Change Gives Us Branches

I’m a real life drama queen, must be my Moon in Leo. My life thus far has been anything but boring. Unexpected. Surprising. Unconventional. Avant-garde. Alternate. Mysterious. Shocking. Turbulent.

I’ve experienced so many bizarre things, spectacular happenings, well, let’s just say that I could keep you entertained for quite a while with my true life stories and you would be excused for thinking that I was making them up.

This is no mean feat for somebody with a start to life as ordinary and conservative as my own. It’s not as if I was born the child of revolutionaries or something. I could have been Beaver Cleaver’s sister.

My paternal grandmother was a bit of a character, a redhead, and led an unconventional life and a passionate one. Scandalous for her day. Perhaps there is a genetic component.

But some people seem to have such straight forward lives, don’t they? Consistent and secure and stable. Ordinary. Unremarkable. Predictable. Constant. One long term boyfriend or girlfriend becomes a life long husband or wife. One or two careers. One address for decades. A safe formula put in place early on and set to repeat yearly like clockwork for the rest of their lives.

That’s what life is like for some folks.
And then there are people like the mistress of the blog.

It seems to me that I’ve been given the perfect writer’s life. A field of rich life experiences and lessons from an early age upon which to draw. A cast of real life characters to excite Dickens. Real life plots, twists and situations reminiscent of a psychological thriller. But most valuable of all for the writer, a heart that shattered into a thousand pieces long ago.

Change, especially drastic change is very uncomfortable for many people, but change can be invigorating and a blessing.

Several times in my life I have completely reinvented myself. I’m not talking about a new hairstyle or makeover. Nor am I implying a modification, a slight reinvention, I mean a complete overhaul. Everything all at once. New job, new career on several occasions, new home, new start, new name. Bang. Overnight. Whole new life.

In each instance, the universe has booted me onto the next path and after the crescendo or should I say explosion, the pieces have fallen in a new pattern bringing a fresh start with many things to discover and nothing of the past left to take along except memories unable to be erased.

The image which comes to mind would be that of tarot’s The Tower card, the tower struck by a bolt of lightning, governed by fiery Mars, where life forces tumultuous upheaval, often with considerable loss and discomfort to clear out what no longer serves in order for change to occur.

This life has been a fascinating excursion thus far and it doesn’t look like it will settle any time soon. I’m looking forward to the ride.

So Happy Together

Sometimes now she'll take me out of the closet and look at me for a minute, I'm high-quality, a sheath silhouette, embellished with ruching to one side and made of burgundy taffeta. She drove all over town searching for a vintage brooch to highlight my simplicity, yet nowadays I never even make it off the hanger! I'm not exactly meant for picnics or being rowed about in a boat or a stroll through the park, am I? I mean, I'm never going to have a puppy in my lap, that's for sure. I understand, I do, but it gets a bit lonely, and when you've only been worn twice, you don't have a lot to fall back on.

From time to time unexpected things happen at parties– there was the time that the husband decided he didn't want to wear a sports-coat, for one. (I always wondered what the other suits thought about that, but of course we hardly talk to them, even when we share a closet. They're so uncommunicative). She wasn't going to let that happen, she wanted to dress-up and he needed to go along.

They went to Howard and Ellen's Holiday party, when Ellen brought out that flaming dessert and the dangling ball fringe on her party apron went right up, just whoosh! Howard had to squirt her with the soda siphon. Luckily her dress was okay, it was a bright green polished cotton. I don't think cottons make very good party dresses, but maybe that's why Ellen went all-out with such a fancy hostess apron. Later that night, she walked in on Phil and Amelia in the spare bedroom. I thought they were dancing, but it seemed odd for them to dance so far from the music. Amelia's dress was all askew, too. It wasn't hanging right at all. 

After that party, on the way home, retelling the event, she laughed so hard I thought she was going to split my zipper. He was at the wheel, holding her left hand, they talk about everyone they just saw, “Jeff's not doing well, not doing well at all. Putting on a brave front, though, for Georgina's sake.”

Sometimes they're quiet, and then I know they're tired, or that they had too many drinks in those little fat glasses.

When they walk in the door, her patent leather Louboutin slingbacks come right off, and her ivory cashmere coat goes over the nearest chair. Her marcasite clip earrings and bracelet land next to her bag on the table in the hall, right by the mail. Sometimes they yawn at the same time, and that makes them both laugh.

I could feel how tired she was as she climbed the stairs. She fussed with my zipper, places me on a padded hanger, and heads downstairs in a silk kimono.  Sometimes he makes her a cup of cocoa, they sit on the sofa, talk a little, but usually she just helps him lock up and turn out the lights. She always hangs me right up, which is nice. It's not comfortable to spend all night on the chair, especially after a party. I hope if I go to San Francisco her sister-in-law hangs up her dresses right away, too.

Stop the Madness

Sarah Palin in my opinion has a few missing screws. In her attempt to repudiate charges that her brand of inflammatory rhetoric had anything to do with the tragic shootings last weekend in Tucson, she decided to employ her strongest example of inflammatory rhetoric. In the seven-minute video she posted Wednesday on her Facebook page, Palin accused journalists and pundits of manufacturing a “blood libel” against her.


It makes me uncomfortable when she speaks with total disdain or horror. While I vehemently disagree with her political views, I watched a dose of her reality show, where she was in a gun shop, 
speaking about the crown and glory that Alaska is, delving in and showing us how the simple life is what being an American is all about. It certainly beats her frothing at the mouth over the Evil Left! That said, I’ve found nearly ever action of hers since the election intensely self-serving, (like having a reality show) mean-spirited, and purposely designed to whip up negative mass hysteria. Forget politics—this woman should be a cult leader! Can anyone name one truly positive thing she’s done to help this country since she catapulted onto the national stage in 2008?


I don’t blame Palin for the actions of Jared Lee Loughner last weekend in Arizona, she is clearly not responsible in any way for the shootings. Still, I believe the conversation with the extreme venom employed by Palin and her cronies (yes, I realize people on the left are guilty of this, too!) and the violent metaphors she uses, for example, depicting Gabrielle Giffords in the cross-hairs on a now infamous map of vulnerable Democrats and what effect such things have in our country is a valid discussion that we need to have. But instead of acknowledging any desire for cooler tempers, working together with others even if we disagree with them, or the benefits of basic civility, Palin goes on the attack yet again with her ridiculous and offensive use of the loaded “blood libel.” How she seems to relish her role as National Provocateur!

Southern California Beach Scaredy Cat

As the youngest, I swung the plastic pails and shovels carrying as much as I could. With my feet in barely-buckled sandals, I merrily skipped out the door to meet my Dad who was packing up the trunk of our convertible. The large cooler was filled with goodies for our outing: bread, mayo, mustard, lettuce, tomato, ham, swiss cheese, dill pickle spears, potato chips, grapes, bottles of coca-cola and a thermos of cherry flavored Kool-Aid. My mother came out in a straw hat, beige shorts and a white shirt tied around her small waist; with her ivory skin, black hair and full lips, she looked like a movie star. Carrying a large straw tote, filled with supplies for our outing: suntan lotion, hats, sunglasses, and under one arm carried several scratchy, mustard-colored woolen blankets from the Army-Navy surplus store. My oldest brother had gone somewhere for the day with his friend Karl. My brother Alfred, the middle child was carrying towels and comic books.

As the car reached the beach, we still had a three-block trudge to the ocean. I almost regretted arriving at our destination because it meant the finale of my daydreams. But as soon as I saw the pink sign that would welcome us, I was eager for the pleasure the cool water would offer.


At the gangplank, we removed our sandals, then my brother and I ran barefooted across frying sand until we found a spot. My parents followed. After unloading our things, my parents would settle on one blanket, and there would be another one for us. Alfred quickly claimed a place in the sand for digging, and I still shedding my sundress, with swimsuit underneath, shouted for him to wait for me. 

The damp sand was chilly from the tide. We dug a hole deep enough to accommodate our bodies, and when our work was done, we took turns sliding into the hole, being a mummy. I topped off the look by grabbing my white plastic sunglasses, placing them on him. In glee we giggled, called for our father to look, and he snapped photos of our masterpiece.


Then it was time to hit the water. A few weeks earlier my father held me in the ocean and had me kick my legs, but he hadn't sufficiently taught me how to breath, and he let me go, I panicked, and swallowed a massive amount of water. This technique worked for him as a child, in a lake, but in a deep ocean, it was crude for my sensibilities and what remained was a great fear of water.


I looked around to see where the lifeguard was stationed. A suntanned teen in red bathing trunks stood at the foot of his wooden perch. He was chatting with a teenage girl in a two-piece bathing suit, but kept one hand on the whistle around his neck. Although the lifeguard was at his post, I was troubled he wasn’t scanning the beach. After a while, I quashed my anxiety, and tiptoed over stones, and shells, just enough to get wet somewhere between my knees and thighs, where I could stay on my feet.

Love never dies... it only transforms

My brother calls me with news. “I’m marrying over Labor Day. The wedding will take place in Montreal.”
“That’s wonderful,” I tell him, excited for him because he loves her. Their tale is one that will have a happy ending. I go to Montreal ahead of the family so I can explore the city on my own while lodging in my future sister-in-law guest room.
The bride's mother, Hildegard, greets me at the door. She is not her  biological mother, but the resemblance is uncanny.
Hildegard is originally from Hamburg. A tall woman, she can instantly see through anyone playing games in life, and will call him or her on it when something is out of line. Fearless in stating her opinion, she is witty, and nearly always a precisionist in style.
While she makes us coffee, I peruse the bookshelves.
“You’re a reader?”
“It’s my great escape, being in my head.”
“Ach so. What are you currently reading?”
“A biography of Frida Kahlo.”
She lights up, “A painter. A lot of physical misery, she had.”
“It permanently attached her to her interior and imagination,” I add.
Hildegard is also an artist. “Interesting, my daughter told me you share astrological signs, yet she never speaks about the interior.”
“My interior is what I live for.”
“Have you ever painted, dear?”
“Yes. I prefer oils because I can play with color and texture. Painting gives me the chance to connect with myself.”
She smiles and hands me a paper map.  “A map of the city. We haven’t been here since we left, that was eighteen years ago.  I think you’ll find it surprisingly clean, safe and peaceful,” she says.
What she forgets to mention is Montreal is also eclectic. As I roam, I find the city is a hub for ethnic theater, television and film, which stimulates my thinking.
In the process of my experimentation, what I want is to make art for mass appeal. I don’t want to work for another home-builder. It’s more sales than actual designing. Innately attracted to the theater, I think that perhaps my design talent will lend itself to this arena. I establish a new plan; to offer my services gratis on my days off at a theater.
By Friday afternoon, my mother, eldest brother, his wife, and their daughter have flown in. They, too, will be staying here. 
Hildegard’s husband, has joined her. Both he and my father bear the same name, a French and a Spanish version, an unusual name and not generational.  My father having died the year before, I intuit this as an omen–a soulmate union sanctioned by the divine hand of God.
To ease any crowding, the bride and her parents stay at the home of her closest friend Diana.
In the kitchen, my mother grills fresh salmon, roast potatoes, and makes a vegetable quiche for my vegetarian benefit.  I’m dicing tomatoes for a garden salad while my oldest brother sits at the kitchen table with a map, planning day trips. “On Sunday, we can go to Quebec City. It’s a two-hour drive, and it’s historical,” he says.
That evening we hit the Latin Quarter. My niece being a teen thinks I'm cool because I expose her to the nightlife of the city.
The following morning is the wedding. The bride has left us directions on how to get to the church, by foot. I like that Canadians walk. Not only do I find it healthful and quaint, but it gives me a chance to explore the neighborhood.
During the long traditional French Catholic service, where parents join the bride and groom by mostly standing around like confused deer, I fantasize a year back in time, I would have bet my last dollar I’d be up there—but ...

The Dancing Professor

It's not happenstance that I married a musician. Nothing can transform my mood faster than a good beat; something I discovered from my father as a child.

Sometimes when he looked down, unexpectedly he’d put on music, I'd place my feet on top of his slippers and for hours we'd dip, swoop and glide across the hardwood floors in our PJ's. It became our weekend morning pastime. And in the eyes of my father I was as agile as a ballroom dancer.

My father loved music of all kinds and had a lot of rhythm, as a tall and imposing big man, he was finely coordinated, was an excellent dancer and although he did not play an instrument, he had a musical soul. He’d taught me my first steps as a social dancer and as an adolescent, I too learned this trick– dancing as a way to save myself from falling into the doldrums. For decades this is what I did immediately following my journal writing, it helped get me out of my head and reminded me that I have a body.

Today being Saturday, I heard Lovergirl by the R&B singer Teena Marie this morning, did it ever bring back memories of tape decks and hitting repeat over and over again. And despite it being 25 years old, I still can't keep still when I hear it and love this song as much today as I did then.

http://new.music.yahoo.com/videos/--2144425

Fast forward to 2011 and I'll share my listening favorite of 2010, I bought it for myself as a birthday treat, it's got a cool beat and video reminiscent of the 1980's, fun and light especially with the jump rope scene.

The musical group Les Shades are from Montreal, a city I fell in love with when I visited the summer of 1988 when my brother married. More on that trip later.

Their Chinatown album features the single, Penelope:

http://www.youtube.com/user/Chinatownmusique#p/u/1/aJMZUeGshvU

I hope you'll enjoy it and that music will do for you what's it done for me, make you glad to be alive and be a lifelong friend. Have a new year filled with happiness and abundance on all levels of your lives.  À votre plaisir!