Golden Rule

Don't ask me why, but every morning as I run on the treadmill, I watch The Golden Girls on TV. That's right, The Golden Girls. The 1980's, shoulder pad-wearing, cheesecake-eating, wisecrack-spouting, "Thank-You-for-Being-a-Friend" Golden Girls! I have absolutely no idea why, but I love it! In addition to being written and acted superbly, I guess I just find tremendous comfort in viewing a group of older women (Dorothy, Blanche, Rose, and Sophia) sitting around a kitchen table, discussing their troubles and devouring a caloric dessert! I'm able to run to it because The Hallmark Channel plays several episodes of the show every morning. But today, I got a late start due to some lingering chores I had to complete, so I was only able to catch the last of the daily Golden Girl morning-marathon. And since the remote was on the other side of the room, I decided to just stay on the Hallmark Channel and catch the "Made-For-TV" movie coming up next. Mistake. Big, big mistake.

The basic "plot" of this movie revolved around a small-town, southern, country girl that had left her home and family and moved to "The Big City Up North." Now, several years later, she was a successful, rich business woman, living in a high-rise apartment, wearing her hair in tight, slick buns. Her wardrobe consisted of tight-skirted, grey business suits accented with high-heeled black designer pumps. She climbed into the back of her waiting black limousine, simultaneously closing fifty-seven deals on her very complicated Blackberry cell phone. She was rich, successful, and (of course!) single and childless. Then her Blackberry rang with startling news, her father ("Daddy") had suddenly died, and she must return home to the life she abandoned all those years ago to attend his funeral.

Of course her family "back home" came running to greet her on their large wrap-around porch, pitcher of lemonade in hand. By the third scene in the movie, she has traded her patent-leather pumps and tight hair for cowboy boots and wide-brimmed hats. She reunited with her country-bumpkin high school sweetheart at the annual barn dance by scene twelve, and well, the rest is history.

As I watched this audio/visual nightmare, I suddenly realized I was running faster and harder, mostly because I was mad. I wasn't angered, however, by the fact that The Hallmark Channel had just greatly insulted my intelligence by broadcasting this swill. I was annoyed that the producers of this movie once again portrayed the simple, country folk of The South as much truer, real, down-home stock than those of the evil, crass, rude Northern city folk. All the townspeople in the country home segment wore blue jeans and gingham and were constantly embracing one another, begging their little girl to "come back where she belonged." The big, bad Northern, city folk were uptight, pinstripe-wearing blue-bloods who never smiled, worked incessantly, and spoke with accents resembling Miss Hathaway from The Beverly Hillbillies.

I know it was just a bad, mid-afternoon movie, but I see these images played over and over, and it's starting to really bug me. For example, I read a devotional each morning to kind of give my day a good jump start. The book contains writings from several different Christian authors, each one about a page long with a short story and thought for the day. One morning a few weeks ago, a female author wrote the day's entry, describing how proud she was of her Southern heritage. "Here we say 'please' and 'excuse me' and our words lack sharp corners," she wrote. Apparently up in the North, where I was raised, we're all a bunch of barbarians who eat with our hands, engage in daily shoving matches and can't possibly comprehend the meanings of these foreign words. "Please" and "Excuse me?" Huh. Never heard of 'em. Do they have something to do with eating with your elbows on the table or sucker-punching your fellow man? Because we Northerners are REALLY good at that!!

I'd like to set the record straight today, if I may. The South does not own the patent on politeness, or niceness, or for that matter, down-homeyness. We actually claim an abundance of all of those things up here in the North (Really!). Now, that's not to say that the South doesn't hold it's share of truly terrific people. My husband is one of them. And I can genuinely tell you that you can show up right now, unannounced, at ANY one of his relatives' homes in Alabama and they will greet you at the door, hug your neck and invite you in for coffee, biscuits and gravy. They are wonderfully generous and thoughtful and I can honestly tell you that I love each one of them fiercely.

But the same could also be said of my own aunts, who grew up in a tiny home in Maple Heights, Ohio, a stone's throw from downtown Cleveland. They were raised with no country hens or cows, no swimming hole or tractors housed nearby in large red barns. Their yard was the size of a postage stamp. They had the added disadvantage of growing up alongside my crabby, quick-tempered father. But if you showed-up on my Aunt Tessie's porch, she'd just as quickly invite you in, slap you on the back, and serve you coffee and her mother's famous nut bread. The same is true of my kind, loving friend Judie, who was born and raised in Syracuse, NY.

Shortly after I arrived in NYC all those years ago, I was cast in the chorus for a show in nearby New Jersey. One of my fellow dancers was a beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl from Georgia. I knew she was from Georgia not only because of her drawl, but also because she never stopped mentioning it. "Georgia, born and raised!" she'd proudly declare, flashing her perfect, pearly-white pageant smile. But as rehearsals progressed, we all began to witness her true personality emerging, one that wasn't so pretty. She was frequently catty, insulting her fellow cast mates when they were out of earshot, and she referred to the technicians and costumers as "The Help." She became increasingly annoyed when "The Help" couldn't seem to grasp that their primary job was to serve her. Ironically, it was the kind, soft-spoken "Jersey girl" who was her dresser that displayed true politeness. Even though she had every right to give "Miss Georgia" a good smack, she took it all in stride and assured us that rude people like her just weren't worth the trouble.

There are those that would say that this is a country/city issue when it comes to rudeness and friendliness, not a North/South thing. Again, I must disagree. I live in what can only be described as The Country. There are pigs, horses and cows all living right down the street from me, and the barns are far too numerous to count. These are definitely "Country Folk!" Yet, when I am at the grocery store, there are many days when I can't get a single person to return a smile, let alone a friendly "hello."

Conversely, as much as I really disliked living in NYC, it also has it's share of kind people. One of my fondest memories is of a cab ride I took there once. My ex-husband and I seldom took anything but the subway, and we frequently walked to save the one-dollar token money. Cab rides were an extravagance in which we seldom indulged. But I had an audition that day and had just spent about an hour or so on my hair and make-up when it began to pour outside. I decided to splurge on a cab to the audition site to preserve my "look." I boarded the taxi and was immediately greeted by the driver, a friendly older man with a Jamaican accent and kind eyes. I gave him the address, then sat back to mentally go-over my audition material. The driver introduced himself as "Sam" and asked where I was headed. I told him I had an audition. His eyes lit-up and he asked me about the role and the show, and how did I think I'd do? I told him there would be several very talented girls there, but I thought the part was something I could do, and was hoping for at least a call-back. He told me he thought I was beautiful and he had a very good feeling about my chances. "Trust me, I know these things," he said, pointing at his temple. "You're going to do GREAT in there today, I can tell!"

As he pulled-up to my stop, I payed the fare and thanked him for his kind words of encouragement. He handed me a card with the phone number of the cab company on it, saying, "Here. When you finish today, call this number and tell the dispatcher how you did in that audition, she'll relay the message to me. I want to know how it went!" He wished me luck and disappeared into traffic. Well, I DID get the call-back! When I arrived back at my apartment, I dug out that card and called the number. The dispatcher knew who I was immediately, because Sam had filled her in already. "He'll be so pleased you called. I'll be sure and give him the message. Congratulations!" That's those typical hard-core "city folk" for you -- making the day of a 23 year old actress. SO like them!

So, I guess my point today is this: We are who we are, regardless of the locations in which we were raised. Our rudeness or politeness isn't based on our latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates, but rather on the choices we make regarding how we're going to behave. Boaz, Alabama hospitality is every bit as warm and welcoming as the kind you get in Cleveland, Ohio, as far as I can tell. The unfriendly, frowning lady at the supermarket in York, PA can also be found in aisle three in Macon, Georgia.

And just like Dorothy (the New Yorker), Blanche (the Southerner), and Rose (The Country Mid-Westerner), maybe we can all just get along together and truly appreciate that in the long run, we're all pretty similar. This is what The Golden Girls have taught me. That, and the assurance that there's NOTHING that can't be solved when discussed at a kitchen table over a pot of coffee and a chocolate chip cheesecake!

Thanks for reading!!

Song of Joan

My parents have a story they love to tell involving the day I was born. I am the third of five children, the first of us four being girls, then the glorious, highly-coveted boy finally came along for the grand finale. My father made no secret of the fact that he wanted a boy. Ironically, he was also the only boy amongst four girls in HIS family, and he took very seriously his role in carrying-on the Donnelly name. So you can imagine my father's supreme disappointment when my mother provided him with one, then two girls. They were convinced, however, that I would certainly be the "third times a charm" baby, finally arriving as the male heir. The year was 1964, way before both sonograms and fathers in delivery rooms, so my Dad was sitting hopefully in the waiting area when the doctor appeared with the "gender news." Here's the part of the story that my parents love: Apparently when the doctor informed him that it was, indeed, another girl, the look on my father's face portrayed such horror and disappointment that the medical professional made the following offer: "Well, I could put her BACK, if you'd like." Hysterical, isn't it? I can't tell you how many times my parents would regale me with that story involving the dissatisfaction of my arrival which was so great, an offer was made to get rid of me. They'd laugh and laugh, wiping the tears from their eyes, mimicking "I can put her BACK!" over and over again until their sides ached and they just couldn't take it anymore. Good times.

They named me Joan, they told me, after a nun in our extended family. I've always wondered, though, if Dad was just covering his bases. His name is John (even though everybody calls him Jack, just like the Kennedys), and his plan once his beloved son was born was to name him John (or Jack), Jr. I personally think Dad was getting a little nervous around that time that a boy might not happen, so they named ME the closest they could get-- Joan. When we were kids, I distinctly remember going to a card store and seeing a display showing several names, followed by a short description of each one's meaning. For instance, the name Heather meant "pure," Shirley meant "lover of soap," or something like that. Guess what the description under MY name read? "Female version of John." Hmm. I was onto them. Well, as luck would have it, my father DID get his precious son (we called him "Little Jack" until he was well into his twenties, poor kid!), so the pressure was off. He was so adorable that we girls loved him completely, despite the fact that he was obviously Dad's favorite.

Don't get me wrong, Joan is a delightful title. I share it with some lovely celebrities: Rivers, Crawford and Jett, to name a few. But I've always mourned a little over the fact that my name is so plain. One syllable. That's it. There's not even a way to twist it into another version, like you can with Margaret/Maggie, Rebecca/Becky, or Abigail/Abbey/Gail. And don't even get me started with the name Elizabeth. Talk about options: Beth/Lisa/Eliza/Liz/Lizzie, the list goes on and on!! But Joan was Joan, that was pretty much it. "It's so unpoetic," I'd lament.

Then one day very early in my freshman year of college, a few of my classmates and I were sitting outside of the dance studio waiting for our instructor to arrive when we got into a discussion about our names. I told the group about my unmusical, plain name and how "nobody's ever written a song about Joan, it only rhymes with bone and phone." As we continued our conversation, I didn't notice that one of the guys in our group had pulled out a pad and pencil and had begun scribbling furiously. Soon, our dance teacher arrived and we all piled into the studio. On the way in, that same boy ripped the paper from his pad and handed it to me. There, with complete accompaniment, was written a full eight-bar song. The title? "Song for Joan (Of Which She Thinks None Has Been Written)." Can you imagine? Seriously, can you? I squealed with amazement and delight and thanked him profusely. He shrugged and continued into class. I took the paper home at Christmas break and Kathy played it on the piano for me. I still remember every word, here's how it went:

"Joan, my own,

I call you on the phone.

Joan, I moan, and groan, and moan, and groan.

When I look in your eyes

I'm in the Twilight Zone.

Joan, Joan, Joan."

I have really, really awesome friends, don't I? That boy's name was Wayne Barker, and because we'd only know each other a few weeks, I had no idea that he was a musical genius with a fantastic sense of humor. He became a terrific friend. I still have that piece of original composition paper with "Song for Joan" on it, I bet it's worth MILLIONS today!

But all awesome song lyrics aside, I wish my parents had chosen my middle name to be my first--Bernadette. Talk about musical! Mom said she had been reading-up on St. Bernadette when she was pregnant with me, and thought the name would be nice, but worried people would call me "Bernie," so she decided against it. Sooooooo???

I can think of a LOT of really COOL Bernies (KOSAR, for one!). Bernadette. Three whole syllables, can you imagine? Plus the story of Bernadette of Lourdes was so mysterious and romantic. Have you heard it? Bernadette was the poor, sickly farm girl who lived in 1850's France. She's famous (and a saint) because apparently she saw a vision, whom she called "The Lady," in a cave near her home. (The Catholics immediately assumed the appearing vision was that of The Virgin Mary). "The Lady" instructed Bernadette to dig a hole from which water eventually sprang, and the legend goes that millions were healed by the cleansing waters of that same spring. When I was still very young (and also still Catholic), I saw the movie "The Song of Bernadette" on TV starring the beautiful Jennifer Jones. Jennifer, as Bernadette, represented everything I wanted to be at that age: beautiful, soft-spoken, and capable of performing miracles. I watched it with a bit of ownership, feeling this movie was much more directly special for me than my sisters. I bore the name on the title, after all, even if it WAS only my middle name. (Seriously, nobody called HER "Saint Bernie," did they now?)

That being said, I'll never understand people with long, flowing names who shorten them. My sisters are a perfect example. My oldest sister's full first name is Kathleen, yet she always begins her phone messages to me the following way, "Hi Joan, It's Kath." My younger sister, Jennifer, goes by "Jen." I'm miffed. "Why would you willfully shorten your name?" I asked. "It's quicker to say," they answer with a shrug. My cousin's name is Diana, and she says it drives her crazy when everyone always calls her Diane, leaving off the "a" on the end. She said she's convinced it's because people are lazy and can't manage the effort it takes to speak all three syllables of her name. Wow, America, has it really come to this? Have we honestly become so lethargic that it's too much effort to pronounce an additional "a?" Say it ain't so!

I've actually found evidence to the contrary. Because even though I whine about the shortness and lack of musicality regarding my name, I still get a little peeved when someone gets it wrong. Here's an example:

I eat at Panera Bread Restaurant all the time. It's a wonderful, fast, healthy alternative to what I really want, which is a Big Mac. Anyway, when you place your order at Panera, they immediately ask you for your name, so that they can announce it over the intercom when your meal is ready. Because I know what will inevitably happen, I always respond exactly this way: "Joan. J-O-A-N. Joan." I watch them type-in the four letters. Then I wait for the inevitable announcement: "JOANNE, your order is ready." EVERY time!!! Now, Joanne is a lovely name. I have a dear friend named Joanne whom I love very much. But it's NOT MY NAME!! You may as well call-out "MARY," or "WANDA," these are also NOT my name! When I try to cheerfully correct them, "Actually, it's Joan." I always get this response: "Oh...Whatever." GEEEEEZ!

Here's the weird part, I'm pretty sure people have been calling me Joanne for my entire forty-five years, but it's only been recently that I started noticing it. Now that I've brought it to my own attention, the mispronunciation drives me CRAZY! Has that ever happened to you? Suddenly, once you're aware of a minor annoyance, it takes on a whole new, enormous, intolerable shape of it's own and you can't stand the thought of it one second more? Is it just me?

Doctor's offices are by far the very worst. A few years back, when we were trying unsuccessfully to diagnose my lymphoma, I was forced to see a different specialist at least once a week. This went on for several months, and I saw a LOT of doctors. Here's what happened in EVERY SINGLE one of their offices: Alan and I would be sitting in the crowded waiting room when the nurse would walk out holding my chart. She'd glance down and silently read my name, typed-out in plain, large, black letters. She'd raise her head and open her mouth to speak. "Don't say Joanne, Don't say Joanne," I'd internally chant, focusing all my energy at her tiny, tiny brain.

"JOANNE?" Sigh.

"It's Joan."

"Oh...Whatever."

I really hate doctor's offices!!

So, I guess the moral of my long, narcissistic rant today is this: Embrace your name! Whether it's short and unmusical or twelve syllables long and the subject of several love songs, it's YOURS!!! Cherish it, own it, and most importantly, tirelessly correct all of those idiots out there until they get it RIGHT, for crying out loud!!

Thanks for reading!!!

My Treat

Happy Halloween!! As you may know, this is our first Trick-or-Treat night in our new neighborhood and I've got to tell you, I'm a little nervous about it. It's always difficult when Alan and I move into a new community, basically because we don't have children. From what I can see, when my neighbors all moved into their homes, their kids all became immediate friends and spent hour upon hour at each others' houses. Their parents have no choice but to become acquainted. Soon they're all attending PTA meetings and cub scout jamborees together while Alan and I watch from the wings. We are "That Childless Couple," and, to be honest, I'm a little paranoid about it! I always imagine we immediately become the target of everyone's suspicion ("Do they HATE children?") or pity ("She must be barren!").

Either way, because I love nothing more than cute, adorable witches, supermen, ninjas, and werewolves coming to my door, I've always tried to win-over our new neighborhood children and their parents long before October 31st rolls around. As I wrote in an earlier post, my terrier has always been my weapon of choice in previous years. All the kids in my former communities have had absolutely NO idea what my name is, but they all most certainly knew that the crazy, sprinkler-chasing, pool-diving, trick-performing dog that lived with me was named Trixie!! They all eventually learned that if they showed up on my porch Halloween night, not only would they get excellent candy, they'd also get to see Trixie in her pumpkin/bumble bee/lady bug/scary monster costume. Not ONE of them ever wanted to miss that!!

As I think about it today, I guess I'm actually a tiny bit obsessed with the idea of trick-or-treaters! Maybe because I don't have the privilege of dressing-up my own toddlers, I really relish the few minutes I have gazing at all the costumed cuteness at my front door. When we lived in Orlando, in our Avalon Park community, we quickly learned it was the absolute PERFECT trick-or-treat neighborhood. The houses were close together (kids could get LOTS of candy with little walking effort!), the streets were well-lit, and there were children living EVERYWHERE!!! If I was out gardening in the front yard when two kids would ride by on their bikes, I'd always turn, wave, and say, "Do you know what you're going to be for Halloween yet?" They'd usually look at me with a confused expression and reply,

"Um, no. It's June."

"Hey, it's never too early to plan," I'd remind them!

By far, though, my favorite Avalon Park trick-or-treater was a little one year-old girl that moved in with her brother and parents just two doors down from us. To say she was "cherubic" would be making a supreme understatement, the child was beautiful. She had short, curly brown hair that softly framed her round face. Her cute locks perfectly accented her enormous, heavily-lashed blue eyes. The minute I saw her as she walked by one morning with her mom, escorting her brother to school, only one thought entered my mind: "I can't WAIT to see her on Halloween!"

The big night arrived and Trixie, Alan and I began to pass out our Snickers bars to ghosts, mermaids, and pirates. Then the doorbell rang, we opened the door and there she stood with her brother (aka Batman). Our little cherub was dressed in a leopard leotard, complete with tail and spotted-ear headband. On her gorgeous face was drawn a black nose and whiskers. In a word: ADORABLE!! They were both holding up their empty treat bags (we were their first stop!) and her brother happily shouted, "Trick or Treat!" He eagerly accepted his chocolate bar, thanked us, and hopped down our steps to his waiting mom on the sidewalk. His sister, still standing at our door, didn't seem to mind being left, but was also obviously terribly confused by the whole process. "Say 'Trick or Treat,' Honey," her mom encouraged. She glanced at her mother, then turned back to us with brow furrowed and lips pursed. Alan knelt down with the treat bowl, grabbed a Nestles Crunch bar and dropped it in her bag. She looked at him quizzically, then went to reach in her bag for the treasure this stranger had just placed there. "No, no!!" her mom shouted, "Leave it there! Come on, we have to go to the next house!" Obeying her mom but still clearly confused, our leopard descended the porch steps and joined her family. I talked about it for a year!!

The next year, sometime in September, I guess, Alan and I were having lunch at a local restaurant when we looked over and recognized those same neighbors sitting at a nearby table. When we waved and nodded a quick "Hello," our little cherub, almost two now, took this as an invitation, walked over to our table and sat down next to Alan. She removed his sunglasses from his head and placed them on her face, upside down. I think I could actually hear the audible crumbling of Alan's heart! Because I'm a giant goofball, I immediately asked her my stock questions, "What are you going to be for Halloween?" and "You're coming to my house for candy, right?" (That didn't sound creepy and desperate at all, right?) She told us she was going to be a fairy princess. I tried without success to quell my squeal of delight.

They were the first ones to arrive at our door that Halloween night! Actually, it was a little TOO early, as we had just arrived home from work and Alan didn't even have the treat bowl ready! So, I grabbed Trixie and headed to the front while Alan ran to the kitchen to grab the goodies. I opened the door and there she stood next to her brother (aka Spiderman) in all her sparkly-crowned, netted-winged, wand-waving, fairy-princess glory. Priceless. I didn't have much time to gaze upon her loveliness, however, because as soon as I opened the door, she was quickly walking past me, headed towards Alan in the kitchen. "Hello!" said a surprised Alan, but he quickly recovered, knelt down on our kitchen floor and held out the treat bowl to her. She selected a Milky Way and headed back to the porch. Her mother, mortified, apologized profusely. We waved it away instantly, still laughing. "She's just really not grasping the whole "trick-or-treat" concept, is she?" I joked. Mom agreed and called to her daughter, who quickly bonked Spiderman on the head with her glitter-crusted wand and descended the stairs of my porch. I'll always wonder if she ever got the hang of it by the end of the evening!

As I've said, I'm worried about my chances this year. My sweet Trixie has grown older and her sprinkler-chasing, child-entertaining days are far behind her, I'm afraid. Our homes in the new neighborhood are much farther apart, it's very hilly, and the weatherman is predicting rain. I've seen the local kids pass by as I've been out working in the yard, and they've always politely returned my vigorous waves and chipper "Hellos!" to them. But I know they're not real happy with me. The family that used to live in my house had three children, three of their pals. So, basically, I am the lady that moved into the home from which their best friends had to leave. I also didn't provide them with any "replacement playmates." Not cool.

But I have a plan!! I went to the store yesterday and purchased a giant package of FULL-SIZED candy bars!! No "fun size" for MY kids!! The way I see it, if I can get just ONE brave child to ring my doorbell and see the KICK ASS treats that I am distributing tonight, word will quickly spread. Soon, I'll have hundreds of costumed children on my porch! OK, maybe dozens. Actually, I'd be happy with just ONE fairy princess...

Thanks for reading!! Happy Halloween!!

Lost

Every time I complete a new blog entry, I immediately e-mail my new post to each of my four siblings. They've known me longer than anyone and they've supported me dutifully through all my career, husband, and hairstyle changes. I greatly value their opinions. So a few entries ago, when I sent off my latest piece, I attached a quick note, confessing that my ideas for topics were running a little dry, and if anyone had a suggestion, I'd gratefully accept it. My sister Kathy responded almost immediately with a long, really creative list (rest assured, you will be seeing her ideas implemented in several upcoming posts).

But there was one of Kathy's suggestions that I didn't quite understand at first glance. It simply read, "Your GPS." Now, Kathy knows that we have a GPS system in our car. Don't get me wrong, it's been a wonderful, handy tool to own, I love it! But why, I wondered, does Kathy believe that an electronic device mounted in my dashboard makes an interesting writing topic? Then it hit me. Kathy wasn't referring to my car's digital mapping system. She was talking about MY "internal" GPS. It's a fantastic idea, actually, because my internal GPS is seriously BROKEN. Always has been. My sweet sister, trying her very hardest not to sound insulting, wrote, "Your GPS," instead of, "Write about how you have absolutely no sense of direction whatsoever and couldn't possibly find your way out of a paper bag!" That's probably how I would've put it, had the roles been reversed!

I don't even know how to begin to describe my direction ineptness. I absolutely despise the "traffic reporter" that broadcasts over my radio in the middle of rush hour, who spends about seven seconds telling me about the 900 accidents that have occurred that morning. Mr. Speedy-Talker then informs me about all the "huge back-ups," and the better, quicker routes to take. By the time I'm able to mentally locate the first intersection mentioned and figure out it's relation to where I am, I've completely missed what has happened there and all the information about ways to avoid it. I scream at my radio "SLOW DOWN!" or, "SAY IT AGAIN!!" That bastard never listens.

The city of Orlando, where I lived for sixteen years, is a fairly modern place with navigable highways and tourist-friendly, easy-to-understand signage. I got lost daily! I'd do great going from our house to work, but it was when I had to make stops in between those two places where I'd get all turned-around. Poor Alan just learned to live with the inevitable calls he'd receive from me saying, "OK, I'm at Whole Foods, I need to get to the pet store, do I get on I-4 for that?" Or, "Well, I was trying to get to the courthouse downtown and somehow I ended up in Fort Lauderdale. How do I get home?" To his credit, my sweet, kind husband has never, EVER said what most would remark at these moments. Things like, "Wow, you really are a big, dumb idiot, aren't you?" or "You're exhausting me! Can't I just put you in a Home somewhere?" No, my Sweetheart simply asks me to identify the nearest landmark, then verbally points me in the right direction. I really love that man!!

You can imagine Alan's response when we purchased our new car a few years back, and the dealer inquired if we would like to include the new GPS system in our package. I hesitated, thinking it seemed like an awfully extravagant electronic toy. If I remember correctly, Alan said something along the lines of, "YES, YES, OH DEAR GOD, YES!!! Install the GPS! I don't care how much it costs!!"

The really comforting part of my handicap is that my sister, Laura, is just as directionally challenged as I am. When we were teens, we'd leave together on a shopping trip, get involved in a deep conversation as we drove along, then suddenly snap back into reality. We'd inevitably look around at our unfamiliar surroundings and then exclaim, "Hey, who moved the mall?"

The best example of our busted internal GPS came when Laura and I were in high school and were asked to perform our "Honey Bun" dance routine on the local TV talent showcase, "The Gene Carroll Show." Gene was Cleveland's very own version of Ed Sullivan, and he hosted a weekly Sunday morning program showcasing all the local "talent" in the Cleveland area. The shows were taped in downtown Cleveland during the week, then broadcast that Sunday. Our dance teacher got Laura and I the gig, but told us she wouldn't be able to take us to the taping, could we get there on our own? NO PROBLEM!! We were sixteen and seventeen, practically grown adults, for crying out loud! Of COURSE we could drive the twenty miles to downtown Cleveland, piece of cake!!

I need to pause this story here to explain something about my father. Dad was/is the biggest Nervous Nellie on the planet. We lived on a cul-de-sac in a quiet, suburban neighborhood in a place called Sagamore Hills. The crime rate was literally non-existent on my street, yet he was convinced that all five of his children would be stabbed, raped, kidnapped, and/or impregnated by the time we each reached the age of twelve. The summer before my sophmore year of college, a few of my female classmates asked if I wanted to skip living in a dorm the following year and get an apartment with them near the theater building. When I approached Dad with the idea, his response was short and sweet: "You'll get raped." Apparently, the "rapage" factor was way higher when you lived in an apartment with four girlfriends instead of a co-ed dorm on campus. Guess where I stayed all four years of college? (Hint: It wasn't in the apartment with my girlfriends!)

So, it goes without saying that even though the exciting, vibrant city of Cleveland was only a mere twenty-five minutes away, the Donnelly children rarely saw it, because my father forbade it. When we became interested in theater and the touring companies of "A Chorus Line" and "Annie" came through town, my mother gave-in to our pleading and agreed to take us, but not to the evening performances. Mom wrote a note to our teachers saying we had dental appointments, got us excused early from school, and we attended the Wednesday afternoon matinees. This, it was apparently determined, was the time of day when downtown Cleveland was much less "rapey."

So, having never really been to the area, Laura and I basically had no idea what route to take to get to our Gene Carroll Show taping. However, mom gave us a map (actually, it was more like a world atlas. Picture a globe, only in book form. In Mom's defense, it did have a "Northeast Ohio" page). We also decided to take a male with us to, you know, fight off all the rapists and such. I had just started dating Alan, so we asked him to come with us. That's right, Alan. Alan, the Alabama boy who had been living in the state of Ohio for all of three months. That Alan. (Seriously, what could go wrong?)

So we actually made it to the taping (Praise God!) with no problems. We arrived at the studio, executed our routine with flawless , sailor-suited perfection and were an immediate, enormous hit. The evening was a complete success! Until...

When we left the TV studio, we immediately noticed that it had gotten really dark. No problem, we thought, we had our trusty atlas. We began our journey home, talking excitedly about the obvious "nailing" of our performance and of our impatience to actually see ourselves on TV. Suddenly, though, things began to look unfamiliar. Alan, who was driving, asked us to consult the globe. Laura and I studied the map and determined that yes, we were definitely headed in the right direction. It was a full thirty or so miles later, when we started seeing signs for Ashtabula, that Alan stopped the car and grabbed the map from us. Apparently, Laura and I had mixed-up the whole east/west thing, and when we told Alan we were definitely headed west, we were, in fact, headed east. We were also out of gas. We rolled into a gas station and called Alan's dad, who told us to just stay put, drove out to meet us, filled our tank and had us follow him home.

Laura and I were sure our father would be fit to be tied when we finally arrived home. I can honestly tell you that I don't have the slightest recollection of what played-out when we walked through our front door late that night. They say that people who undergo traumatic events are often unable to recall that experience after they recover. They say the mind acts as a kind of buffer to allow peaceful healing. Perhaps this is what happened to my memory of that night. I guess we'll never know. I DO remember, however, very vividly, the next morning when Laura and I came drowsily down to the breakfast table, prepared for an intense fatherly tongue-lashing. Dad looked up from his newspaper, turned to my mother and said, "Hey, look who's here. It's Louis and Clark!"

Thanks for reading!! (And thanks, Kathy!!)

Loyal Be Thy Sons and Daughters...

I just arrived home from a truly wonderful weekend spent with my husband in Syracuse, New York. Syracuse is a very prominent city in my life for many reasons. It's the place I lived when I left home for the first time to attend the University there. As a musical theater major at Syracuse, my classmates and I honed our dance, vocal, and acting skills, working without ceasing to accomplish the highly-coveted status of "Triple Threat." It was where we performed in various productions, worked on backstage crews, and even caught a football game or two in-between our rehearsal schedules. Syracuse is the place where I met and fell in love with a fellow theater major who eventually proposed to me shortly before graduation. It's also the location where he and I returned after living in NYC for a short time, so that he could teach dance back at the University. It was at that time when he eventually left me, making Syracuse the place in which I spent many sad, troubled nights grieving, trying to make sense of the whole mess.

Because of that awful, horrible time involving my ex-husband's abrupt exit and our eventual divorce, my memories of SU have become a little cloudy and jaded, I'm afraid. Our separation at the time became the fuel for some pretty juicy SU Drama Department gossip, and my only way to deal with the intense hurt was to draw further and further away. While living in Orlando, if I received Syracuse University literature in the mail regarding Drama Department reunions or invitations to alumni weekends, I'd wait for the inevitable, familiar sting of sadness and hurt to subside, then drop the flyer in the recycling bin. I hadn't been back to SU since I left over sixteen years ago. But, Alan had some business in the area, and there just happened to be an SU football game that weekend, so he asked if I'd like to join him. I decided it was time.

It's only been very recently, maybe the last five years or so, that I've been able to gaze at old photos from my time as a student at SU. I have albums filled with all of us mugging for the camera backstage in our dressing rooms, arms thrown around each other, unyielding in our quest together to become famous. These are mixed with the countless pictures of my ex-husband and I, walking hand in hand on campus, sitting in a diner on Marshall street, so in love and full of hope and promise. I study the faces in those old photos, searching for signs of the tragic end that will eventually occur. All I can see is youthful happiness and excitement, two young lovers, invincible about their future.

So as Alan and I drove around the campus this past weekend, I smiled and sighed as we passed by my old dorms, the library where I worked, and the beautiful Visual and Performing Arts building where we daily climbed the hundreds of steps to attend voice classes. We parked the car and strolled down Marshall Street, the campus "strip." Some places had changed, of course, like the Starbucks located in the space a bookstore used to inhabit, and the former McDonald's that was now home to a Sushi bar. But I was also tickled to see how many of the old haunts remained, like Cosmos Diner, Manny's Campus Clothing Store, and my absolute favorite, Varsity Pizza.

The Varsity is an institution at Syracuse, it first opened in 1928 and is still owned and operated by the same family today. I have never, EVER, in all the places I've lived, tasted better pizza than the ones made at The Varsity. Just tremendous. It could be the no-frills atmosphere of the place that makes them seem so delicious, like the orange and blue chairs at the tables and the same giant old black and white photos that adorn the walls. These photos are of Ernie Davis, the SU rowing team, Lacrosse Players, and a tenor sax player marching on the field, to name a few. On the wall above the area where you place your order hang the flags of the opponents the football team will be facing during the present season. All the ones that have been turned upside down are the schools SU has defeated!

The Varsity is where my fellow drama classmates and I would gather every Wednesday after a late-afternoon, department-wide lab we were required to attend at the theater building. We'd all trudge up the hill afterwards, grab our usual table, throw in a couple of bucks for a pie or two and a pitcher of coke, then eat, talk, and laugh until it was time to hike back down the hill for rehearsal of some kind. It was a standing date every week, whomever could make it knew to just show-up at The Varsity, and someone would always be there. Actually, I think it was at those gatherings at The Varsity that my ex-husband and I began to fall in love.

So, this past Saturday, as I sat in a booth and waited for Alan to place our order, I looked over at that cluster of tables where we all used to gather, discussing our classes and worrying about our finals. I know many, many young students have congregated at that particular area since, but it still seemed to sparkle with that sweet memory of those years in the mid-eighties when it was US who sat there. I cradled my chin in my hand and smiled as I pictured each of those young, talented faces and recalled all the things they've accomplished since.

After lunch, Alan and I got back in the car and drove just past campus, past Thorndon Park, to a little yellow house on Cherry Street. The upstairs of the house was made into an apartment, and it's where my ex and I lived when we moved back to Syracuse. It's also the place where I stood a few months later and listened to him tell me he didn't want to be married anymore, then watched as he left. As we sat in the car out front and gazed up at the house, the first thought that hit me was how good it looked. It had a fresh coat of paint, and the large maple tree in the front yard had turned a beautiful shade of orange, providing a carpet of vibrant leaves on it's lawn. It seemed somehow amazing that there was no sign of the sadness that had taken place inside, no stain revealing the middle-of-the-night, floor-pacing grief that once occurred nightly within those walls.

As we sat there, looking at this sweet, quaint little home, Alan grabbed my hand and said, "This is the place where our story re-started! I have such happy memories here!" He was right. It was a few years after my ex's departure, after picking myself up, finding work, and finally getting on with my life, that Alan found me again here. I was living HERE when he called all those Syracuse phone numbers to finally track MINE down, the one belonging to this house. It was in that tiny place that, after months of hour-long phone conversations, he decided to make the trip to see me in person. He talked about ascending the stairs of the house, taking a deep breath, and knocking on my door. I, on the other side, turned the deadbolt, placed my hand on the door knob, paused, then said to him through the door, "Are you ready?" Then I opened the door and there he stood, My Future.

It was then that it struck me. All these years, when I have thought of Syracuse, my mind would immediately focus on all the intense, bad things that happened for me in this town. I've been letting all the grieving, sad memories overshadow all the supremely sweet ones. I allowed all the floor-walking, weepy nights to block the exciting come-from-behind football games, the really top-quality shows we performed in, and the ridiculously good pizza we consumed while discussing our surely-inevitable bright futures. Why was I giving the bad memories all that power?

The truth is, I'm thankful for ALL my Syracuse memories, even the sad ones. As a result of going through that hard time, I now appreciate the relationships in my life much more than I ever would have before. I love deeper, I laugh louder, and I live more intensely because that time has taught me how fragile life can be. The sad times will always have their place, no doubt. But I decided on my trip last weekend that I'm no longer going to let them overshadow the majority of beautiful, fun, sweet remembrances I also hold.

We drove away from Cherry Street that day and headed to the Carrier Dome to watch the football game. Before it started, the marching band took the field and played the fight song, the National Anthem, then the Alma Mater. I actually know the words to the SU alma mater because I sang it for a campus event when I was a student there. It's a beautiful song, but my favorite line has always been the last: "Loyal be thy sons and daughters, to thy memory." Being loyal to memories. I like that. The good, the bad, all of them make up who I have become thus far. I'm no longer going to allow one to cloud the other. It took me awhile, 'Cuse, but I think I've finally got it! Go Orange!!

Thanks for reading!!

Excuse me...

So here's the thing: Trixie and I are leaving shortly on a road trip to visit my college alma mater, Syracuse University. My husband will eventually join us there so that he can serve as a witness as I once again bring my bad luck to another football team of which I am a fan (Go, Orange!!). So, with all the packing and such going on, I find myself distracted enough NOT to be able to hear any blog topic that may be rattling around in the old noggin. But I've been wanting to devote an entry to something else that's been on my mind--I thought I'd do that today. Will you indulge me? Here goes...

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 in the Last 20+ Years 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!!

Ghost Writing

Today I've decided to start with a confession to an extremely embarrassing guilty pleasure of mine. Every friday evening at 8 o'clock I pour myself a glass of red wine and prepare a plate of low fat cheese, crackers, grapes, veggies and dip. Then I turn on the TV and watch a full episode, start to finish, of The Ghost Whisperer, starring Jennifer Love Hewitt. If you've never heard of this show, trust me, you must consider yourself very, very lucky indeed. Seriously, don't start watching it. It's terrible. The Ghost Whisperer's premise is that Melinda Gordon (Ms. Hewitt) has a gift in which she can see and converse with the dead. Well, not ALL the dead, just the ones that are "earth-bound" for some reason and haven't yet "crossed-over into the light." Melinda helps them work through their troubles, which usually requires contacting their skeptical relatives and convincing THEM that she can talk to their dearly departed. ("He's telling me he gave you a gold locket for your tenth wedding anniversary. He says you keep it in the jewelry box on your dresser next to the love notes he sent you!!") At the conclusion of each show Melinda usually gathers them all together ("Your husband is here with us"), interprets for the dead, resolves the issues that have kept the spirit hanging around, and watches tearfully as the soul, now at-peace, sees and then "crosses over" into the light that has been waiting for him all along. The show is poorly written, the acting is of soap opera caliber (although I must admit, Jen is an AWESOME crier!), and the saccharin-sweet happy endings are enough to leave you with a major tooth ache. I'm addicted to it!!

Alan says he thinks the reason the show has been so successful is because the ghosts are frequently visiting Jen in the middle of the night, so she must arise from her satin-sheeted bed wearing only her silk, low-cut negliges that accent her extremely well-endowed (a-hem) "talents." (She also sleeps in full, heavy make-up, complete with false eyelashes...WHY?) Anyway, the show is dreadful--and I LOVE it!! I have no idea why. I normally have no patience for shows that are poorly written and acted, and I've never been able to sit through a full ten minutes of any soap opera. So why am I addicted to this show? The answer, I fear, is even more embarrassing: I LOVE a good ghost story!!

It's true! One of my favorite "Bonding Questions" (see earlier post) is, "Have you ever seen a ghost, and if so, tell me EVERYTHING!!" Then I lean forward, fists clenched near my mouth, and squeal in delighted horror when my friend or co-worker gets to the scary, "unexplained phenomenon" part!

Whenever we visit a new place on vacation, like St. Augustine, Key West, Gettysburg, the Rocky Mountains, or New England, I always make a bee-line to the local bookstore and purchase a copy of that town's version of "The Ghosts of..." book. They're filled with fascinating folklore and history of each place! Perhaps I should say something in my own defense before I continue: I am not a horror movie buff at all. I don't enjoy slasher films and, quite frankly, even the early, tamer Vincent Price versions are still a bit disturbing to me. But, the ghost story books are a fantastic way to learn about the rich past of the places you are visiting, and I figure the scary tales describing what has reportedly appeared in their old, historical buildings is just icing on the cake!!

My first "Ghosts of..." book was written about the old city of St. Augustine, Florida. St. Augustine was first visited by Ponce de Leon in 1513, but it was the eccentric oil tycoon, Henry Flagler, who really revived the town back in 1883, making it a winter destination for Northerners. He is responsible for some of the city's grandest architecture, including a college that now bears his name. Both Flager and de Leon have been spotted still "strolling" the cobbled streets of their cherished old town. I read my "Ghosts of St. Augustine" book shortly before Alan and I were to spend our anniversary there. We had reservations at one of their many old, charming bed and breakfasts there. The book was overflowing with stories regarding the early settlers, forbidden love, and souls whose lives were ended too soon and hence "still walked the floors" of the places they once inhabited. I was RIVETED!! So riveted, in fact, that when we arrived at our lovely Inn the following week, I was completely TERRIFIED that we were "not alone," and made Alan keep the lights on all night! Nice romantic anniversary, huh?

But I think my favorite ghost story has got to be the one attached to the beautiful Marerro's Guest Mansion where Alan and I always stay when we visit Key West. Here's how the story goes:

Francisco Marerro, a wealthy Cuban cigar maker, built a large, beautiful mansion on Fleming street as a wedding present for his new, lovely young bride, Enriquetta. She loved the big house and took exceptional care of it, giving birth to and raising eight children while residing there with her handsome husband. Francisco's work frequently took him on long business trips back to Cuba, but Enriquetta seldom minded, she had her house and children to keep her busy. Then one fateful day officials arrived on the young woman's porch and informed her that her beloved husband had died unexpectedly during a recent trip back to Havana. Enriquetta was heartbroken, sick with grief and lamented that things couldn't get much worse. Except that they did. Several days later, on that same porch, a beautiful hispanic woman appeared with legal papers in hand. She informed Enriquetta that her husband had been a bigamist, that SHE was the first wife of Francisco, and therefore all his belongings, including Enriquetta's cherished house, was now HERS. A nasty court battle ensued (you can still view the records of the trial at the Key West Courthouse!), but the judge eventually had no other choice than to evict Enriquetta and her children--the papers were valid.

So, on that day in 1891, as a crowd gathered to morbidly witness her and her children becoming homeless, Enriquetta firmly stood on the porch of her cherished wedding gift and made this proclamation to the horde of rubber-neckers: "You are all witnessing a great injustice today. And though you are removing me from my home, you should know that this house is rightfully mine, and with God as my witness, I will remain here in spirit!" Now penniless, Enriquetta eventually died in the streets a few years later.

But legend has it that Enriquetta has kept her promise! They say she is thrilled to be "back" in the home she loves and continues to "take care" of it. She also doesn't put up with rowdy guests who stay there! They say if you've been partying a little too much on Duvall street some night and come back to your room acting loud and boisterous, your suitcases will be "magically" packed when you awake in the morning! She's also been known to "lock" rowdy guests out of their rooms, even when they insert the appropriate key in their door. The experts claim that the way to tell if Enriquetta "approves" of you is to look up immediately upon entering the mansion. There you will see a large, glass chandelier above your head. If it's still, you're OK. If the chandelier is swinging ever so slightly, Enriquetta is signaling to the innkeeper that you are trouble! I must say, I'm not proud of the fact that I look up and check that stupid chandelier EVERY time I enter that house!!

To be honest, though, Alan and I have stayed at Marerro's several times and have never come across the "ghostly mistress." But I WILL confess that a few times, we've waited, hidden, for the Key West Ghost tour to walk-up in front of the house. We let the host tell Enriquetta's story, then right before he finishes, we scream loudly, raise our hands above our heads, and come running out the front door in fake terror! I'd like to think that this amuses Enriquetta (it must, she's let us stay!).

Have you ever been on a Ghost Tour? I've dragged poor Alan to two in Key West and one terrible one in Gettysburg. Gettysburg is reportedly one of the "most haunted" places in America. This may be true, but I've got to tell you, their ghost stories are truly lame. I guess it's hard to make a "ghost soldier" walking around a battlefield sound interesting, particularly since Gettysburg is daily inundated with hundreds of civil war re-enactors. So, when ghost-sighters say, "The ghost looked so REAL!" it makes one wonder if, perhaps, they really were just viewing some historical fanatic in a store-bought "Rebel" costume!

To be honest, as infatuated as I am with the idea of ghosts, I would also be TERRIFIED if I ever encountered one! I watch those mild, "ghost history" shows on the History Channel when Alan's out of town and kick myself for the remainder of the evening as I sit, petrified, squeezing an annoyed Trixie to my chest and jumping six feet in the air every time I hear the wind blow outside. It's really quite pitiful.

But I love the stories. I love how they take you back to a time long-gone and tell of things gone wrong, sometimes as a warning. They remind you of life's fragileness and how fleeting our time here on earth can be. And even though sometimes I feel my belief waning a bit, I think I'll still read my books and walk those tours, and I'll even probably end-up sleeping with the lights on afterward!

I hope that if ghosts really DO exist, if there really are some poor souls out there that don't realize they've died or have some unfinished business, they'll somehow know that help is at hand. Somehow, I hope they find Jennifer Love Hewitt, who will show them her cleavage, bat her fake-lashed eyes, and send them on their spiritual, light-enhanced way. All in a neat, one-hour episode, of course!

Thanks for reading!!