!

2010-05-13T07:19:00.001-04:00

Today's video treat features my favorite female singer of all time, Rosemary Clooney. You'll recognize this clip from the movie White Christmas, in which she starred with Danny Kaye, Vera Ellen, and the man who would become a great friend, mentor and duet partner over the next several years, Bing Crosby.

Rosemary, originally from Mayesville, Kentucky and aunt to dreamy George Clooney, got her start singing with her sister in a big band back in the 40's. She recorded many albums over the years and starred in several movies, but my favorite will always be this performance in White Christmas.

My husband bought me the collector's version of White Christmas a few years back, and I was so tickled to find that you could actually click an option that offered Rosemary doing commentary throughout the entire movie! She talked about how much she loved making this film and what a thrill it was to work with Bing.

This is my favorite song of Rosie's. I think she just SMOKES it! Once again, like in the Get Happy Judy Garland number, the male dancer choreography is a bit bizarre, but you've got to give them credit for trying something different!! Rosemary talked in the DVD commentary about the gloves they made her wear in this number. She said they were rhinestone and caught on EVERYTHING! She had to be very careful not to GRAB anything during the scenes, or she'd be stuck!

Also, notice at 2:00 minutes in, that's a young George Chakiris as one of her dancers. George would later go on to star as Bernardo in West Side Story. Rosemary said they got PILES of fan mail from that single shot of him, all from young girls wanting to know who that young hot dancer was!

So, here she is! The actual number starts at 1:00 in, so skip to that if you want to avoid the opening scene. Hope you enjoy it, and that you have a very Rosie weekend!

My Teaching Garden

2010-05-10T08:26:00.005-04:00

I have multiple scratches all over my arms and legs from a lost battle with a stubborn rose bush. My manicure is now dirt-stained. There's a blister the size of a quarter on my left palm, the result of some over zealous soil-tilling. When I try to bend over to step into my jeans or tie my shoes, my lower back screams in agony, reminding me of all those bags of soil and mulch I lugged from the car to our backyard.

But, my flower garden is finished!! And this morning, as I sip coffee on the back deck and gaze out at my roses, impatiens, crepe myrtles and dahlias, I know it was worth every single ache and pain.

I love gardening! I wrote this post a while back about how I first discovered this wonderful botanical hobby, and I'd love for you to read it if you get the chance. Gardening actually makes me feel closer to God. I imagine He and I have this partnership going when it comes to my flowers. I aerate and fertilize the soil, plant and water everything, and He makes it bloom and grow! Although I DO wish He'd help out with the weeding every once in a while, I have to admit, I think we make a pretty good team!

But as I tilled and fertilized and planted over the last several days, some other thoughts occurred to me, and I'd love to share them with you today:

I think working in a garden is a wonderful metaphor for life. Think about it, in order to get good results, you're going to have to dig in and put your back into it. It's not always going to be pretty -- you'll definitely encounter your share of manure. But in the end you'll realize it was a necessary element, and definitely helped to promote growth.

You'll also run into a lot of pests, but you'll eventually learn the most effective methods to control them, and they won't bother you any more. Sometimes the work will appear overwhelming, but you'll figure out that if you take it one section at a time, deal only with what's right in front of you, then move on to the next, you will get through it all.

At the end of it, you'll be able to stand back and take a good look at all that you've accomplished. And even though your muscles ache and you bear the bumps and bruises of some tough times, you'll gaze out at the lovely product of your labor and say emphatically, "It was SO worth it!!"

Thanks for reading!!

Beyond Telethons

2010-05-03T20:25:00.001-04:00

Some people only recognize Jerry Lewis for his tireless work for Muscular Dystrophy, and his infamous Labor Day telethons. They have no idea of the tremendous, genius body of work that he has written, directed and performed on film. I'd like to remedy that today and present one of my favorite Lewis "bits."

This is a clip from the movie, "The Bellboy" from 1960. Although he portrays the title character, Lewis doesn't speak one word throughout the entire film. ALL of his humor is displayed physically. I think it's just brilliant.

This clip is Lewis "conducting" an empty orchestra. Notice there are no other actors present, and that he has absolutely NOTHING to work off, except a bunch of chairs, a baton, and his own amazing wit. Jerry Lewis' style has often been referred to as silly and elementary, but I can assure you that bits like this take a tremendous amount of concentration, rehearsal, and supreme talent. I think it's fantastic, hope you agree!

Enjoy!

Austrians, Fishies, and Bears. (Oh, My!!)

2010-04-29T05:00:00.013-04:00

What would you do if you won the lottery today? My answer always shocks people, but I swear it's the honest truth. Before the ink had dried on the winning check, I'd hire a driver. Full time.

Not one with a fancy limo, mind you, my own car would do just fine. I just want someone to pick me up and take me where I want to go while I sit in the backseat, contentedly reading the paper, sipping coffee, or napping.

I really, really hate to drive. I'm using the word "hate" here, preceded by the adverb "really." Really. Hate it. Actually, I don't mind long road trips. I love packing up the car, filling the backseat cooler with sodas and snacks, and hitting the dusty trail. Just don't ask me to drive. (Because I hate it.)

I think one of the reasons for my intense dislike (or hatred) may be that driving, particularly on long trips, makes me very, very sleepy. I can pound the coffee, take shots of "5 Hour Energy Drink," smack myself in the face several times, and still, my eyelids will grow heavy after only a few minutes.

I'll admit, this happens when I'm a passenger as well. The first road trip that Alan and I took together, he estimated that we had been on the highway for exactly five miles when he looked over and saw me completely unconscious in the passenger seat! He was amazed!

I explained to Alan, in my defense, that my highway-related sleepiness is something I come by honestly. I've been trained. Here's how:

Throughout my childhood, my Dad worked carpentry and coaching/referee jobs in addition to his teaching gig. He did this so he could afford to take his wife and five children on vacation every summer. Each August, we'd drive ten hours up to his fellow teacher-friend's cabin on the Key River, in Ontario, Canada. There was also an amazing summer when he bought a used Shasta camper (the pull-behind-the-car kind!), and took us (and Grandma Simmons!) on a six-week trek out West, to California and back! Lots and lots of driving, and my Dad did it ALL.

Dad was a very organized traveler. He insisted we leave for each trip no later than four o'clock. In the morning. Seriously. He said this was to beat the traffic, but as I've grown older, I know this to be a big, fat lie. See, these were the days LONG before comfy mini-vans, personal DVD players, and Gameboys. We kids had books, one toy each, and a couple of travel Bingo cards. Our vehicle was a station wagon, complete with "hump" inside. I can tell you, it grew old pretty quick.

Dad insisted we leave at 4:00 am because he knew he'd have four or five hours of blissful QUIET while we all slept. We'd literally go to bed in our traveling clothes the night before the trip. Then, in the dark of early morning, Mom and Dad would pack up the wagon (that's a stock photo on the right, but it looked a LOT like this!), start it up, then come wake us to get in the car. It was seamless, we'd be back asleep before Dad got the Chevy out of "park."

But eventually, we'd awaken, and all bets were off. Dad would notice us stirring, then slump a little in the driver's seat, knowing what was inevitably about to start: Girl Scout songs. Lots of them. ALL of them.

My three sisters and I were all very involved in the Girl Scout program. Our Mom even served as troop leader for the majority of our involvement. As a Girl Scout, for one week in July, we attended a residential, sleep-in-tents camp, where we hiked, swam, roasted marshmallows, and learned many, many, many campfire songs.

Weird, stupid songs. Let's see, there was one about the Austrian who went yodeling on a mountain top, a bear that chased the singer up a tree, a "fishy" that got frozen in the bay, and another that made absolutely no sense whatsoever, called "Doodeley-Doo." All the songs, of course, had corresponding hand motions. We executed them all to perfection.

So, my poor father was subjected to hour after torturous hour of his four daughters, along with his wife (Mom enjoyed those obnoxious tunes WAY too much!), belting out song after song, along with the appropriate hand and arm choreography. For years, we thought my brother, Jack, the baby, had ear infections. He was constantly grabbing his ears and screaming in pain whenever our "car concerts" began (I was just kidding about that last part, but the kid HAD to have been in agony!!).

Recently, in a rare, non-comatose moment on a car trip, I decided to perform several of those old Girl Scout songs for Alan. I got about half-way through the "Austrian Yodeling" song when he loudly, abruptly joined in and changed the song's lyrics to something about the Austrian happening upon a nuclear bomb. "BOOM! And he DIED. EVERYBODY DIED. THE END," Alan raged. I sat in silence for a few minutes with my arms crossed, staring out the front windshield. Finally, I quietly quipped, "That's NOT how it goes." He told me I looked tired and suggested I take a nap.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, my Dad suffered a stroke over Christmas, and is still recovering at a rehab facility. My sister, Jennifer, and I visited him there recently when he was having a particularly bad day. He was tired, he didn't feel good, and he was refusing to take his meds. The nurse stood their holding the paper cup containing the pills, but nothing anyone did could get him to swallow them.

Suddenly, I had an idea. I sat in a chair at the foot of his bed and declared, "Dad, you either take those pills, or I start singing the 'Fishy' song. Loudly." Dad turned to me, terror flashing in his eyes, trying to determine whether or not I was bluffing. I took a deep breath and opened my mouth, about to let the first strain fly. At that, my father grabbed those pills and downed them faster than Lindsey Lohan doing shots at a tequila bar, then held up his hands in defeat.

Powerful thing, that Fishy song. Gives me ideas. Just think of it -- Today: Dad's meds. Tomorrow: World Hunger! But first, a nap. Where's my driver?

Thanks for reading!

Carl, Ellie, and Kleenex

2010-04-27T23:10:00.005-04:00

Ok, normally I try not to do the video thing twice in a row, and I promise I'm working on a story that should be ready in a little while. But I've been thinking a lot about Pixar's "Up" today.

Have you seen "Up?" It was my absolute favorite movie of 2009, possibly EVER! Picture this: Alan is out of town, and it's a rainy afternoon. I decide to catch a movie by myself, so I check the paper and see that "Up" is the next film playing.

I arrive at the theater, where 9,000 children and I take our seats. The opening montage begins, and within SEVEN minutes, I am WEEPING! Amazingly, none of the kids around me are affected the same way. They think the movie is fun. They look at me with concerned faces. One little girl contemplates giving me a Kleenex from her Mom's purse.

At the movie's conclusion, I blow my nose in a Kleenex (thanks, little girl!) and try to pull myself together to leave the darkened theater. When I arrive home, I describe the plot to Alan, which triggers a whole new crying jag.

I can't explain the hold this movie has on me, I can only tell you it is intense! I think it has something to do with this opening montage, expertly depicting the married life of Carl and Ellie. It touches that soft spot in me that dreams about happy marriages and growing old together. Quite simply, I love these two!

Carl meets Ellie when they are both young children and enormous fans of Charles Muntz, an adventure explorer. They vow to be friends and someday explore the world together, particularly the place made famous by Muntz, Paradise Falls. That's pretty much all we know at the beginning of the film.

Then, this montage begins, and in a little over four minutes, the shared life of Carl and Ellie is intricately revealed. Without a single spoken word, you know exactly everything about this couple and the loving relationship they share. I honestly don't think I've witnessed anything done with more perfection.

I know you've probably already seen this. But will you watch it once more with me? I guarantee you you'll be smiling (and, in my case, CRYING!) for the rest of the hour! Here it is...

Cool

2010-04-24T09:50:00.004-04:00

One of my theme park actor friends and I were sitting around backstage one day talking about our past. When he learned that I had a musical theater background, he said to me, "You know, I have a lot of respect for the talent required to perform in musicals, but I have to confess, I don't GET them!" He proceeded to explain his frustration when the plot would be moving along very nicely, then, BAM, in would pop this musical number that stopped the whole forward movement of the story.

I laughed, told him I understood, then asked him to rent "West Side Story." I explained that if a musical was done right, the story takes the characters to such an emotional climax, words are no longer adequate to express what they're feeling. They must sing or dance. I don't think this is displayed any better than in West Side Story.

I've chosen this clip today from a number from WSS called "Cool." The two gangs, the Jets and the Sharks, have just "rumbled," with the result being the deaths of both gangs' leaders, Bernardo and Riff. This clearly was not the outcome both sides expected, and they all run away when the police sirens start blaring. They find refuge in this parking garage. They're scared, shocked over the death of their leader, incredibly frustrated, and very, very mad. The new leader, Iceman, tries to calm everyone down with this song.

There are no stars in this piece, only chorus people. The choreography may be a bit dated, but I can assure you it's tremendously difficult. I think Jerome Robbins, the choreographer, did a fantastic job capturing the inner turmoil going on in these characters, and their struggle to keep it under control.

It's really long, but I hope you'll skip around in this number and enjoy the artistry of it. I think my favorite part may be at the very end, around 4:30, when they all stand completely still for a few full seconds, and Iceman simply says, "Okay. Let's go."

See what you think...

Dear Joan,

2010-04-21T20:27:00.009-04:00

This is a picture of me and Robert Goulet. When I was twenty-four, I performed in the chorus of a traveling tour of South Pacific, in which Mr. Goulet starred. Professionally, it was one of the greatest experiences of my life, and I'll never, ever forget it.

This photo was taken at our Christmas party after a show one night. I'm still wearing my show make-up, and apparently I'm smiling so big, my eyes look slightly Asian, but I promise you, it's me!

This was a really awesome time in my life. I had finally landed a part in a professional show and had thereby become part of the actor's union, Actor's Equity Association. With my new Equity card tucked securely in my wallet, I was positive that I had officially "arrived," and that my temping days were far behind me. This, however, was not to be the case.

I was twenty-four in the above picture. I just turned forty-six last Sunday. So, I wonder if you'll indulge me and let me have a word with that young, innocent girl hugging Robert Goulet. She needs to be aware of a few things.

Dear Joan,

Hi! Look at you, all happy and loving life! It IS pretty sweet right now, isn't it? Let me first tell you how proud I am of you. You've worked very, very hard to get to this point, and you're finally reaping the rewards of all those hours of vocal and dance training. Congratulations!

But Joan, I'm here to tell you it's about to get a little rough. Really rough, actually. When the tour ends in a few months, you'll return to NYC and resume auditioning, but the roles will not be forthcoming. You'll eventually have to resume your temping jobs. You'll cry as you head to your assignment that first morning back.

Your husband, already an accomplished Broadway performer, will grow bored and want to head back to Syracuse University (the school you both attended) to teach. You will reluctantly follow. Then, shortly after the move, you'll arrive home and find him sitting in the living room waiting for you. He's going to tell you that he doesn't love you anymore, and that he doesn't want to be married anymore. Then he's going to leave.

I know you don't believe me when I tell you this, because right now he seems so happy and blissfully content with you. He's not. He's just chosen not to tell you, thereby making it impossible for you to do anything to make it better. In fact, he's cheating on you as you stand here posing with Robert Goulet. You are clueless.

I won't lie, this is going to flatten you. Life it going to get really hard for awhile. You're going to endure some pretty severe emotional, physical, and financial struggles. You'll drop a lot of weight, because eating will be impossible. Your monthly periods will cease. Listening to the radio will no longer be bearable. You'll contemplate suicide.

But some amazing people, people who are strangers to you right now, are going to enter your life, pick you up off the floor, and help you through it. And although you'll refuse to believe anyone who tells you that you'd eventually recover, you will. You'll never be the same again, the sting of rejection from the one who knew you better than anyone will remain forever, but it will lessen. And you will survive. Really.

Here's the good news: Remember that guy you dated in high school? You know, that guy you still, inexplicably, have dreams about now, even though it's been YEARS since you've even spoken? Remember how you secretly confessed to your girlfriend a few years back that he was the best kisser you'd ever known? Well, guess what? He's going to re-enter your life. Really!

It's going to be a wonderful, magical reunion, but also a little tough. Because of your recent past, you'll be untrusting at first, and every time you make a mistake, you'll be convinced he's going to leave you. But because he's twenty times the man your ex-husband is, he'll stay. He's going to make your life extraordinary. Really.

Joan, it's going to get tough, but I promise you, you're going to survive. And after you do, it's going to be a lovely ride. What's more, you're going to emerge from the experience with a much deeper appreciation of all the tremendous blessings around you. Stuff you never noticed before. Right now, at twenty-four, the only things that bring you true joy are executing the perfect double pirouette, seeing a great Broadway show, or nailing a call-back after a well-executed audition.

What if I told you that in just a few decades, the sight of a robin sitting on the nest she's built on the wreath attached to your front door will make you weep with joy? It will! What's more, you'll spend hours working in a garden, and consider yourself the luckiest person on earth for having the privilege to do so. Really.

There's a big change coming, Joan. And I'm here to tell you that you're going to make it. When you reach the ripe old age of forty-six, you'll still be able to tap that pain deep down that flattened you all those years back. But you'll realize that surviving all that's happened has made you a better, more thoughtful person. Your friendships will be more sincere, your appreciation of life more intense, your love, deeper. Quite simply, you're going to be a better person. Really.

So, enjoy your tour, give Mr. Goulet an extra hug, and get ready for your future. It's going to be amazing. Really.

Also, don't buy stock in Enron. Really.

Sincerely,

Old Joan

Thanks for Reading!

Hold, please...

2010-04-19T07:18:00.000-04:00

Experiencing a mild strain of writer's block at the moment. I greatly value your readership and apologize for the inconvenience.

Hold, please.....

Get Happy!!

2010-04-15T00:01:00.007-04:00

Happy Tax Day, fellow Americans!! I don't know about you, but this is the first year in some time that instead of a refund, Alan and I actually OWE Uncle Sam!! Needless to say, I really need a pick-me-up today!

So, I've chosen this great number from the movie Summer Stock, made in 1950. This was Judy's last film with MGM, and she stars in it with my man, Gene Kelly.

The plot involves Judy's family farm being overtaken by her sister's boyfriend (Gene Kelly) and his troupe of performers. They're in the process of putting together a show, and sister insists that the farm will be a perfect place to rehearse the numbers.

Judy, a simple farm girl, agrees to let the theater folk stay in exchange for helping out with the milking, plowing, and egg gathering. She is soon bitten by the performing bug herself, of course, and she and Gene fall in love at the film's conclusion (once her sister has lost interest in both acting AND Gene, if you can imagine such a thing!).

I'm an enormous fan of Judy Garland. Like every young girl over the last several decades, I fell in love with her the moment she leaned against that haystack and sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" to her dog, Toto. That love carried-over to her cute "Let's Put on a Show" films with Mickey Rooney, then to the glorious technicolor classics like Meet Me in St. Louis and The Harvey Girls.

Here's something I learned a while back that you may not know: Judy had a photographic memory. Directors often spoke of how they'd show her the intricate blocking for a scene or dance number, and she follow behind, barely paying attention. Then, they'd start rolling the cameras, call "Action!" and Judy would come to life, executing the blocking/choreography perfectly, hitting every mark exactly. She rarely required an additional take! Neat, huh?

As you probably know, Judy struggled with her weight her entire career, and this movie was no exception. This may have been the heaviest she'd ever been in any of her films. On top of that, she had to appear in a pair of extremely unflattering overalls for a great many of the scenes! Here's a picture from one of the Summer Stock scenes on the right.

Once the movie wrapped, everyone went their separate ways. Judy was finally able to get some rest and drop the extra pounds she'd been carrying during filming. Except that two months later, in post-production, the producers felt that there was still one final show-stopping number missing from the movie. They called Judy and asked if she'd come back and film this number, "Get Happy." As you can see, she is much trimmer, rested, and as always, AWESOME!!

I wish the quality of this clip were a little better, but see if you can make out Judy's expression, around 1:01. I love her facial reactions when the chorus boys throw their hands at her! I think perhaps her most underrated quality was her delightfully subtle comic timing.

Hope you like it! And if you're about to step out the door like me and mail your check to Uncle Sam, hope this serves as a gentle reminder: Forget your troubles, come on, Get Happy!!