The sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon, and I awake.
Before I open my eyes, I make a mental note of five people for whom I am grateful today.
Then, I count backwards from five…
On “one”, I open my eyes and get out of bed.
So far, I have successfully completed two self-improvement exercises that I’m told will put me on the path to a better existence. I have shown gratitude and implemented the countdown method to overcome my tendencies toward procrastination. I will do the countdown several more times throughout the day. It’s supposed to be helpful. This is what I’ve been told.
During breakfast, after I log my protein shake on a food app - because we must keep track of our intake to ensure a nutritious lifestyle – I open another app which is teaching me how to speak Spanish. Being multilingual is the first step to becoming a citizen of the world and uniting us all in peace and co-existence. And it makes me feel muy inteligente!
So far, I have put into practice four ways to improve myself and it isn’t even nine o’clock yet.
Thanks to people like Oprah and some affluent reality stars, living one’s “best life” is a big movement these days. Everyone is doing it, right?
People refer to their pursuit of personal growth as a “journey” which, quite frankly, sets my teeth on edge. I’m not sure why. Maybe it’s because everything is a “journey” now. Being on a diet is a “Weight Journey”. Going to the gym is a “Fitness Journey”. Taking the dog for a walk is a “Journey In Pet Parenting”. How many steps does it take to reach the end of a journey? Your smart phone can tell you. It’s counting them. The target is 10,000 steps per day. It’s something we should all work toward. That’s what I read on the internet.
And speaking of the internet, if you aren’t living your best life, then I guess you don’t have any social media accounts. Because if you did, you would see other people’s posts - better people’s posts - of their weight loss graphs, their workout spreadsheets, their successful entrepreneurial enterprises and so on. You would then know you’re getting it all wrong.
Are these posts designed to make you feel bad about you? Not necessarily, but they will anyway. If you look at Instagram or TikTok or the cesspool known as Twitter, you will be influenced by the influences of all the influencers. You will then start downloading apps until your thumbs cramp. There are apps to help you sleep better, write better, eat better, and do just about all things better than you’re doing them now. You better get cracking!
After breakfast and my morning sun salutation, I meditate. Meditations is supposed to make me more spiritually fulfilled and focused, but my mind wanders. It’s not supposed to, so that’s just another thing that makes me feel inadequate, of course. But as it’s wandering, I think: If we’re all striving to be better individually, why aren’t we better as a collective?
If as many people are on these quests as claim to be, why then does so much negativity, unrest and corrosiveness abound? Why are there entire websites devoted to public meltdowns, and viral videos of all those “Karens” and spittle spewing vitriol at school board meetings? Why aren’t these journeymen and women more enlightened? They all seem to be working so hard at it. Doesn’t anybody watch Ted Talks anymore? Tedx even?
I have a “friend” on Facebook, a woman I vaguely knew in high school 45 years ago. She is always posting inspirational quotes about how to treat others as you wish to be treated and how to be the change you want to see in the world and how judgement of others is wrong because they might have scars that aren’t visible because it’s their souls that are wounded. But she is also the first person to criticize people for eating meat, for not holding the door open for her when she enters the mall, for not adopting animals, or for cutting her off in traffic. Here she is, a living, breathing platitudes poster and yet, she doesn’t follow her own advice. Maybe her soul is wounded. Or maybe she’s just a hypocrite. You be the judge (even though that would be wrong).
Would the world be a kinder place if everyone had a subscription to O Magazine? You get a subscription! You get a subscription! Everybody gets a subscription!!!! Maybe on their evening strolls to get their steps in, people might offer to help a neighbor? Smile? Some of the people in my neighborhood won’t even make eye contact or respond to a friendly “hello”. Mr. Rogers didn’t mention anything about them, did he?
Anyway, after my morning workout, I do the facial exercises that are supposed to discourage wrinkles because you must look good to feel good. Sometimes I worry that stretching my face this way is creating more wrinkles, but women on Pinterest swear by them. What do I know? And worrying causes stress, which causes wrinkles, so...
I then take an invigorating shower (complete with pre-shower dry brushing for my lymphatic health and post-shower essential oils which are said to cure everything under the sun). For lunch, I log my healthy salad of kale, seeds, nuts and some plant protein. I have just enough time to squeeze in a quick guitar practice before my afternoon walk. I started teaching myself guitar at the very beginning of the pandemic. Two-and-a-half years later, I can perfectly play a D chord and not much else. Yes, I fall short on this, too. Nonetheless, I press on because I just know I could be better. Everything around me says so.
I learned lots of self-improvement skills on a wellness retreat with my friend, Carrie. She and I attended a variety of classes every day, for three days. This included yoga, meditation, classes about dreams and their meanings, astrology interpretations, tennis, swimming, etc. We did everything and left the place feeling like empowered goddesses. We were energized. We were focused. We were grateful. The morning after we returned, a crushing decision came down from the Supreme Court. Suddenly the only thing we felt grateful for was that we live in New York State. The devastation was real. It took us months to get back on track. But I’m going off topic. So, back to my day…
Late afternoon includes doing laundry with planet-friendly detergent and another Español lesson or two. Yo soy una buena estudiante!
By dinner time, I am exhausted from all this improving. I don’t feel like cooking and no amount of counting down is going to make me do it. Instead, I order pizza and a Coke. I don’t log it. I leave the dirty dishes in the sink. No bueno. I have failed myself. The guilt leaves me feeling less than my best.
I get into bed without washing the 50 SPF broad spectrum sunscreen off my face and flip on the TV to binge watch nothing wholesome or enriching. My phone chimes a lullaby as a reminder to prepare for sleep and tell it to go screw itself. I won’t need the sleep app because I’m drowsy by the third episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.
At dawn, before I open my eyes, I make a mental note of five people for whom I am grateful.
By The Sea
Seaweed. The taste of salt on my lips. The smell of sea air. These are just a few of the things that come to mind when I think of childhood summers spent on Cape Cod.
The year was 1966, and it was the first time we had ventured to that popular ocean getaway favored by so many upstate New Yorkers. On the advice of family friends who rented a house there every year, my parents thought it sounded like just the ticket for our young family of six.
My five-year-old self was beyond excited by the prospect of dipping into the ocean for the very first time. Up until that point, my swimming was confined to our navy blue kiddie pool, constructed of canvas and supported by a frame of metal tubing; or the lake at Cherry Plains where we had huge family picnics with my parents’ relatives. At one of those affairs, an old Italian great-aunt tricked me into eating a piece of barbequed “chicken” which later turned out to be rabbit. But that’s a story for another time.
My father rented a cottage for us in Dennis Port. Just the word “cottage” thrilled me, since cottages where only ever mentioned in fairytales. I pictured an enchanted house built of cobblestone and thatch, covered in flowering ivy. It had a beautiful garden and a wishing well. If they had called it a bungalow, I probably would have envisioned jungles and men swinging on vines; certainly a different kind of vacation altogether. But no. I would spend one charmed week in a cottage by the sea.
For several days leading up to the trip, my mother prepared. She bought each of us new sunglasses. She packed our clothes, our sheets, towels, pots, pans, cleaning supplies… Were we moving to Cape Cod?
I distinctly remember the chaos of jamming everything into our sedan. My father packed the trunk without success. There were things that simply wouldn’t fit.
“We just can’t take everything, that’s all,” he said with a shrug. He started to eliminate items based on I don’t know what.
Enter my mother. When she saw what he was doing, she bolted from the house. There were words, if I recall. She unpacked the trunk and put everything on the ground next to the car. With her hands on her hips, she surveyed her inventory and then slowly and methodically repacked all of it into the trunk with not an inch to spare. She shot my father a look of great satisfaction, he muttered something under his breath and, with that, we were ready to go.
My father slowly inched our over-stuffed boat of a car down the slope of our driveway, scraping the bottom of it just as we pulled onto the street.
I remember a few things about that interminable drive to my storybook vacation. I remember my oldest brother, Dominic, trying to ignore the rest of us because he was a teenager and simply too cool. I remember being sandwiched between my brother, Michael, and sister, Diana. They were bickering so much, my parents threatened several times to turn the car around. I remember the floor of the car had a hump upon which I rested my feet. But what I remember most was being too little to see out of the windows and all the horn honking, swearing and swerving my father did during that ride made me nauseous and terrified. Not being able to see made it just that much more unnerving. Is this how it would all end? I simply couldn’t die before seeing my cottage!
By the time we crossed over the Bourne Bridge, I was barely holding on. But I knew if I threw up on my siblings, I would die a worse death than anything a major car accident could hold in store for me.
“Look kids!” said my mother, as she opened her window to the fragrant salty air.
I got up on my knees and could see the water and blue skies and sail boats. It was nothing short of magical.
Consulting his map and handwritten directions, my father drove to the rental office, picked up the key and we headed to our rented property. The paved roads became narrow bumpy lanes covered in sand. We pulled up next to a modest wooden affair, with sun-bleached cedar shingles, an asphalt roof and a screen door.
“Here we are,” said dad brightly. “Home sweet home!”
This? This is my cottage? Where’s the stone? Where’s the ivy? Where’s the ocean?! Instead of a garden and a wishing well, there were some spiky clumps of sea grass, two Adirondack chairs, a charcoal grill and a yellow plastic sand pail the previous occupants had likely forgotten or couldn’t fit into their trunk. The cottage was situated among a cluster of others just like it. There was not a drop of water in sight. I was totally and immediately disenchanted.
At this point, I’d like to switch gears for a second and tell you about the very first date I had. Out of necessity, it was actually a double date – with the boy’s parents. We were both 14 and therefore too young to drive. They took us out to dinner and I ordered the Salisbury steak, for two reasons. One, it was the cheapest thing on the menu so I thought that was the polite thing to do. Two, it was steak. When it was served, imagine my surprise to learn that it was not a steak at all. Rather, a Salisbury steak is a gargantuan oval-shaped patty of ground beef covered in a brown sauce.
So, why am I telling you this? Well, right about now, you might be thinking I was an ungrateful brat. And who could blame you? But try to bear in mind that I was five. A five-year-old doesn’t understand that her father works long, hard hours, often missing dinner and bringing work home from the office, so he can take his wife and four kids on a vacation. A five-year-old can’t appreciate that for her mother, this is not much of a vacation at all. It’s more of a relocation. She’s still cooking, cleaning, and tending. So, in my defense, I was simply a five-year-old child, with a wild imagination and impossible expectations, who didn’t get the steak she thought she’d ordered. Now, back to Cape Cod:
We spent the next eternity unpacking the car and fighting over who got which rooms.
Children are not famous for their patience, and in that respect, I was a normal kid. At about this time, I started whining, “When are we going to the beach?”
“The beach?” my mother asked while making up our beds. “Well, if there’s time, we’ll go after we get back from the supermarket,”
If there’s time? The supermarket? WHAT IS HAPPENING? Wasn’t this supposed to be a beach vacation? Since I was not running the show, it appeared I had no say in the matter. We piled back into the car and left to partake of every child’s favorite vacation activity – grocery shopping. Once the food was purchased and unloaded, I could stand it no longer.
“I thought…we came here…to go…to the beach,” I cried, lips quivering and voice cracking.
I’m not sure if my mother took pity on me, or wanted us out of her hair while she made dinner, but she told my father, “Start the coals and then take them to the beach. Come back in half an hour.”
“Yippee! We’re going swimming in the ocean!” My tearful sobs turned into gleeful delight. I was alternately jumping up and down and running around in circles. “Woohoo!”
“Um…” my father proceeded gently, “we’re not actually going to swim.”
I stopped mid-twirl and stared at him, mouth agape.
“Tomorrow,” he said.
When he saw the waterworks about to start again, he quickly added, “I promise! It’s too late to go swimming today, but tomorrow we’ll spend the whole day at the beach. And the day after that, and the day after that, and every day we’re here. Today, we’re going to go to the beach and see the ocean. We can even put our feet in. But tomorrow, we will swim.”
My father kept that promise. We swam. Boy, did we ever! And when we weren’t swimming, we sat in the warm sand and ate the sandwiches my mother packed in the cooler. We were even allowed to drink soda, which was normally reserved for only the most special of occasions. Dominic decided he wasn’t too cool to play with us and taught us how to body surf. He and Michael pulled Diana and me around on rafts. We peacefully played games together. We all collected seashells, flew kites, played miniature golf, went out for ice cream, visited a lighthouse and a sailing museum, and on and on and on.
When the week was up, I hated to leave the beautiful little gray cottage I had fallen in love with. Nearly every summer after that, we did our best to return to Cape Cod. Each time, I dreaded the long drive but turned giddy and relieved as soon as we reached the Bourne Bridge. Our rented homes got bigger with each vacation to accommodate more of our extended family – aunts, cousins, and eventually spouses and children of our own.
I still come back from time to time. My husband and I take our children to play mini golf at the same places I played. We go out for ice cream at the same parlors. We swim in the same big ocean. In fact, this post was written in Dennis Port. From a house by the sea.
Plants are a great way to jazz up any room. They add life, fresh air and cheer to any décor.
While recently brainstorming on how to redecorate my home office (a/k/a The Mother Ship), I knew one thing for sure – I wanted lots of plants. Succulents are my greens of choice. They’re beautiful, easy to grow and don’t hold it against you when you forget to water them for two weeks.
My friend, Bradley Bemboom, was helping me with the project. Among his many other talents, Bradley is an accomplished interior designer. He suggested we install a succulent wall.
“We’ll drill containers into one of the walls and fill them with succulents,” he said.
Who’s gonna do what now? Drill? Into the walls? The ones I just had patched and painted?
While creative, this concept was way outside of my comfort zone. You see, my house is old. It was built in 1896 and all the walls are constructed of lath and plaster. We’ve lived here for nearly 14 years and in all that time I have managed to avoid making holes in the walls. This is not to say that I haven’t hung a few things. I have, using those 3M hooks that stick to the surface and don’t leave marks when you take them off…allegedly. I don’t know if they do or they don’t because I’ve never removed one. I’m afraid to go near them once they’re up. They might be strong enough to hold potted plants but that wasn’t a chance I was willing to take.
I reluctantly agreed.
“Trust me,” said Bradley.
Well, trust him I do. And so, we began the hunt for the perfect containers. Once we found them, Bradley started drilling while I hid under the couch. Much to my surprise and delight, the wall did not crumble into a pile of 127-year-old dust.
Now that the scary part was over, the fun part could commence.
I knew exactly which succulent varieties I wanted. One of them, known as a burro’s tail, is a pale green trailing showstopper. Gorgeous! It would be perfect for the French flower market pail we used. Bradley told me the burro’s tail had to be in a six inch pot to sit properly in the pail. I knew that the local nursery had them, so I went to get one.
As expected, there were several, but none of them came in a six inch pot. So I picked up a four inch plant and brought it to the register.
“Can you transfer this to a six inch pot for me?” I asked.
The salesman pursed his lips and said, “Hmm…I don’t think so.”
“You don’t have six inch pots?” This confused me. After all, it was a nursery.
“Oh no,” he continued, “we have them. I just don’t know if it’s such a good idea. I mean I’m looking at it from the plant’s perspective.”
I didn’t know plants had perspectives.
“You see that house plant over there?” He motioned to a little rubber tree. “I had one just like it. I transferred it to a great big planter. It died.”
I furrowed my brow. “I only want to go up two inches,” I said.
Apparently this was the wrong response. I guess I should have mustered up some sympathy for his loss and validated his grief before getting down to business. He looked annoyed.
“Hold on,” he sighed. “Let me get Gretchen. She’s the expert. She’ll know what to do. Gretchen!”
Gretchen The Expert strode past me to take her place next to the salesman at the register. She looked to be about 20 (young as far as experts go) and possessed an air of superiority in the way that experts do. I disliked her immediately.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked.
“Problem? Well, it’s really not a problem,” I chuckled. “I just want to transfer this four inch burro’s tail into a six inch pot.”
“Really?” she asked. Her tone implied the very idea was preposterous.
“Look,” I said, showing her a photo of the empty pail attached to my office wall. “I want to put it in a pot to sit inside this.”
“Does that have a drainage hole?” she asked.
A drainage hole? What kind of an idiot would put a drainage hole in a planter mounted on a freshly painted wall over a brand new rug?
“No,” I answered.
“Here’s what you need to do…fill that container with gravel…”
I interrupted her, “You don’t seem to understand. The container is bolted to the wall. I can’t take it down. I want a pot to sit inside of it, so I can take it out when I need to water the plant.”
“I got that,” she snapped. Then, ignoring me completely said, “You fill it with gravel almost to the top and sit this on top of it.” She pointed to the plant in my hand.
It took everything in me not to roll my eyes. Buying our dog was less complicated than this.
“I have an idea,” I countered. “How about you sell me a six inch pot and I’ll fill that with gravel and sit this on top of it?”
She and the salesman looked at each other. Their non-verbal communication suggested they might actually refuse to sell me the plant. Any minute now, they would ask me to place the burro’s tail on the counter and back away slowly. I decided to keep any other ideas to myself. I might have said too much already.
“You have to understand,” Gretchen proceeded, “this plant must assimilate to its surroundings. If you were to transfer it, well…we can’t have it stressed now, can we? Understand?” She spoke in that slow, condescending tone one might use while teaching a simpleton how to butter toast. “It likes the coziness of the small pot. It likes to be a little root bound. And it has to become familiar with its new location for at least a year before you give any thought to transplanting it.”
The only way I was going to get out of the store with this plant was to humor her.
“Ohhhhh!” I said, as though the lights had just come on. “Yes. Yes. Of course. I get it. Absolutely. That’s exactly what I’ll do!”
“Great.” She seemed satisfied. “Is there anything else I can get for you today?” she asked.
“Actually…come to think of it…I do need a six inch pot for a geranium on my patio.”
This was now the second lie I had to tell just to buy a silly little eleven dollar cactus. But was I being too obvious? No. Gretchen fell for it. Who’s the simpleton now?
She retreated to another part of the store and came back with two pots. “This one is five and three quarters. This one is six and two eighths.”
Gretchen The Expert was nothing if not precise.
“Six and two eighths did you say? I’ll take that one,” I told her.
I paid in cash so they wouldn’t know my name. Walking briskly to my car, I glanced over my shoulder. Had they put two and two together? Did they figure out what I was going to do with that six inch pot the minute I got home? Would they try to stop me in the parking lot? I picked up the pace.
My burro’s tail is thriving and assimilated to its new six and two eighths pot. It is happy, well-adjusted and, above all, relaxed. In fact, just the other day, it told me it appreciates its slightly bigger container and was surprised to find that being a little root bound isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Then it thanked me for this new perspective.
It’s About Time
Planning a family vacation becomes complicated when you have adult children. College schedules, work, life - these things can get in the way. That's why, when the stars align and everyone has a few free days, you pounce on the chance to plan a trip.
We took advantage of just such a miraculous opportunity and booked a family getaway to Costa Rica last year. Several relaxing days in a warm rainforest would be the perfect balm for an icy cold New York January.
I had no idea there would be so much high adventure, tests of human endurance, drama and suspense...and that was before we even got on the airplane.
Let's begin with the morning before our flight.
New York. January 9th, 4:00 am
It was T minus 24 hours before the car was to pick us up for the airport.
I don't sleep well the day before I travel. There are so many things to think about. Did I pack the sunscreen? Were my flip-flops in my suitcase? Was my e-reader fully charged? If I forget my retainer, would I come home with buckteeth?
Tip-toeing around so as not to wake anyone, I busied myself with the final preparations for our vacation. My plan was to get everything done and grab a nap in the afternoon. Like most of my plans, that nap never materialized. But that was OK, I thought. I'd just go to bed early and get up around 3:00 to shower, put on the carefully selected traveling outfit I had chosen, style my hair, have a light breakfast, water the plants, load and run the dishwasher, clear the perishables from the refrigerator, and empty the garbage so the house wouldn't smell like a sewer upon our return. After all that, I'd be ready for some R&R.
Apparently, I am a slow learner, because that plan didn't pan out either. Here's what happened instead...
New York. January 9th, 6:00 pm
With PJs on and ready for bed, I said good-night to my family, "Remember, the car is picking us up at four. So, get to bed early and make sure you all have your passports."
When I uttered the word "passports", my son got a strange look on his face. He quickly retreated to his room, shutting the door behind him. I heard a lot of rummaging sounds.
He emerged within moments. I would best describe his face as a combo platter of fear, nausea and guilt.
"Mom," he said hesitantly, "I could have sworn my passport was here. But now I realize I must have left it in my dorm room. I am so sorry!"
Oh, dear god.
His college was 5 hours away (without traffic).
Deep breath. I quickly consulted my phone. According to Waze, we would get to his campus around 11:00 pm. Doing the math in my head, I was certain we could complete the round trip with enough time for me to shower and change before heading to the airport. (Side note: I am not good at doing math in my head.)
"If we leave right now, we'll get back in time," I said.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Do you have a better idea?"
"I just won't go," he offered. " It's ok. Really."
There was no way we were taking this family vacation without him.
"Get in the car," I said.
I threw on some old sweats and we headed to Pennsylvania.
Pennsylvania. January 9th, 10:53 pm
The entire college was closed for winter break. We had to track down campus security to let my son into his dorm. While he and the officer went to his room, I programmed our home address into Waze. We would return at 3:48 am. Good-bye shower.
As I sat in the car watching the seconds slip away on the app, I also noticed we would never make it home unless we stopped for gas. Hello putrid garbage.
Tick. Tick. Tick. What could be taking so long? His room was the size of a bathmat.
Finally, I saw my son and the security officer walking toward the car. My son looked stricken.
"Mom, I am soooooooo sorry," he said. "I just got off the phone with dad..."
"Oh my god," I said, "is somebody dead?!"
"No, no...," my son continued. He looked at the officer for help. The man put a supportive hand on my son's shoulder.
"What is it?" I begged. "Out with it!"
"Dad found my passport. In my room. At home."
For the second time that night, I told him, "Get in the car."
As we pulled away, the officer shrugged and gave a wishy-washy wave good-bye.
"I am really, really sorry. Please don't be mad," my son pleaded.
"I want you to remember this moment," I told him. "Look at me. I'm not mad at all." And this was the truth - for three reasons. One, nobody was dead. So, that was good. Two, by this point I had been awake for 19 hours. I didn't have the energy to get mad. But the main reason is that I love my son and I had missed him. Since he'd been away at school, we didn't get to talk much anymore. That road trip, just the two of us in the car, was an absolute pleasure. He stayed awake with me the whole time and we talked about everything and anything. Sheer joy.
Pennsylvania. January 9th, 11:10 pm
It was time to stop for gas.
And since I mentioned "time", let me get philosophical for a moment: Time is a funny thing. It doesn't actually "exist", and yet it's very real. You can have too much of it on your hands or not enough of it in a day. It can be on your side or your worst enemy. And anyone with a GPS knows you're more likely to lose it than gain it. So don't even try to make up time on the road. I should mention that, throughout this entire odyssey, I kept close to the speed limit. Safety first! Also, if we got stopped for speeding, we'd be totally schtupped.
Anyway, back to the gas...
We had precious few minutes to fill the tank if we were to make it home by four. Now, here is where time decided to eat us for lunch and then laugh at us while it picked its teeth - the gas pump couldn't have chugged along more slowly if it were dispensing peanut butter. I've never seen anything like it in my life. My son and I stared at it in amazement.
At this point, I had a sobering thought: Was the universe trying to tell us something? Did providence know something about this flight that I didn't? Should I listen?
Screw it. I pumped enough gas to get us home and we hit the road again.
New York. January 10th, 4:02 am
As we pulled up to the house, we could see the car service parked out front. My husband, daughter, our luggage and my son's passport all safely inside it. I ran upstairs, grabbed my retainer (priorities!) and we left for the airport.
Now, you probably think this is the end of the story. Well, it's not.
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:30 am
Technology can be such a time-saving blessing. We were able to use the automated kiosk to check-in and get our boarding passes.
My husband scanned his passport. Beep.It spit out his boarding pass.
I scanned my passport. Beep. It spit out my boarding pass.
My son scanned his passport. Beep. It spit out his boarding pass.
My daughter scanned her passport. BLOOP! No boarding pass. She tried it again. BLOOP! Nothing.
My husband said, "Let me try." He scanned it again. Still no boarding pass.
Seeing we were having trouble with the kiosk, an airline representative came to our aid. She tried the scanner. Same thing. No boarding pass.
"Ohhhh," she finally said, "I see the problem."
What a relief. She saw the problem. She was going to fix it. Problem solved!
She handed the passport back to my husband, "This one's expired."
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:31:00 am
I could not breathe.
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:31:01 am
Everything went silent.
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:31:02 am
The blood drained from my face.
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:31:03 am
There was ringing in my ears.
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:31:04 am
Time stood still. Now time stood still? THANKS FOR NOTHING, TIME!!
Newark International Airport. January 10, 5:32 am
The airline rep gave my husband a document and some instructions, "There's a passport office in Manhattan. They open at eight. Give them this paper. They will expedite your daughter's passport and you'll have plenty of time to get on the next flight to Costa Rica this afternoon."
I looked at my husband. I could have sworn, just for a split second, that his expression suggested I should take her to the passport office. Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. What do I know? It's possible that being awake for over 25 hours could make a person see things. But there was nothing ambiguous about my expression...it said "Warning! Tilt! Danger!!"
My son came up to me. He gently took my hands and whispered, "It's gonna be ok, mom."
I looked into his sympathetic, soothing eyes and whispered back, "I feel terrible for your sister. I'm sorry that your father has to take her to the passport office. But make no mistake...I. Am. Getting. On. That. Plane."
San Jose, Costa Rica. January 10, 11:30 am
When we stepped out of the airport, my son and I were still wearing the same ratty clothes from the day before. So much for my chic traveling ensemble. The warm moist jungle air enveloped us like a welcoming hug. Our cabbie would take us to the resort, which was three hours away. I didn't care. I slept in the backseat. I snored. I'm sure I drooled. En route, we stopped for lunch at an outdoor restaurant which overlooked a picturesque coffee farm. The food was delicious. The view was spectacular. Our ten-hour road trip, five-and-a-half hour flight, and bumpy excursion in a taxi were all worth it. We'd reached paradise.
After checking into our rooms, we took a dip in the pool, had dinner together and hung out in the bar until my daughter and husband arrived.
The band was finally back together again. And now we all had valid passports.
#travel #adventure #humor #narrative
You came to me with tears in your eyes and a lump in your throat,
finally ready to tell a secret you'd been keeping since you learned it.
With fear in your voice you explained your heart,
because you could not not explain it for another minute.
I didn't understand why you were so afraid,
Didn't you know how much I love you?
Didn't you know I want nothing more than your happiness?
Didn't you know I want you to be free and to be yourself?
Didn't you know nothing could ever change that?
Didn't you know that I know you better than anyone else in this world?
Didn't you know that I already knew everything, even before you did?
Didn't you know it could never make any difference to me?
Well, now you know.
Anything You Can Write...
If you don't think writing is a sport, you've never sat through the agony of an adult education creative writing course.
Disguised as a nurturing learning environment, the adult ed creative writing class is really a den of would-be word Olympians poised to strike down the competition on their way to publishing glory.
They are all experts. They all know more than you know. Anything you can write, they can write better. Yet, ironically, you won't find very many bestselling authors in this dugout. In fact, you won't find any. But that never stopped anyone from offering advice on how to "make it." It is not lost on you that even your teacher has not made it. He's teaching an adult ed creative writing class on Tuesday nights at a community college, for crying out loud!
The "sharing" portion of the class is just that, but not in the way you'd expect. You stretch your writing muscles, you flex your pen and then you share your work. While you're cooling down and replenishing your fluids, your fellow classmates emerge from their corners to share their "opinions" of what you've written. And you know what is said about opinions.
No, there is no home stretch. There is no victory lap. There is only endless training, some sparring and a few bruises.
You will not have truly made it until you never step foot in that arena again.
My Gifts To You
A few Decembers ago, I was being really very Scroogie and not at all in the mood for the holidays. Ever since that time, I’ve practically made it my business to immerse myself in holiday cheer (and I don’t mean by diving into a punch bowl).
What I’ve discovered is that nostalgia is the secret sauce that puts me in the festive swing of things. So, starting the day after Thanksgiving, I play holiday music in the house as I put up Christmas decorations and wrap the presents. Then, every night I tune into one of my favorite holiday programs – the one’s I grew up with.
My love of holiday films was sort of ignited by accident. At the age of 16, I saw a made-for-TV movie titled “It Happened One Christmas” starring Orson Wells, Marlo Thomas, Cloris Leachmen, Doris Roberts, Christopher Guest, and Beans Morrocco…an all-star lineup.
Marlo Thomas plays Mary Bailey Hatch, a woman contemplating suicide on Christmas Eve. She’s standing on a bridge and just when she’s about to jump, her guardian angel, Clara Oddbody (played by Cloris Leachman) jumps in the water and Mary ends up saving her instead.
As I described this plot to my parents, my father said, “It’s a wonderful life.”
I smiled at him. “Yes, dad. It sure is. So anyway, this guardian angel shows Mary what the world would have been like if she was never born…”
“No,” my father interrupted, again. “It’s a Wonderful Life. That’s the name of the original movie.”
He then explained that I was watching a knock-off of a great American classic. When I finally saw the Jimmy Stewart/Donna Reed version, I never looked back. It’s A Wonderful Life was the gateway drug that got me addicted to classic films in general and Christmas movies in particular.
Then about four years ago, I discovered the joy of listening to vintage radio programming, which inspired me to start SNORK, the podcast (available on iTunes and Google Play, and everywhere else you find podcasts).
This brings me to the two little presents I’d like to give you, since you’ve been so good this year.
First, if you’ve been enjoying my podcast, I’m giving you a slew of old-time radio shows, all with a holiday theme. Go to Christmas Old Time Radio (http://www.oldtimeradiofans.com/christmas-old-time-radio-shows.php) to enjoy everything from Burns and Allen to The Gift Of The Magi!
My second gift is a list of the best Christmas movies and shows of all time (or at least as far as I’m concerned). You can’t watch these and remain a humbug!
This wonderful tale spans Christmas and New Year’s Eve, making it my favorite holiday twofer! Cary Grant’s Johnny Case (a dashing, handsome, regular Joe) is engaged to the fabulously wealthy Julia Seton, played by Doris Nolan. But is she really the right girl for him? Perhaps he’d be better off with Julia’s down-to-earth sister Linda (played by none other than the great Katharine Hepburn). There are great party scenes, acrobatics, tantrums, and excessive drunkenness. What more could you want from a holiday movie?
Christmas In Connecticut (1945)
Barbara Stanwyck’s Elizabeth Lane has made a name for herself writing a food column about her incredible culinary and hostessing skills. There’s only one problem – she can’t boil water. Watch one lie lead to another and another when her unsuspecting editor decides to run a feature of her entertaining a war hero for the holidays. Where will Elizabeth get a Connecticut farmhouse, a husband and a baby in time for Christmas? The movie also stars Dennis Morgan and Sydney Greenstreet.
White Christmas (1954)
It’s kind of a toss-up as to who performs the “Sisters” number better – Rosemary Clooney and Vera-Ellen or Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye in semi-drag. With energized choreography and songs you know well enough to sing along to, this holiday classic will put you in a merry mood. It will also encourage you to go easy on the Christmas cookies as you marvel at Vera-Ellen's teensy-weensy waistline.
Desk Set (1957)
Here’s Katharine Hepburn again, this time matched with Spencer Tracey. She’s the head of a television network’s research department and is dating an ambitious man who underestimates and under appreciates her, while using her smarts to advance his own career. Tracy’s an efficiency expert who’s wants to outfit her department with a computer called EMERAC (which Hepburn and her office mates think will replace them). In one of my favorite scenes of all romantic comedies combined, Tracy takes Hepburn out to lunch – on the roof of her office building – and gives her a personality/IQ test. It’s priceless.
Who doesn’t love Buddy the elf, his childlike innocence and his legendary sweet tooth? Fun and funny, Elf is the only Christmas movie on my list that was produced in this century. Why? Because unlike the recent oversupply of sappy, sentimental, tear-jerking films, Director Jon Favreau goes for old-school charm and comedy. So, if you’re tired of crying into your fruitcake because some kid needs a Christmas miracle to find his deadbeat dad who is a perfect kidney match for his dying baby sister or because Gramps has to sell the farm but then buys the farm when he falls into the wheat thrasher on Christmas eve…well, you get the point. I’m talking to you Hallmark Channel!
A Christmas Carol (1951) and Mister Magoo’s Christmas Carol (1962)
I can’t choose between Alastair Sim’s Ebenezer Scrooge and Jim Backus’s Mister McGoo’s Ebenezer Scrooge. So I won’t!
The Bishop’s Wife (1947)
When David Niven finds himself preoccupied with building a cathedral and losing perspective on faith, charity and his lovely wife and daughter, he prays for guidance. Enter Cary Grant as the angel Dudley. Loretta Young, as the title character, teams up with Dudley (not knowing he’s heaven-sent), to help her husband reconnect with his family and his congregation.
A Christmas Story (1983)
Christmas wishes in 1940’s Indiana can be frah-GEE-lay for a kid who wants nothing more than a BB gun under the tree – but his mother’s worried he’ll shoot his eye out. Narrated by its author, Jean Shepherd, A Christmas Story follows Ralphie Parker as he schemes and daydreams over the elusive Red Ryder. Darren McGavin and Melinda Dillion, as Ralphie’s parents, charm and delight. I love everything about this movie – it is perfect!
Miracle On 34th Street (1947)
Natalie Wood’s natural, flawless performance makes you forget you’re watching a movie. Edmund Gwenn plays Kris Kringle – just a kindly old man or the real deal? It’s a heartwarming story about generosity, faith, second chances and, of course, Macy’s.
It’s a Wonderful Life (1946)
It’s hard to imagine, but this beloved Christmas classic was not well-received when it was originally released in 1946. Now, no holiday season is complete without it. When Harry Bailey wishes he’d never been born, his guardian angel takes him on an eye-opening odyssey. He learns that his life touched so many others for the better and that every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.
This list is far from complete. It doesn’t include all the TV shows I’ve loved since childhood, like the original Grinch Who Stole Christmas, A Charlie Brown Christmas, Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer, The Year Without A Santa Claus, and so many others. And if I’m going to see them all before the end of the year, I better get cracking!
In the meantime, I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!
Food. Nourishment. Grub. Whatever you want to call that stuff you stuff into your mouth, its intended purpose is to support life.
I remember watching a TED Talk comparing the human brain to other primates. Our brains are more evolved because we cook our food. Could it really be that simple? It is, and here’s why: In order for the brain to grow and develop, it must be fed. The number of calories a human body burns in a day depends on its level of activity; but not your brain. It makes no difference if your brain is sleeping, designing rocket ships or trying to figure out common core math, it will burn 500 calories each and every day, no matter what.
If you were a gorilla, and only ate raw twigs and leaves, you would have to spend most of your waking hours eating to consume enough calories just to stay alive. If a gorilla had the capacity to cook (or, at the very least, make a smoothie), it could reduce large volumes of consumables into smaller, more easily digestible meals. By doing so, it could take in many more calories in much less time, making its brain larger and presumably, smarter.
So, it was the discovery of fire that essential transformed us into the species we are today. These are scientific facts, people, and I don’t dispute them. But here’s where I get tripped up: what was the turning point that changed our fuel from throwing the day’s kill onto the fire pit into dinner parties for eight, complete with wine pairings?
Who was the first Homo erectus Martha Stewart? Did she one day think, “Hmm, I wonder if this animal flesh would taste better combined with sprigs of vegetation and some roots?” Was it she that decided meals tastes better when shared with friends? “Hey, let’s invite the Uga-ugas over this Saturday night!”
Was this the advent of our complicated relationship with food?
It’s hard to picture an early ancestor sitting around the cave thinking, “I’m not really hungry, but I could go for a nosh.” I don’t think lower-food chain animals behave this way. Would a lion ever hunt down a gazelle because it’s feeling a tad peckish? Can you imagine a bear polishing off a salmon because there’s nothing good on TV? Or what if a chipmunk’s mate ran away? Would it scarf down all the nuts it was saving for winter because it had no access to raw cookie dough?
No, these disordered uses of food are strictly human. I hate to be a downer, but let’s face it, we sometimes take the very thing that’s meant to keep us alive and use it to slowly kill ourselves. They don’t call it “death by chocolate” for nothing.
And even if you have a very healthy diet, I doubt you view food as simply a way of transporting nutrients into your body. No, we modern day humans have turned our food into so much more.
Food is a major component of our social lives. We use it to celebrate, to bring people together, to give pleasure, to comfort, to express love…all good things in moderation.
My personal relationship with food, or more specifically eating, is based on romance…and sometimes anger…but mostly romance. When I speak about a good meal, I create a narrative, a sensuous, seductive story detailing every nuance of every bite.
Once, while recommending a restaurant to a friend, my husband said, “They have really good ravioli.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” I said. “They have delectable cheese-filled pasta pillows, that taste like they are lovingly assembled by the chubby hands of little cherubs…so tender, I could have rested my head on them and slept.”
Now, that’s romantic.
Want to know what’s not romantic? A date that does not involve a meal, that’s what.
Every Thursday night, my husband and I go on a date. Whether we’re seeing a show, or going to a concert, we always start by going out to dinner. One night, to mix things up a little, I suggested we have a quick bite at home and spend our date playing tennis. Great idea, right? Sure, if you think throwing a hissy fit on date night adds a nice spice to a marriage. I played so badly, the evening devolved into a lot of excuses, blaming, cursing, and pouting. Sexy, no? After that failed experiment, it was back to candlelit restaurants for us - back to savoring each seductive morsel with a good glass of wine and relaxing conversation.
We also judge others by what they eat.
I once threw a dinner party, not knowing one guest was in the middle of doing a cleanse. Why would someone on a cleanse come to a dinner party in the first place? You tell me. Anyway, he couldn’t eat anything I served, but as luck would have it, I made floral arrangements out of carnations, clementines, squash blossoms and Nasturtiums. So, he ate the centerpiece. True story! And, yes, we all judged him.
The bottom line is this: Food is complicated. We don’t really know why we eat the way we do, or why we like some things but loathe others. All we can really be sure of is that grub does more than just sustain our bodies. It nourishes our hearts, our imaginations, our relationships and feeds the soul.
So, this Thanksgiving, I hope you find yourself sitting at a table with the people you love, feeling full of life’s blessings and enjoying all the flavors of this world’s abundance.
Madame Fortuna Knows All
Some people put more effort into decorating for Halloween than Radio City Music Hall puts into their Christmas Spectacular. All over the suburbs, homes are festooned with strands of orange lights, giant spiders dangling from rooftops, goblins and witches lurking in the trees, mock cemeteries gracing front lawns... I’ve even seen people take it to the limit by bringing the ghoulishness insides their homes - coffins and skeletons and dungeons. Me? I put a mini pumpkin and some gourds on the dining room table and call it a day.
Even as a kid, Halloween's main attraction for me was free candy and not much else. If a grown-up asked me what I was planning to "be," I'd shrug. Those important decisions were left up to my personal seamstress (a/k/a my mother).
Mom’s always been very creative and made our costumes by hand. Store-bought outfits were not an option. The one exception occurred the year my three older siblings and I were too sick to go trick-or-treating. Mom spared herself the job of sewing and gluing and toiling - while caring for four cases of chicken pox, or flu, or god-knows-what-all, and instead, bought costumes for us to wear over our pajamas. Most moms would have skipped the whole thing entirely, but our mom would not deprive us. Halloween was going to stink that year. The least she could do was let us dress-up. Now, that’s a good mom!
So there we were, four little kids sitting by the living room window, watching all the other kids who were lucky enough to be out. My oldest brother, Dominic (age 11 at the time), had the important job of answering the door and handing out the candy. We all expected it to be the dullest Halloween ever. But then…
A teenage boy (who was not in costume) came up our front steps. We didn't know him. He was all alone, and didn’t have a bag or a pillowcase or a plastic pumpkin with which to collect his loot. We kids looked at each other. Something seemed "off." He rang the bell. Dominic picked up our big bowl of treats and, with some hesitation, opened the door. Without saying a word, and for no apparent reason, the teenager swung his arm, as if to execute an underhanded softball pitch, and knocked the bowl up and out of my brother’s hands, creating a shower of fun-size delights that landed all over the porch and entryway. Finally, we thought, some excitement!
Even at the tender age of four, I knew there was danger afoot, and was afraid for my brother. I screamed for my father, who came into the living room just as the boy took off running. I’d never seen Daddy move so fast. He flew down the front steps, caught the kid a block away and brought him back by the collar of his shirt. After making him return every last piece of candy to the bowl, my father told him to apologize to my brother. Then he gave him a brief lecture on civilized behavior. The boy could not explain why he had done it (my mother thinks he must have been drunk). My father agreed not to call the kid's parents if he promised to stay out of trouble. The boy dutifully complied because this was the 60’s, when teenagers respected their elders and nobody felt the need to call the police or their lawyers or draw weapons.
I was in awe of my father that night. He protected his home, avenged my brother, firmly (but kindly) taught a valuable lesson to a wayward child and saved our candy. My hero!
Many Halloweens followed, and they weren't particularly eventful. I didn’t care what I wore (usually somebody’s hand-me-down from the prior year). During high school, I tried to be a little more innovative. Most girls went as cheerleaders, cats, bunnies, nurses…girlie things. By college, they were still dressing this way, except now they went as slutty cheerleaders, sexy cats, Playboy bunnies and naughty nurses. So much for the women’s movement.
It was in college that I came up with my perfect costume (and alter ego): Madame Fortuna. Madame Fortuna was born out of sheer laziness – a flowing skirt, a scarf to tie around my head, layers of jewelry, and gobs of dramatic eye make-up were all that was necessary to transform me into this mysterious gypsy fortune teller. Wandering through parties, the Madame read palms and made up comical, ridiculous predictions for anybody who wanted a “reading.” My friends and I would go to Halloween events and use Madame Fortuna to make friends, meet cute guys and score free drinks.
When I moved to New York City after college, I realized I’d have to start putting more effort into my costumes – not because I wanted to, but because I had to. My other brother, Michael, threw legendary Halloween parties in his Manhattan apartment and killer costumes were de rigueur. Guests were instructed to a) dress up, b) bring food or booze, and c) come with something to sleep on.
Michael would move all of the furniture out of his living and dining rooms, roll up the rugs, put strobe lights in the chandelier, black lights in the lamps, roast a turkey and a ham, and let the good times roll.
We’d dance all night, and when the last reveler couldn’t stand up anymore, we’d kick the dirty cups and cigarette butts out of the way, roll out our sleeping bags and pass out on the floor. The next morning, everybody pitched in to clean up and then we'd go out to brunch. Sounds like heaven, doesn’t it?
I couldn’t attend Michael’s epic parties in a half-ass costume or show up every single year as a gypsy. It was necessary to think outside the box. But whomever (or whatever) I came up with, I’d stay in character all night (to the delight of some and the confusion of others). I once went as Katherine Hepburn's character from On Golden Pond. I stippled my face and hands with liver spots, put on a big sun hat and went around calling people “old poops” in a quivering, upper-crusty accent. One guest, utterly perplexed by my costume (or not familiar with the great Kate – go figure), asked my brother if there was something “wrong” with me. Um, hello…it’s a costume party, professor!
Another year, I went as daylight savings time with clocks taped to my shirt, springs in my hair and autumn leaves glued to my back and butt. Spring ahead. Fall back. Get it? Neither did anyone else.
When Michael moved to a smaller apartment, he gave up those fabulous parties and nobody offered to take them over. I can’t blame them. That kind of magic can’t ever be recreated, even on a night where witches and warlocks abound.
So, a lot of years went by when I didn't dress up at all. Then, about 10 years ago, one of my sister’s co-workers was organizing a carnival-style fundraiser at a park in New Jersey. My sister asked me to do my Madame Fortuna bit for the event. It was for a good cause, so I figured why not.
I decided to kick it up a notch, and bought some props – a crystal ball and a deck of Tarot cards. My plan was to have some jokes and tricks prepared in advance, to entertain people donating their money to a phony fortune teller (as if there was any other kind).
So, on a sunny morning in early October, I brought Madame Fortuna out of retirement.
My first customer sat down, and I immediately noticed she was wearing a necklace that read Sandy. This would be like taking candy from a baby, I thought.
Staring deeply into my crystal ball, and in an accent thicker than goulash, I said to her, “I am standing on the edge of an ocean.”
She: [No response]
Me: I see a vast expanse of beach. Does this mean anything to you?
She: [Meekly shakes her head no]
Me: The shoreline is very grainy.
She: [Still no response. I considered checking her pulse.]
Me: There is a lot of sand. It is very, sandy. Yes! Very, veeeeeery SANDY! This means nothing to you?
She: Well…we used to have a house by the Jersey shore. [It seemed I had overestimated Sandy, and her IQ.]
Me: [Exasperated, I dropped the accent and said] Lady! Is your name Sandy or what?
She: Who me? Oh, yeah…
A small group of middle school boys stepped up, each daring the other to get a reading with yours truly. A redheaded boy said he wasn’t afraid. He also called me “bogus.”
Madame Fortuna and I know a thing or two about redheaded boys. As a matter of fact, we married one. They are full of mischief (especially if they also have freckles). So, I decided to make a not-so-wild guess that this “ginger” was a handful.
Me: Look into my crystal ball and tell me what you see.
Me: Of course you see nothing! That is because you are not Madame Fortuna! I am. [This elicited laughs from his friends. I pulled the crystal ball toward me and stared into it for a moment, then clacked my tongue and shook my head in disgust.] School only started a month ago and already you are into much troubles! Yes? [Note: for added authenticity, broken English must always accompany a phony accent.]
Red: [Flabbergasted] Holy $#@!
Red’s friends gasped and moved closer to my table. One of them whispered, “How does she know that?” How, indeed? My instincts, and follicular profiling, proved to be correct.
Red: [Suspicious] Do you know my mom?
Me: Silence! [Remembering how my father tried a little mentoring with the sociopathic candy bandit, I saw an opportunity to give Red some unsolicited guidance] Listen to me, my little potty mouth friend, your teachers think you are a jitterbug who doesn’t like to pay attention. But Madame Fortuna knows you are bored in school. You must not let this defeat you! [I wagged my finger at him for emphasis. My jangling bracelets added the perfect sound effect.] Madame Fortune sees two futures for you. The first one will happen if you do not heed my warning. You are understanding me? Madame Fortuna sees one word, written over and over again, in bright red letters! [Dramatically, I pushed the ball away and covered my eyes as if it were too painful to witness. I opened them and looked gravely at Red.] Juvie! Do you know what is this word, juvie?
Red’s eyes widened, as did his posse’s. He nodded his head. Nobody was laughing anymore. They were hanging on my every word.
Me: The second future, if you behave at school, is full with all kinds of wonderfulnesses. You will be…great leader! Can you promise to be good boy, kid?
Red: I will! I promise, I will!
I liked working with Red a whole lot better than that dingbat Sandy.
Next up were two adorable ’tween girls, who were obviously the best of friends. They were holding on to each other, full of giggles and giddy trepidation. I could hear them talking as they approached, and I noticed they were both very articulate. I suspected they were a couple of smart cookies, so I took that angle. One of them was wearing eyeglasses. A clue, perhaps?
Me: [Speaking to “Glasses”] Would you like me to read your palm or your cards?
Glasses: Can we do the crystal ball?
Me: Why not? Madame Fortuna aims to please. Hmm…I see you in a room, alone. You are very happy there…because…because…because you are surrounded by books!
Glasses and her friend, Giggles, both let out a scream. It appeared I had nailed this one, too.
Giggles: She’s always got her nose in a book! That is unbelievable! How did you know that?
Me: Madame Fortuna knows aaaaalllll.
I had no idea I was so good at reading people, or that sterotypes could be so helpful… bookworms wore glasses…redheads are rascals…
My reputation as a gifted seer (a/k/a lucky guesser) soon spread, and the line to see Madame Fortuna began to grow. For six hours without bathroom breaks (Madame Fortuna has bladder like camel, yes?), I read old men, young mothers, couples, kids…you name it. Everybody wanted a piece of the Transylvanian Sensation.
I was surprised to see a repeat customer step up to my table. It was Glasses with a man who unquestionably was her father. He had his arms crossed and wore a grumpy expression. No doubt about it, he wanted nothing to do with me.
I figured the best way to loosen him up would be with a joke. I asked him to look into the crystal ball and to tell me what he saw (I was setting him up for the same gag I had used on Red). When I retold the joke, Grumpy Dad didn’t even crack a smile. OK, I thought, onto the next quip. Some of my prepared jokes ended with song lyrics for punch lines. I would try the set-up that ended with, “It don’t mean a thing, if it ain’t got that swing.”
Me: [Looking into the crystal ball] I see…hmm…I’m confused…I don’t know what this means…but I see...a porch swing.
Looking up, I saw Grumpy Dad’s face lose its color as his mouth dropped open. His daughter, Glasses, grabbed his arm and softly whispered, “See, daddy. I told you she was real!”
Me: What does this mean? This swing?
Glasses: This summer, we built a porch swing together as a daddy-daughter project!
How was I doing this? I felt like Whoopi Goldberg in the movie Ghost. She plays a con artist, posing as a medium, and bilks people out of money by pretending to commune with the “other side.” When she finds out that she really can talk to the dead, it terrifies her. At this point, I was starting to give myself the creeps. Could I be that lucky of a guesser? It didn’t seem possible.
Me: Your father loves you very much. I don't need crystal ball for to see that.
Glasses: He's the best!
Finally, a big fat smile out of Grumpy Dad. He gave his little girl a hug and kissed the top of her head. As they got up to leave, he leaned over to me, whispering, "Impressive."
Me: [Whispering back] Magic!
The fundraiser was a great success. Attendees had a good time and a lot of money was raised. A little girl shared a special moment with her dad. A skeptical dad opened up to the possibility of magic. A red-haired boy set his sights on something higher than juvenile detention. And a woman named Sandy wandered around the parking lot trying to remember where she left her car. How can I be sure?
Madame Fortuna knows all.