Susan Says...

Take Note!

2018-08-10T11:27:00.000-04:00

Ann Margret took notes with a pen.

It’s been some time since my last anti-technology rant so I feel I’m overdue.

In addition, I just read an article in the Wall Street Journal that prompted a lengthy diatribe which, fortunately or unfortunately, was heard only by the cats (who barely glanced up from their ipads).

Written by a millennial (millennials are an amalgam of two factions -- Generations X and Y – who, with their artisanal mustard and microbrews, are very similar but X-ers can vaguely recall a world less electronically connected while the younger Y-kids are too young to remember ~~anything~~ a time when you actually had to use your brain to think)…it was about the taking of notes in a classroom setting

Forget notes. No one is learning because they're all on Facebook.

It appears millennials of both variety have discovered they comprehend and retain more information when taking notes the “old-fashioned way.” By this, I mean the use of those clunky and pre-historic tools remembered by some as pen and paper. Ha. No, I really mean that—HA! Maybe mom and dad, with our supermarket condiments and cans of Bud from the gas station cooler, might not be such imbeciles after all.

You are so right, Ned!

Unfortunately, the article goes on to explain that new “tablets” have been designed that are almost as thin and “flexible” as—guess what?! --PAPER!!! HA again! And, with these conceptually amazing and ground-breaking devices, you can purchase an electronic implement suspiciously similar to a “pen” for a mere hundred bucks or so. Personally, I prefer my pens from the dollar store.

Tom, my older son (very tech-savvy, yet the more likely of my boys to run off and live in a hollow tree), read the article at my behest only to inform me that these so called “pens” retain your written notes as would a computer. After shouting and windmilling my arms for a bit about how this is nothing but evil sorcery, he placed me in a headlock until I accepted this madness as fact.

Upon release, and when my breathing finally returned to normal, I countered with the personal knowledge that it is possible to “save” hand-written notes in something known as a file folder which, barring an explosion in your basement artisanal pickle lab, will outlast anything with a computer chip, withstand power surges and be referenced by later generations just as I utilize my great aunt’s recipes from carefully stored index cards written neatly in ink over a half-century ago.

Tell that to your stupid little electronic pen that you accidentally dropped in the toilet.

This leads directly to another article in the (non-web version) of the same newspaper about how millennials are also starting to install land lines in their homes because -- wait for it -- they are more reliable.

They blame poor connections, annoyance with the need to constantly monitor re-charging needs, dropped calls and the frustration of locating a dead phone. Again-Ha!! Seth and I have kept our trusty landline for those same reasons. And, while I fully acknowledge the many advantages (Pinterest on the go!) of owning a cell-phone, my land line is an old friend.

I even make sure there’s a corded version in the house: easily found in an emergency, less likely to give me brain cancer and often needed to call Seth’s number to locate the smart phone that’s slipped between the couch cushions.

Who didn't have one of these in their kitchens?

The "Slimline." What a
concept!

I’m not advocating one of those no-frills wall phones we all had that came in several colors with a dial and a long, tangled cord or the pretty pink princess phone I coveted as a teen (never got one) or even the comparatively new-fangled “slim-line” from the 70’s that blew our minds by having the dial in the handset.

Get something modern and sleek with all the fancy features you want! As a side bonus, you can slam the receiver down in fury at anyone who’s pissed you off or wants to clean your chimney. Angrily jabbing at a screen is a poor substitute for a good slam.

Is, as I’ve heard it said, everything old, new again? Nah….and, in many instances, that’s a good thing. Even we fossils acknowledge that technology has made life easier, safer and opened doors for medicine, science and the vital transmission of information. But try picking up a pen and giving your handwriting a new lease on life. Make that call on a land line for a clear and uninterrupted chat and then discuss, over a frosty mug of barley wine and lentil chips, how some old things are worth keeping around.

And, kids-you might even want to try one of those fancy erasable pens for your note-taking…now that’s technology

My preference for a landline.

The Guardians

2018-05-13T11:33:00.002-04:00

My son Tom is visiting for a bit. He’s heading back to where he lives in Virginia in a few days but while he’s here, he’s been catching up on his sleep.

Emerging from his childhood bedroom, he’ll come out tousled and stretching to comment that he doesn’t know “what the hell we do to him” but he sleeps, and naps, more here than anywhere else. He says this somewhat accusingly as if Seth and I might be slipping potions into his milk for the purpose of rendering him unconscious. While this would have been a fabulous idea during his terrible teens, I can assure you that we have never and would never.

The reason Tom sleeps better here is due to the same reason that when I would walk past the living room to my mother’s quarters, finding her either seated in her wingback, watching TV while plying one of several handicrafts she enjoyed or ensconced at her desk writing and humming along to something from her eclectic CD collection, I would start –as had been my original intent – chatting about one thing or another. Inevitably, however, I’d soon be curled up on her bed, enjoying deep and restorative sleep. She might have been a bit disappointed because she always welcomed a good talk but she’d never disturb me.

Simply put, our mothers are the guardians. We are they who will keep the wolf from the door, successfully wrestle the bogeyman into submission, vigilantly protect our sleeping angels -- tiny or full grown -- while they slumber. That unconscious and restful abandon is why Tommy sleeps so deeply here and why I, a restless and fitful sleeper, would slip into a rejuvenating abyss when my mother sat near.

If you’re lucky, this is the kind of mother you have…or, as in my case, had for the blessed years she was with me on this earth. She’s still with me every day…showing up in dreams, as far away only as a thought or a prayer.

Here’s a little something I wrote once for Mother’s Day…

Mother’s and Trees

At first, you might not think that mothers and trees are similar beings but, upon closer inspection, the similarities cannot be ignored.

Trees and mothers come in many different sizes, shapes and colors. Sofas do, too, for that matter...but sofas are not brave, steadfast and proud. Trees, and mothers, are.

Trees put down roots so their branches will grow strong and be nourished just like mothers do for their children. And, trees are appreciated, respected, enjoyed and also, occasionally, peed on, just like mothers.

They are also sometimes taken for granted as we lean against them for support not unlike how mothers are occasionally thought of by their children. They are part of the landscape, dependably blending into the scene but when it’s raining we rush beneath their boughs for comfort and they become exactly what we need.

And, trees are beautiful…..just like mothers.

Happy Mother's Day

Sixty

2018-02-07T14:21:00.004-05:00

IHOP and I--both
60 this year.

I am writing this exactly one week before my 60^th birthday. Sixty. The big 6-0. The start of my seventh decade knocking around this planet being a smartass. This day, when I was little girl -- up to a point, probably, in my thirties -- seemed very far away.

Sixty seems more daunting than other benchmark birthdays. Thirty was nothing. Forty was a minor shock and fifty was, literally, overlooked. Fifty? Bah---who cares! Especially when others (people in their fifties) insisted that fifty is now considered the “new thirty.” I knew that was nonsense but I was busy, the kids appeared to still need me (although that was a mirage) and my knees hadn’t started hurting in earnest…yet.

But sixty sounds formidable. Even though I didn’t need any special skills to get here, it carries a sort of gravitas.

It’s the gateway to another chapter---one where you become a little more cranky, creaky…and more invisible.

It’s when women of my mother’s generation began wearing lower heels and crisp snap coats to the corner store. They might even have fastened one of those schooner-shaped net kerchiefs, designed to keep their beauty parlor coifs safe in the rain, under their chins. Nobody cared. After all, you were sixty.

Today, women’s uniforms don’t seem to change much. If we were cleavage baring, stiletto-wearing hussies, we continue to be---apparently unto eternity. I’m not saying this is a bad thing as I, myself, hope to wear my jeans and Birkenstocks until the bitter end. But sixty cannot be turned into something “young.” We’re not spring poultry anymore.

My generation fights to stay youthful. We’re capable of spending hefty sums on one (or several) of twenty trillion available skin treatments, endure boob and tushie lifts and text in disturbing abbreviations on our little phones. Men get hair plugs and take viagra. Aging has become something to fear, something to hide from by utilizing a variety of sophisticated defenses. And, while I fret endlessly about diminishing collagen, eye bags and wrinkling knee caps, I realize that, every day, something else has begun sliding downward in need of an artificial boost…and it ain’t stopping.

I have a photo of my grandma, taken soon after her sixtieth birthday. Perched on a swing in a playground, she’s wearing a sensible dress and the saddest expression you’ve ever seen. She wasn’t bemoaning the encroachment of age. I was only two at the time but now understand that this woman was too worn out to have spent much time worrying about getting older. She still worked like a dog everyday, dealing with all kinds of problems and all kinds of people.

She might have slapped some Jergens on before toppling into bed every night but she didn’t have the luxury to wonder if she should join a gym. Her leisure time was spent with Lawrence Welk or chatting with her sisters, all of whom lived in the same house. She looked and behaved like an “old lady.”

I may look like an old lady but I prance off to the gym, wear sweatshirts with words on them and shove pedicured feet into fluffy UGGS when it’s chilly. I text (in full, perfectly punctuated sentences, for the record), listen to current music (sometimes) and occasionally use the word “cool.” That doesn’t, however, make me cool. My grandma was cool. She baked every week, washed the floor every night and sewed much of our clothing on an old factory Singer in the damp cellar of our Brooklyn home, sometimes late into the night. I hope someone acknowledged her sixtieth birthday.

I’d also like to say that I greatly appreciate still being here. We all know a startling number of wonderful friends and family who were snatched away and who would have loved to be planning for their sixtieth birthdays. I miss you all terribly and, in your names, promise that I won’t whine too much about it but will truly celebrate, in my heart, that I’ve been given these years, months, days and minutes to enjoy a sunset, browse the aisles of Sephora (where I’m ignored) and tirelessly plot against Justin Bieber.

I cannot promise that I will always use my time well and never be a jerk, and -- as Seth loves to remind me, a cinder block could fall on my head tomorrow -- but sixty, here I come!

Another Bitchy Review: The 2018 Grammy Awards

2018-01-29T10:17:00.001-05:00

Last night at the 2018 Grammy’s, Bono – gray roots showing and looking (and acting) more like the Crypt Keeper every day, escaped his attendants and wandered out on stage during Kendrick Lamar’s pyromaniacal opening act. Obviously confused, he quickly retreated.

Dave Chappelle, who, apparently, needs his name emblazoned on every article of clothing he owns, soon followed. Rambling a bit, he, too, seemed slightly confused, also disappearing quickly.

Giant duck or swan?

I, myself, had been a bit baffled by Mr. Lamar but it all made sense to me when, soon after, Lady Gaga sang her huge hit about having “one hundred million reasons to fall asleep.” Wait—what? Those aren’t the lyrics? Well, they should be since I nodded off frequently throughout the evening. I did kind of like Gaga’s piano even though it had, obviously, been hit by a poultry truck on the way over to Madison Square Garden.

Rihanna at work

I have, in previous reviews, admitted that I may be getting too old and farty for these musical award shows. Known to scroll for crock pot recipes on my phone during performances that bore me, last night was no different despite many of the chaotic production numbers reminding me of performances from variety shows of the past. For me, this further confirmed the creaky adage that there really is nothing new under the sun--except twerking hadn’t been invented yet, profanity didn’t need to be bleeped from song lyrics and, in those days, Rihanna might have been arrested – mid zumba demonstration—for public indecency. And, while I have finally come to like the song “Despacito” and harbor a strange fascination for the gentleman known as “Daddy Yankee,” I was distracted by the endless crotches and ass cheeks to the point where I forgot what they were singing.

Miley in 2013 with Robin Thicke.

Miley, last night.

Naughty stuff, but the vice squad didn’t storm the stage because we’ve all become numb to this sort of behavior. Thank you, Miley Cyrus who, last night, dressed for a performance of “La Boheme” in contrast to the nude two-piece she wore to the 2013 VMA awards while rubbing up to Robin Thicke's privates during a hilariously shocking performance of “Blurred Lines.” Thicke’s wife divorced him soon after.

Jim or Philip Seymour?

Since I did doze a bit, I do have several questions about what went on last night: Why was Jim Gaffigan pretending to be Philip Seymour Hoffman? Why did Sarah Silverman travel though a wind tunnel that puffed up both her hair and boobs to alarming and uncharacteristic proportions? Is Childish Gambino really childish? Why does Scissor spell her name SZA? Why did the airlines lose Pink’s luggage and from which lunch lady did she borrow her outfit? Why was Rihanna wearing a shower curtain early in the evening? Why was Sam Smith wearing a lab coat and pajamas? Why didn’t Elton John, dressed as an extra from a Marvel Comics movie, sing his own song? What motivated Sting to untangle himself from an extended session of tantric sex with his wife long enough to show up for the telecast and, most importantly, why won’t my husband, Shemar Moore, return my calls?

What the heck, Sarah?

Regular readers of my reviews know I love Gary Clark who – in a glorious purple velvet suit -- paid tribute to the recently deceased Chuck Berry. Chuck Berry, if you’ve forgotten, is known both for the groundbreaking style with which he approached early rock and roll as well as for placing multiple video cameras in the stalls of the lady’s room of the motel he once owned and -- while we’re at it -- will someone please remember that Jay-Z, who is treated like the second coming of Christ, once sold crack on the streets of Brooklyn, New York.

Patti Lupone still has the pipes to awe the crowd, Cindy Lauper, even singing background for the ever- grubby Kesha (yes, I know what happened to her)) and the diminutively dynamic Bruno Mars always warm my cold heart.

I kind of missed this....

Last night’s audience, responding with more recognition to the far, far less accomplished Ben Platt (one-time Tony winner for a leading role in a Broadway play) than for the legendary Leonard Bernstein, was missing the obnoxious front row dance stylings of Miss Taylor Swift. Instead Lorde sat like a zombie, apparently dead until someone waved Elton John's sneakers under her nose.

No, not this Shaggy....

This one!

Refusing to be subjected to anything about politics and/or current “movements” that pinned wilted white roses to everyone’s lapels, and preferring an era when the Grammys were all about the music, I fled at the slightest indication that something of that nature was on the way. Thank goodness, because rumor has it that Hilary appeared and that would have definitely harshed the mellow I’d achieved during the all-too brief appearance of my beloved "It Wasn't Me" Shaggy. I also tried to minimize (more recipe searches on my phone) the giddy blathering ("Oh, there are celebrities around me!!!") of the self-besotted James Corden who, like Hilary, just won’t go away.

Afloat in the harbor....

To my horror/gratitude, my DVR went only until eleven and I awoke to find I’d slept through the final awards. I hear Bono made it back from the floating stage in the river but, reportedly, the “Edge” panicked after his cap was blown off, diving into the frigid water after it. Luckily, Lady Gaga, floating by on her piano, was able to rescue him though the cap was never recovered.

That’s it, friends. I know I’m nasty but tough times require a hard heart…or something like that. I now have several good crock pot recipes lined up and look forward to trying them. I’d be happy to share them if you’re interested!

Betty Boop is Dead

2017-12-20T08:53:00.001-05:00

Yes, Betty, you should look worried.

Archie (a cat), hates our Christmas tree. Or, just maybe, he loves it so much that he wants to become one with it and I (not a cat) might be interpreting this love as destructive behavior. Either way, thanks to Archie, our tree looks like hell.

We stopped getting real trees after a mysterious blight caused the prices in Brooklyn tree lots everywhere to skyrocket.

Combine this with Seth’s discomfort with the equation of drying greenery plus electricity and, suddenly, a fake tree seemed appropriate. Realistic fakes were a new concept back then but we found one that looked legit. Or, that’s what we chose to believe. We also vowed that this was only until the prices of real trees returned to acceptable levels. Thirty years and a few incarnations of artificial tree later, we’re still faking it.

Enter Archie the Cat. We adopted him last November and despite our doting, he feared if he wasn’t polite, he’d be out on his little cat ass, spending new Year’s Eve back at the shelter. He might have thought the tree, with its’ multitude of temptations, was some sort of test. So, Archie circled and sniffed but didn’t do any of the things those naughty internet cats do like roosting in the branches, swinging at the decorations or even tipping the whole thing to the floor.

Don't get too comfy in that
champagne glass, Betty.

We were thrilled, assuming we’d been blessed with a miracle kitten who was charming in every way yet had no interest in Christmas trees (this, obviously, being a huge asset on cat resumes). The closest the tree got to getting wrecked was after Seth had a third martini at a party and tried to slow dance with it once we got home.

So, we bragged to our friends --many of whom had awful cat-related tree stories -- that Archie understood to stay away from it because he was that smart. As readers of this blog, you know that if Szolds brag, they will be punished…

Acting coy will not save you.

So, this year, not only did Archie appear to be on some wild hallucinogen while the tree was being assembled but he broke the sound barrier racing around the room, attempted to string the lights all by himself, picked up ornaments in his mouth and ran away with them and dipped a paw in everyone’s eggnog. What is happening, we wondered! Why had dignity and restraint turned to mayhem? Why was our little genius behaving like a total maniac (or, an actual cat)?

It got worse. Archie enjoys snoozing midway up the tree or drowsily cleaning himself on a 'shelf" of branches, flailing wildly at the fragile baubles and clambering straight up the side of the tree in one swift ascent. He’s also removed every ornament from the bottom branches, happily rolling them into the far corners of the house.

And pouting will get you nowhere.

Soon, there were sharp slivers of paper-thin glass all over the floor. My dust buster lost its charge from working overtime and we had to put away special ornaments, including precious specimens made by the kids and already held together by yellowing tape. Cowering downstairs, we hear crashing and tinkling every night, followed by the clatter of whatever he’s destroyed bouncing down each step as it becomes a plaything for this madman.

Yes, I'd be pissed, too.

The tree is a disheveled mess. Every morning, I pick up more ornaments he’s kicked around, readjust the lights and bend the branches back into position. Every night Archie does all he can to undo my work. Today, we found Betty Boop in pieces on the stairs. We thought we’d removed all surviving fragile ornaments but Archie found Betty and murdered her, leaving her carcass in silvery shards under the coffee table.

If Archie weren’t so cute, this would be more of a problem. Clearly, he feels secure in our love and doesn’t fear eviction. In fact, I am guilty of chuckling indulgently at many of his hijinks. When poor Seth recently dropped a delicate ornament, I screamed bloody murder at him so his nose is a bit out of joint about this whole double standard type situation but he, too, is enchanted by all things pussycat though he will vehemently deny that.

Archie says hi.

Uh-oh, I just heard a crash from upstairs….enjoy your pre-Christmas prep, friends! And thank God it comes but once a year!

Fightin' Around the Christmas Tree

2017-12-06T11:31:00.001-05:00

Rockin’ around the Christmas tree….When Charlie was at college, we started the practice of putting up our Christmas tree on the Friday after Thanksgiving. School schedules often interfere with family traditions and, since we enjoy decorating the tree together, it was either do it right after the leftovers were put away or wait until so close to Christmas that there wasn’t enough time with the tree to make all that work worthwhile.

At the Christmas party hop…College days are behind us and Charlie is a new husband yet, this year, based on everyone’s busy schedules, tree day arrived right on time. So, just as the Thanksgiving dishes were finally washed and digesting was officially over, the moment felt right.

Mistletoe hung where you can see…Let’s move the end table and chairs out of the room, boys…let’s send poor Dad into the attic for the cartons and boxes while Mom grits her teeth and bakes cookies so if Martha Stewart barges in to measure festivity levels in our home, we get a good grade. And, hey--Tom and Charlie, don’t forget---it’s time to painfully rehash sibling rivalries and childhood vendettas as favorite ornaments are unwrapped and hung with care on pine boughs that, yet again this year, have nearly scratched off both of Dad’s corneas.

Every couple tries to stop…The difference this year is that Charlie’s wife, Anastasia, is with us on tree day for the first time. She may not yet be aware that Szolds often say “I love you” by screaming themselves hoarse over hot cocoa. Anastasia is also about to learn that Mom expresses her deep affection for her family with a crying fit or two. Often brought about by an artifact of her children’s youth making an appearance, Mom is easily unhinged since she’s already deeply overwrought by repeated failures to recreate scenes from mainstream America as dreamt up by the minds of the sadists who write for the Hallmark Channel.

You will get a sentimental feeling when you hear...This year we took it a step further and wove politics into the mix thereby upping the time frame for shouting, hand waving, eye rolling and, of course, Mom’s crying. Anastasia, having prepared for this by studying books about conflict resolution in wartime, stood up, chose an ornament and began decorating. The shiny object in her hand distracted us and we followed suit, slowly becoming absorbed in our project. Tom and Charlie sought out their first baby ornaments which prompted more tears from Mom but the brave daughter-in-law knew what to do...bustling into the kitchen, she freshened the marshmallows in everyone’s mug and patted us all on the heads. “That’s a good girl,” she said to Mom, pressing a tissue into her hand so she’d stop using her sleeve and ruffling what’s left of Dad’s hair to encourage him to add a string of lights to a bare spot in the back.

Voices singing…Bravely stepping between the boys who suddenly remembered they were supposed to be fighting, she tossed a handful of silver-wrapped Hershey kisses into the air and, with the laser pointer, diverted not only Tito the Cat from dismantling the tree’s bottom branches but also distracted Tom and Charlie as -- with chocolate on their lips -- they scurried off to chase the beam of light with the cat.

Let’s be jolly…Before we realized it, the tree was complete and the negativity dispelled. Feeling a sense of accomplishment, we sat back and admired our work. While the men nibbled on treats and happily batted at the shiny bells and balls, I thanked my lucky stars that we have Anastasia in the mix. Not only did she help us refocus upon the task at hand but also restored the theme of peace on earth that’s generally encouraged at this time of year.

Deck the halls with boughs of holly…I hope those of you who get, shall we say, a bit emotional around this time of year and before the conversation inevitably turns to whether there’s truth to the allegations that Santa’s been sexually harassing the elves for years -- you get yourselves a great daughter-in-law like I have.

Touching Base

2017-11-03T22:00:00.005-04:00

Weeeehooo! Sometimes, as a Mets fan (yes, I said it), I forget that baseball doesn’t have to be an angst-ridden nightmare but can actually be fun. Game five of the World Series last night, extending well into the wee hours of the morning, was proof of that!

Yuli Gurriel of the Astros...best hair ever.

Is a baseball game -- with countless pitching changes, juiced-up baseballs creating endless home runs and jarring close-ups of the player’s grooming trends (flapping rooster combs of tonsorial insanity, flowing ginger locks and scalp carvings in shades of the rainbow) – a bit too long? Perhaps.

Is the use of instant-replay a buzz kill…yep. Are steroids still a problem…maybe. Are umps still blind…often. But it’s baseball! And baseball is fun! For me, the best parts are when these overgrown babies in cleats smile.

Yasiel Puig of the Dodgers and his 'do.

Having raised sons, I am innately programmed to enjoy smiling males. It’s a give-away that they’re not trying to murder one another in the pool, on the trampoline or at breakfast and it, automatically, makes a mother happy. Watching on hi-def TV from the comfort of my recliner, puts me right at home plate where I can enjoy the action…and the smiling.

Justin Turner needs a trim.

The best moments also include jumping, bounding, leaping, high-fiving, pitchers hugging catchers, catchers hugging pitchers and similar acts of jubilation. As for the smiles, my favorites are the ones that cannot be suppressed.

These are the smiles that occur after a great hit or play when the player wants to appear cool and detached despite his good fortune. But the smile of a happy boy cannot be contained. It sneaks up on the smiler, often appearing on base, on the bench or even on the lips of those grim managers as they pace behind rail or net. Last night, as the Astros took us on the extended odyssey of game five against the Los Angeles Dodgers, there was lots of smiling in Texas.

A dark time for Brooklyn.

I’m rooting for Houston for many reasons. First and foremost, the Dodgers are stinking traitors who left Brooklyn in 1957 and Walter O’Malley can kiss my….oops, sorry. But, after the misery Houston continues to endure thanks to the waters of Hurricane Harvey, I think a world series victory would be very nice.

Baseball has a long history of being an excellent distraction during troubled times. During the great Depression of the 1930’s, attendance sagged yet fans still managed to come to the ballpark to forget their troubles. They couldn’t afford a hot dog but they were able to sit back and, for nine innings, concentrate on something other than their woes. In fact, some say that time period fostered the greatest era baseball has known to date.

This need for baseball increased its popularity so, that by the time World War Two enveloped the United States, even President Roosevelt endorsed America’s national pastime. His famous “Green Light” Letter emphasized the importance of keeping baseball vibrant during such darkness. "I honestly feel that it would be best for the country to keep baseball going," the president responded when asked by baseball’s commissioner if it should be suspended during the height of the war. If that’s not proof it’s a grand distraction, what is?

It’s always been an escape and source of joy for my own family. Early on, baseball became a happy distraction for my immigrant clan as they adjusted to life in America. Inevitably, they embraced the rag tag heroism of the Brooklyn Dodgers, later signing on as Mets fans since rooting for underdogs had become a family tradition.

My sons were schooled by my baseball loving mother to embrace the concept that baseball is, indeed, life. Both Tom and Charlie love playing and watching. Often, as a family, we’d gather to become absorbed in what was happening on that green jewel of a field. Arguments -- some friendly, some distinctly not – kept our adrenalin pumping. You need to know the rules and appreciate its nuances. You must understand that its pace is not boring but, rather, a garden of potential for the exhilarating split second that will make you either holler or smile…even the oldest on the team, or the couch, becoming boyish after a great grab or hit.

I look forward to the remainder of this World Series and, hopefully, plan on doing some smiling myself! *

*Obviously the World Series is over and I was very happy with the outcome. Congrats to the Houston Astros---what a great series!

The News Today

2017-10-06T11:48:00.003-04:00

This was written as a column for my local paper just a few hours after the shootings in Las Vegas.

I offer it as a post for this blog with a heavy heart but not one without hope for the future....XO

Ironically, my topic for this week’s column was going to be about my recent hijinks at a casino.

A venue I so rarely visit, I found myself developing a sore elbow in front of a slot machine during a family get-together in Saratoga Springs, New York. It was a wonderful weekend.

But, this very morning, we all awoke to more terrible news. And, as residents so very close to the site of another horrific massacre, we had no choice but to revisit the all-too familiar feelings of anxiety, fear and sorrow. My original topic was no longer appropriate…and my weekend was, virtually, forgotten.

This column is not going to be about gun control vs. the Second Amendment and the many variations upon those themes (not that I don’t have my opinions). I can only wax on about the issues we face today as sentient beings in an increasingly unmoored society--the growing number of worries that jockey for position in our overwhelmed brains…the apprehension that accompanies our every waking step, often trailing into our subconscious at night.

I wish I had some lovely optimism to fluff on about here. That’s hard to muster not 24 hours after this tragedy. Originally unaware of where this nightmare unfolded and making sure none of my kids were in the vicinity, I was able to calm my pounding heart only to remind myself of the parents whose children just wanted to enjoy a concert and are never coming home.

Right after the Newtown shooting, while bathed in anxious grief and rage, I spotted a small hand-lettered sign stuck into the ground outside of Target, visible to those waiting in line at the light. It simply read “Good things happen, too.” It made me burst into tears yet it also made me feel better.

I recently read about one of my favorite celebrities, Mr. Rogers. A man as kind and sweet in private as the persona he embodied on his television show, he shared something his mother said when he was little. She’d told him that, in times of crisis, to always “look for the helpers.” There will “always be helpers,” she advised. That made him feel safer and when I read it, it made me feel safer, too.

We all value our “first responders” as we now call them. There was a bunch of fireman shopping in a local supermarket last week and I watched them appreciatively, happy even to be near them. Fred Rogers’ mother understood long ago how these “helpers” make such a difference to us all. To say we “thank” them is an understatement. We deeply love them. The “helpers” were there last night.

Just today, I had a conversation with a customer service rep named Evelyn after placing an order. While she clicked about on her computer, we discussed what had happened in Las Vegas. Both parents, at first we fretted together about the usual things parents fear most. Afterward, Evelyn wistfully recalled a time where people were comfortable about disagreeing with one another, family was strong, we weren’t muzzled by the very extreme end of the political correctness spectrum and the internet didn’t pollute minds and indoctrinate people into evil. We were both very sad, concluding our exchange with a sincere wish for each other’s peace and safety (plus, she adjusted my shipping charges). Evelyn was a philosopher with a headset, solving the trivial dilemmas of shoppers and pondering life. Like all of us.

So, while I have no words and my balm will be cat videos and phone catch-ups later with my kids, I send love to you all as well as prayers for the apparent impossibility that people practice love instead of hate. But nothing is impossible--isn’t that what they say?

Maybe if we can achieve this, one household at a time, things will look up a bit. Maybe it will even catch on. And if you’d like to discuss all this with Evelyn, I can get you her number. I think she’d be happy to hear from you.

The 2017 Emmys Review: Brief and Mean

2017-09-18T16:05:00.002-04:00

Hollywood and I are breaking up.

I’m waiting for the right moment to tell it since, after last night’s Emmys, I realize we have nothing in common. Other than Carol Burnett, that is…we're both still pretty gaga over her.

But that’s no longer enough, Hollywood…we are through.

When, during a three hour award show, the classiest woman to be found is RuPaul, in full regalia, pretending to be an Emmy Statuette, you know you’re in trouble. No, you cannot count Emmy Rossum no matter how good she looked because, thanks to "Shameless," we've all seen her boobies more times than I can count and even Alexis Bleidel, looking more like a baby deer caught in the headlights than ever, is disqualified after her recent participation in the unnecessarily atrocious (as in it could have been wonderful) revival of “The Gilmore Girls.”

Last night’s women, who illustrated -- en masse -- that the fashion statement of the evening was matching the colorful gems in their borrowed Chopard earrings with the gem in their borrowed rings, were the tackiest bunch of potty mouths I have experienced since I was caught in traffic on the George Washington Bridge. But I was alone and not on live TV.

And, if they weren’t discussing peeing, or expressing their interest in owning a vibrator or naming their boobs (Dolly Parton is guilty of both of these crimes), they were actually getting bleeped by the network censors. And censors are relatively chill these days.

Nah...

...there are no good roles for women
out there.

Several also spent their camera time bleating about how grateful they are that Hollywood is finally beginning to provide good roles for women. What in the name of Scarlett O’Hara are they talking about?

Have they forgotten about Vivien Leigh, standing in the ravaged fields of Tara, shaking a gnarled carrot at the sky? Or, Vivien, again, depending on the kindness of strangers or Merle Oberon on the English moors with Heathcliff, Bette Davis experiencing a “bumpy night,” Joan Crawford in Mildred Pierce or, more recently, Cate Blachette, Kate Winslett of Whoopie Goldberg showing us all how it’s done?

Oh, Archie.

But, since this was a night about the “small screen,” how about Diahann Carroll as the independent Julia, Maureen Stapleton’s “Edith” who showed up the small–minded Archie almost every week with her innate wisdom and dignity or Mary Tyler Moore who proved to women everywhere that you don’t need a husband to be successful or content. Roles for women? Where have Nicole Kidman, Reese Witherspoon and others, been hiding? If Cecily Tyson had been alive last night, she might have had a sharp word or two for them.

Not in favor of inclusion.

Inclusion was also a big theme. I’m all for it. But if I’d been a member of any of the groups specifically mentioned again and again, I would have been cringing by the night’s end. If any group needed defending last night, it was whatever birds gave their life for the second fashion statement of the night-- feathered dresses. Those birds had zero representation based on the look of things.

It only got uglier. Literally.

Enter the misguided trio of unfortunate surgery--Lily Tomlin appeared with very oddly shaped cheek implants that were so low I nearly mistook them for breast implants. Her companion, Dolly Parton, looked as pumped up as the mutant chicken breasts I avoided in Stop ‘n’ Shop last week but the worst offender was Jane Fonda, fresh from her lastest alteration. Her gleaming face was so tight that her odd braying laughter and wink to the audience were barely achievable. These two brilliant women, plus Jane (have you actually seen her act?) should have the gravitas of years of combined experience. Instead Dolly made bra jokes.

Bad...worse...worst.

For me, there were a few highlights: Donald Glover made me want to binge watch “Atlanta: asap, I love Dave Chappelle almost unconditionally and Alexander Skarsgard needs only to Alexander Skarsgard to make me smile. Speaking of smiling, I’m happy when Kate McKinnon is happy and I love (and am a little afraid of) Ann Dowd although she was far better in “The Leftovers” than in “The Handmaid’s Tale” for which she won her Emmy. I also want to thank Debra Messing for forgetting to pack her dress but improvising with not one but several shower curtains ripped from the rods of a local Ramada Inn.

I was also very happy for newcomer Riz Ahmed who won for his break-out role in “The Night Of.” And, for the record, I also wish that someone would help Viola Davis find a pair of shoes she can actually walk in.

Welcome to the dark side, baby....

Rumor has it that Alec Baldwin’s current wife was surreptitiously passing out notes requesting that people “Please help!” her and that the man pretending to be Dennis Quaid last night has been taken into custody for kidnapping the real Dennis Quaid. Dennis, why? At least he and his ex, Meg Ryan now look equally terrifying thanks to unfortunate choices in cosmetic surgeons.

Over all, the night was dismal but I have yet to acknowledge the absolute worst of it….his name is Steven Colbert. Self-satisfied and predictable showcaser of his self-perceived gift for comedy, he ran the show the same way he hosts the formerly excellent “Late Show.” It’s all about him…no, really.

I just love......ME!!!

He and Jimmy Fallon are tied for who can focus less on their guests and more on themselves. The generations who loved Johnny Carson (and even Leno and Letterman), understand that it’s the guests who are there to shine and the hosts responsibility to make sure that happens. Or at least it used to be. Colbert is unequaled for smugness and self appreciation. Feh.

I may finally be done with award shows.

Hey, wait a minute...I WAS there last night!!!!!

Pearl

2017-05-29T13:50:00.004-04:00

It was like seeing a unicorn.

To be there, in the sunshine, under the blaze of a spring sky, to gaze at the vista they saw that day, to breathe the salt of the same blue waters…to both fulfill a fervent wish for a visit and remember what we’ve learned in the history books, seen in the movies, pictured in our minds.

Yep, a unicorn…maybe rarer. Pearl Harbor. In color…in Honolulu. For real.

Recently, Seth and I were fortunate enough to visit that storied and world famous naval base. You all know the facts…an early morning attack led to America’s entry into World War II, stole the lives of nearly 2,500 Americans and, maybe, some of you want to visit like we did. Seth, being a history buff, making me into one, as well—we always knew we’d get there if we could.

And there we were. Goose-pimpled on an unnaturally hot and still day in Hawaii. My reputation for bringing freakish weather to places I travel intact, the locals all commented on the extreme temperatures as we sought the shade of a palm tree’s umbrella and guzzled bottled water, returning the many “alohas” of nearly everyone we met.

Shimmering in the heat, out in the harbor, the eerily beautiful memorial for the USS Arizon rested atop the rusted hulk of the sunken battleship. Nearby, we saw the markers for the ships that were hit but still salvageable.

The mighty battleship Missouri, most famous for hosting the surrender of the Empire of Japan, waited beyond a maze of ramps. We boarded in awe and stood in reverence on the exact spot where Douglas McArthur oversaw the signing of the documents that ended World War II. Later, emotionally spent, drenched in sweat and seated at a beach-side bar, our waiter -- noticing my wilted lei and Seth’s fresh sunburn -- dutifully asked what we “tourists” had been up to all day. When we told him we’d been to Pearl, he stopped and looked directly into my eyes to inquire if we’d felt “the spirit.” “Yes,” I told him. We’d felt it.

Normally, careful about timing and not missing things like trains or buses, we were mistaken about when to return to our group and were two hours late. While we regretted inconveniencing our fellow travelers (who, wisely, gave up on us and left us behind), we realized that our error had given us an unusually long time on the Missouri, allowing many extra reveries as we visited the quarters of the men, sat where the great Admiral Nimitz (and Seth’s hero) had, himself, sat to contemplate and discuss the enormity of enormities that was his command during that historic time as well as linger on the spot where heads of state gathered as the papers were signed.

Visiting the Memorial to the Arizona, we marveled at the small bubbles of oil that, to this day, rise to the surface of the water as they escape the ruptured tanks. We learned that many of the few who survived the attack on that vessel, request that navy divers place their cremated remains back in the ship so they can rest with their comrades.

Seth and I will never forget our day at Pearl.

If we had been true to the emotions we controlled throughout our visit, we would have been crying our eyes out on those sun-soaked decks. The waiter we’d meet later understood…the “spirit” is there. If you want to, you can feel it…the heft of the events that transpired remains palpable. And, as the many American flags began to flutter in the breeze that eventually sprang up, you feel other things, too: pride in America, gratitude for the men who gave everything for their country and hope that America, once again, can galvanize against the enemies who seek to undermine her daily.

If a visit to Honolulu isn’t in your future, do some googling and encourage your kids to do the same. Rent “From Here to Eternity” and “Tora, Tora, Tora!” from Netflix and see, if only in a movie director’s vision, what went on there. I hope you all had both a contemplative and enjoyable Memorial Day weekend. God bless America.

The Memorial rests atop the fallen ship.

The 2017 Oscars and the Big "Oopsie" Moment...A Review

2017-02-27T15:20:00.001-05:00

This year I’d decided to take a break from my annual Academy Awards review.

Fearful of a climate heavily clouded by Trump-hating Hollywood, my plan was to watch until the first self-righteous tantrum was delivered from beneath a glittering bib of borrowed Chopard diamonds and then snap off the TV. So, I sat down without my yellow pad and Sharpie...or a care in the world.

The terrible kiss of a few years back.
Halle is still in therapy as a result.

Unburdened of note-taking yet needing a little busywork, I was free to back comb the cats and begin fashioning a replica of the Golem of Prague from their fur for future use which, apparently, might be pretty soon. So, while I do have an unactivated golem in the laundry room, I have not a single note from the evening.

It was, however, a very vivid night and, ironically, one of the better and more entertaining “Oscars” I’ve seen in years.

Oh, yes, she did.

Thanks, in part, to the heightened suspense about who Meryl Streep might compare to a “brown shirt” this time, I was mentally piqued and used some of my nervous energy Snap-Chatting my poor daughter-in-law (about 400 times) the minute I spotted Halle Berry’s “hair” early in the evening.

What Halle was thinking, I do not know. I can only guess she was worried that Adrian Brody might be there and hoped the hair might deflect another molestation. Sources tell me Adrian was busy handing out towels in the men’s room and was too busy to even dream of his former lip lock with the then closely-shorn Ms. Berry.

Parachute Drop: candy and doughnuts

Even without notes, I remember that Jimmy Kimmel was pretty darn good as host. More self-deprecating than on his own show, he wrangled the crowd efficiently, maintained a gag about a supposed feud with Matt Damon and enjoyed orchestrating candy and doughnut drops to the audience via little gossamer baggies from the sky.

He was fun…and kept his politicizing to the level he might have used for any new POTUS--meaning he didn’t call for impeachment or mass rebellion. This was a good idea since Jimmy’s audience is comprised not solely of Trump loathers and he needs to hold on to his day – or, in his case, night job.

A popular post-Oscars spot for hangry stars

Public opinion, in fact, may have been the underlying reason last night’s celebs were tempered. I doubt they’d listen to a memo from the Academy requesting politics be kept to a minimum since their levels of sanctimony are astronomically high but so is their desire to maintain their box-office numbers.

Salma Hayek, who looked lovely in simple black lace, was one of the few who mumbled somethin’ about somethin’ but kept it to eyebrow wiggling and a veiled suggestion to "question authority". For all we know, however, she may have been referring to the night crew at In-N-Out Burger if they try to limit the number of toppings one can request upon one’s post -award show burger.

The moon (s) were out that night.

Cher's feathers

The dresses seemed nice (how I miss pre-stylist days when Cher wore feathers and Barbra’s bare tushie shone through her pantaloons) but Alicia Vikander took a wrong turn somewhere off Hollywood Boulevard and ended up at Happy Endings Tanning and Massage instead of where the special, fancy people go for their spray-ons. As a result, she was Oompa Loompa orange. And, the young Hailee Steinfeld, when looking back at footage of herself, might regret wearing two giant silver decals on her boobs but, hey, attention is attention. Just ask Adrian Brody after he tried to kiss Ben Affleck in the men’s room.

I didn't think this worked but Hailee looks pretty confident about it all.

Janelle Monae

Janelle Monae, who was everywhere last night, channeled Queen Elizabeth I in that crazy dress and Mel Gibson, who cannot be redeemed in my eyes no matter how good Hacksaw Ridge looks in previews, appeared either high as a kite or genuinely nutso as he sat in the audience baring a new set of veneers for the camera. A man of great former beauty and apparent sanity, he has been welcomed back to Hollywood after unthinkable racist rants and documented misogyny but, hey, he was Brave Heart and painted his ass blue so it's all okay.

Craziest Mofo in Hollywood

There was much to enjoy in this year’s awards…I found Seth Rogen and Michael J. Fox charming, was thrilled to see Shirley MacLaine who milked her oft-mocked reincarnation beliefs for fewer laughs than she expected, always enjoy Leslie Mann and even approved of the sparkling backdrop in the shape of “Oscar” himself. Damon and Affleck are great fun together, I loved the flashback clips, enjoyed Sara Bareilles performance and, despite disliking child actors in general, I love that darn kid from “Lion.”

Sorry, Dakota...no chemistry between
you guys last night.

On the more unfortunate side, I didn’t understand a word Viola Davis said as she accepted her statuette, was frightened by the grizzled dishevelment of Jeff Bridges and was as embarrassed as Jamie Dornan appeared as he stood next to Dakota Johnson who looked absolutely horrible. As for Amy Adams alabaster boobies, it is said that this is the real way to communicate with aliens.

The tour bus routine, where a group of unsuspecting out-of-towners were surprised to find themselves front and center on national TV, didn’t quite work as a few seemed straight out of central casting and, for me, cast aspersions on the authenticity of the entire escapade. Halle Berry didn’t seem thrilled either. Notoriously driven to mayhem by paparazzi, perhaps she feared this was simply a ruse for a close-up of the haystack on her head and poor Jennifer Aniston was guilted into giving one of the “tourists” a pair of sunglasses that, no doubt, cost a fortune. Good work, Jimmy Kimmel!

Congrats, Mahershala!

As for the winners, I have loved Mahershala Ali since season one of “House of Cards” and admit I haven’t yet seen “Moonlight” but cannot imagine a better supporting performance than Lucas Hedges gave in “Manchester by the Sea.” I was also pleased to see Casey Affleck win the gold for best actor although Denzel, the heavy favorite, did not share my happiness.

"I was supposed to win, dammit!!"

But let’s get to the best part. Or the worst part. It all depends on which movie you’d worked on but it sure snapped me to attention as nothing has in 50 years of awards show viewing.

Warren Beatty back in "the day."

Let’s set the table, friends: Warren Beatty, no longer remotely resembling the sex machine of his youth and Faye Dunaway, one of Hollywood’s greatest beauties but currently resembling her own death mask, wobbled out together and proceeded to screw up everyone’s entire lives forever.

The mistake, apparently, was not theirs as it seems they’d been given a duplicate card from a previous award. I give Warren credit for forcing poor Faye to do the dirty work as he clearly suspected a problem but, as every man, woman and rescue puppy knows by now, they presented the most important and anticipated award of the evening to the wrong movie.

I bet Shirley MacLaine, even shorter than she’d been a mere half hour earlier, probably wishes she hadn’t waved so cheerfully to her brother,Warren from the audience.

As the La La Land-ers hugged and gushed at the microphone, confusion soon swept through the throng of back-slapping high-fivers as important looking men in headsets scurried out to check envelopes, paperwork and green cards...but panic and horror took over. This gave Jimmy Kimmel the best unscripted moment of the night as he blamed Steve Harvey -- himself a hapless survivor of a similar oopsie when he awarded the tiara to the wrong Miss Universe last year – for the entire debacle.

La La Land was very gracious to Moonlight as they ceded the spoils to the true victors and apparently everyone (except Adrien Brody who, by now, was chained down in the men’s room) took a turn to try and explain just what in the name of Mel Gibson’s glittering eyeballs had happened.

It was awful….but it made for great TV. Public graciousness aside, if I were Warren or Faye, I’d employ food tasters from now on.

All in all, it was the best Academy Awards in forever. No one knew what to expect and while that kept people edgy, it also worked. The whole night seemed, oddly, more relaxed. And, other than the terrible mistake at the end, the show was loose and well-paced.

Congratulations to all the winners, my condolences to whoever gave Warren and Faye the naughty card and happy catch-up to those of us who have yet to see most of the nominated movies. I, for one, await their arrival on Amazon Prime since I spent all my money on golem supplies.

Snarkiest Review Ever: The Grammys 2017

2017-02-13T16:03:00.001-05:00

Well, friends, I almost stopped watching the Grammys last night.

In fact, I actually turned off the TV right after Beyonce’s inexplicable, asinine, pretentious jumble of nonsense but I kept the DVR running and, after spending a few hours rolled into a little ball on the floor, turned it back on only to be so traumatized by a terrifying commercial for Adidas with images of people wearing the heads of dogs, that I shut it off again. After chasing down Tito the Cat for a soul-saving cuddle, I tried again...

After.

Before....

Mercifully, I don't remember much before Lady Bey took the stage but I know that if my mother had access to the Weekend (who won the night for most improved hair-do), she would have slapped his face for his lyrics. She would also have told Bruno Mars that if he really planned to have sex anywhere near a fire to be sure and take off that synthetic Garanimals outfit he was wearing because it appeared to be extremely flammable.

I'm pretty sure this very outfit was on sale in the children's department of Sear's last week.

Every year I announce the Grammys were the worst ever. While I’m not sure if yesterday’s were the worst, they were very, very weird---starting with the noted absence of Taylor Swift gyrating with closed eyes from the first row. Instead, they filled the audience with Jonases.

"We're everywhere...."

In what seemed like every camera shot aimed at the crowd, there appeared to be a member of the Jonas family staring back, each in various stages of five o'clock shadow. Are there really that many Jonases or were mirrors involved? How fast can they grow facial hair and, most importantly, weren’t the original three more than enough?

Thanks to the magic of my DVR, I was able to fast forward through Katy Perry’s partially pre-recorded production number which concluded against a backdrop of the preamble to the Constitution. Now that would have made James Madison and the co-authors of the greatest document ever written very proud, I'm sure. What was Katy's specific intent with that message, you may ask. Who knows...but I wonder if Katy voted in the last election or if, as usual, she spent her day making prank calls to John Mayer or trying to get Russell Brand's visa permanently revoked.

"I'm so sorry I swore....again.

My memory is definitely not what it once was but don’t I remember Adele stopping mid-song once before to swear in that adorable British way of hers and start again because she sounded terrible? Well, everyone’s favorite singing billboard for Spanx did it again last night after starting her tribute to George Michael in the worst possible way. Once she began again, the dirge-like rearrangement of one of his least memorable songs proved totally uninteresting. She did, however, wear her best dress of the night, which isn’t saying much. For the youngest among you, head on over to youtube and listen to "Careless Whisper." You're welcome.

Usually when I write an awards show review, if I’m unfamiliar with an artist I’ll do a little research but, this year, while I enjoyed the duet between Alicia Keys' hair and the woman who forgot to put on her pants, I am unmotivated to do any googling. Instead, I’ll dig out my old Duffy CD and listen to it again. While the primary difference between Alicia’s mystery partner and Duffy is that Duffy wore pants while performing, the two sound so similar that I fear they will suffer identical fates: the bargain bin at Walmart in about a week.

Off her game last night....

Laverne Cox was more drag queen-y than the gorgeous and dignified trans-gender actress I’ve enjoyed in the past and while the always magnificent James Hetfield’s mike didn’t work for half the song, Metallica’s performance with Lady Gaga perked up my night. In other highlights, Bruno Mars and that sweet little hairless face of his can do almost no wrong and, while I am sick of Prince worship, I enjoyed Bruno's rendition of my personal favorite from the pen of His Purpleness, “Let’s Go Crazy.” Another enjoyable performance was by the eternally funky Morris Day and “The Time” of Minneapoliswho did a nice job honoring their mentor.

Neil Diamond, enjoying a day pass from assisted living, participated in a faux car pool karaoke with the irrepressible (because he says so) James Corden who is reportedly locked in combat for the most self-aggrandizing behavior from a late night talk host with the coked-up (mark my words, America---you heard it here first) Jimmy Fallon. A group of A-listers was quickly assembled to sing Diamond's “Sweet Caroline" yet, despite its status as an established classic, everyone seemed to be looking at a monitor for the lyrics...except Blue Ivy who, in an attempt to escape the gravitational pull of her mother’s gleaming busoms, wandered into the shot.

Poor Celine Dion has had some very tough times lately. It appears grief has intensified her French Canadian accent as she presented an award to Adele decked out in yet another outfit whipped up from discontinued upholstery fabric. Soon after Celine left for diction class, Solange Knowles popped up. Heavily sedated at the direct request of her brother-in-law Jay-Z so she wouldn’t attack him a second time, I happily sniffed my Sharpie in solidarity and again, tried to avoid looking directly into the vortex of her sister Beyonce’s glowing cleavage.

Much of the remainder of the show is a blur, including the tribute to the Bee Gees. I seem to recall Barry Gibb looking confused amidst the sea of unshaven Jonases but, by now, I was also having trouble staying awake, so most of Chance the Rapper’s performance was lost although I think I saw Chef Anne Burrell from “Worst Cooks in America” in a glittering gown, belting out a gospel number.

The DVR stopped recording a few minutes before the end so I will never know what adorable shtick James Corden employed to further endear himself to the universe or if Jimmy Fallon rushed the stage and they tumbled away like Cato and the Pink Panther.

All I know for sure is I’m buying a Gary Clark Junior CD later today.

Time in a Bottle

2016-10-20T12:09:00.001-04:00

As I enjoyed a leisure moment with a crossword the other day, both a mug of coffee and a snoozing cat within reach, a clue in my puzzle -- “old time anesthetic” -- gave me a bit of a shock. The answer easily worked out to “ether” but I have terrible memories of ether, you see…and, most importantly, did all this make me “old-time ” too?

I’d recently seen a movie with Richard Widmark (first clue that I actually might be old---how many remember him?) made two years before I was born in which, portraying a troubled surgeon, he toiled in a dim operating room that had nothing plugged in.

There were no glowing monitors, screens or beeping machines anywhere in sight. Besides a patient on the table, there was a doctor with a scalpel and a nurse in high heels and a winged white cap. They might as well have been wearing animal skins; the doctor cutting open his patient with the jaw bone of a mastodon. Upon realizing that I’d entered the world just 24 months later, I was horrified. How did we survive without all the equipment that checks all the equipment that checks us? Was there even electricity in the delivery room?

Actual operating room from the 1950s.

And now, the Times’ Crossword Editor is smugly referring to something I vividly remember as “old.” What in the name of Marcus Welby (clue #2) is going on here??

I'm pretty sure this was my nurse.

Based on the then accepted medical trend of yanking tonsils willy nilly out of small children, my mother decided that, at the age of three, mine needed to go. And, while I cannot remember if I’ve eaten breakfast, I can actually tell you all about how I was blind folded, thrown into the trunk of a car and driven to a tonsillectomy mill somewhere in Brooklyn. Once there, I was terrorized by a staff of supposed medical personnel straight out of a Bette Davis (clue 3) movie once she got old and was relegated to playing lunatics who loved pushing invalids down flights of stairs.

Taken into a large room with nothing but a padded table in the center and placed upon it, it was from this vantage point I accessed my captors. Uncertain as how to handle this mystifying abandonment by a mother I’d entirely trusted until this very moment, I spotted the only other thing in the room---on the floor, in a corner, was a small, innately terrifying brown glass bottle with a rubber dropper cap. My strategy immediately became clear.

True story.

I morphed from a docile victim into a small feral animal intent upon escape. Leaping from the table, I ran from corner to corner eluding the doctor whose lower face was already obscured by a surgical mask but was soon caught and strapped down.

The scary bottle was uncapped and a washcloth was placed over my face into which was squeezed dropperfuls of what I later learned was the “old-time anesthetic” that now fit into the five spaces of seven across in my crossword puzzle. I soon blacked out but later awoke to find that my tonsils had been stolen. My mother later tried to appease me with unlimited ice cream but, inexplicably, never apologized for either the abduction or subsequent tonsil-snatching.

Don't be curious, George. Run!

As we all know from watching Grey’s Anatomy, medicine is no longer Richard Widmark and a nurse wearing a pointy bra (clue 4). It’s high tech and magical and anesthetic is no longer administered by a deranged hobo in need of a few bucks for his next bottle of rot gut.

The irony of my tonsil removal by sadists who, likely, had no medical degrees, is that as the only regenerative tissue in the body, if tonsils are not properly removed, they will grow back. And, guess what--mine did.

So, friends, when you come across that word in a crossword, think of a tiny Susan Says cowering in a corner and begging for mercy. You can send money for psychotherapy care of this newspaper.Thank you in advance.

*Okay, I wasn’t blindfolded and thrown into the trunk. Everything else in this memory is accurate.

Hello, I'm Marcus Welby!

Pennies From Heaven (Or, in this case, New Fairfield)

2016-09-30T11:56:00.002-04:00

Today's post is not going to be funny…or smart-assy…or nostalgic. This column is simply going to say thank you to a town full of friends and acquaintances and, in particular, a whole bunch of people I’ve never met. And it involves pennies…a lowly currency that has systematically been demoted by the government, dissed by the banks and relegated to little dishes next to the register in places of business.

I’ve always liked pennies.

Honest Abe has always been my favorite president and when I was first allowed to go the corner candy store for a treat, a Hershey Bar cost six cents. I’d usually slide six of my own pennies across the counter and feel like a vital part of the economy after the purchase. But, now, pennies are even more special to me.

Recently, during a disappointing visit to my local bank, I was told they could do nothing for me in my quest for the 2016 pennies I needed for the favor for Charlie’s wedding (Yes! My baby is getting married for those I haven’t yet buttonholed in Stop ‘n’ Chat and regaled with every possible detail).

I wanted 2016 pennies specifically because Charles and his lovely bride-to-be are getting hitched this year and I am hopelessly into “cute” right now: “Wouldn’t it be cute?” I thought. “Yes, it certainly would,” I answered myself, wondering how in the name of Pinterest, I might procure such a large number of 2016 pennies without the help of the US Mint?

Well, New Fairfield, as you always do – in big times and small -- you came through. Via Facebook and a page dedicated to all things local I have visited many times for advice, suggestions and the name of a good plumber (and other contractors), I put a request out into the universe and, New Fairfield, you answered with a veritable roar of enthusiasm and good nature. In other words, in a typical response for you.

I have seen you rally around the bereaved, displaced and ailing. I have seen you raise money and awareness for those in need, fill their fridges, rebuild their homes, actively seek lost pets and hail hometown heroes. I’ve seen you go out of your way to help, console and comfort and now I’ve seen you get involved with a small, happy little project that will neither change the world nor affect the lives of its citizens but made my life easier.

Your actions and willingness to lend a hand to a wacky small town columnist in pursuit of “cuteness” made my life, and by extension, the lives of my family better…and is it not true that if you change one life, you change the entire world?! Didn’t Maimonides, Gandhi or Martha Stewart say something like that?

For a solid week after going public, I received a steady flow of pennies in my mailbox…in paper bags and zip-locs, in plastic containers with tight lids and envelopes of every color. Most had notes of congratulation on the upcoming nuptials and expressions of happiness for my family. In addition, I also visited many mailboxes on several “penny-runs” to retrieve more of the same in the manner a bee collects pollen in any of the lovely gardens I passed along my way.

George Bailey had nothing on me because I was the star of my own “It’s a Wonderful Life” here in New Fairfield, Connecticut with all of you saving me again and again, not only helping with wedding favors but reminding me how great people are one bag of pennies at a time. As each penny clinked its way into my bowl, I have no doubt somewhere an angel got a new set of wings…over 300 times.

So, in essence, you did change the world for the better, New Fairfield. There is no such thing as a small favor…all favors are big and that, my friends, is a reflection of my immense gratitude and appreciation of you and this town and all that your goodness represents.

My family thanks you for the bright, shiny 2016 pennies I received. The favors are assembled and, after the wedding, I will share photos of them. Please be assured that without your generous spirit, I would be nothing more than a little smear of protoplasm on the carpet. So rock on, New Fairfield, Susan Says is a big fan of yours. XOXOXO

Have a listen....

Review of the 2016 Emmys: Breaking Up is Hard to Do

2016-09-19T15:22:00.004-04:00

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I murmured quietly to the Emmys as I attempted to break up with them last night. But, as the opening began -- with a interminable parody featuring Jimmy Kimmel of O.J. fleeing in the white Bronco, I inwardly sighed.

I knew this parting wouldn’t go well….after all, the Emmys and I have been together for decades.

I tried to convince myself that it might work out…that despite years of missing the chemistry that makes a relationship sizzle, this year might be different.

It was, however, exactly as I feared: a total romp for Mr. Kimmel, inane patter between presenters and wide angles of an audience who appeared to be suffering from some sort of ill-timed anesthesia.

And Jimmy was nasty.

I love nasty…but only when it’s funny, and Jimmy’s attempts fell with a thud into the laps of a disinterested audience.

Even his attempt to skewer Donald Trump by pushing a bit with with Mark Burnett didn’t work as he blamed the smiling super-producer of shows like "Survivor" and "The Celebrity Apprentice" for unleashing The Donald upon an unsuspecting America. Thud.

Interesting hair choices for both.

As the cameras searched for an animated soul among the congealing audience, one could espy John Travolta, with yet another incarnation of hair sutured to his scalp and his beard, er, I mean wife Kelly Preston, both of whom looked bored as hell. Maybe they actually all were hungry as Jimmy later proposed, so he handed out peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to the crowd which received the biggest reaction of the evening: people chewing.

Soon after, it was announced that Bill Cosby was about to take the stage. That woke up Tina Fey (and me) who swiveled her cleavage about a bit in her seat, eyes fully open for the first time all evening until Jimmy popped out, minus sandwiches, to announc that it wasn’t true. He just wanted to see how the audience would react. Thud.

The Susan Says' pick for the Best Moment of the 8-8:30 segment of the show: A commercial for the movie “Storks.”

Why, Mandy?

There were Asian jokes, Black jokes, Jewish jokes, more Donald Trump references (yet no one expressed support for Hillary) and the annual transgender love fest started by the ever-appealing Jeffrey Tambor as he received another Emmy for his performance in “Transparent.”

I found myself paying more attention to the antics of Tito the Cat rather than focusing on all this but perked up when Mandy Moore took the stage wearing unfortunate make-up and a lampshade from Frederick’s of Hollywood instead of a dress.

Susan Says Pick for Best Moment of the 8:30-9:00 segment: Julia Louis Dreyfus’ genuine emotion as she acknowledged the recent passing of her father during her acceptance of an Emmy for her performance in “Veep.”

....just no.

No.....

Soon, the hilarious but slightly scary Leslie Jones missed the comedic mark with her usual brash shtick and Kerry Washington also missed something---the hair stylist’s chair as she presented an Emmy with Scandal’s President Fitzgerald Grant, who seems like a viable alternative for the oval office in view of our actual choices.

Sarah Paulson’s new eyebrows gave me a good fright but I pardoned her when she used the word “alchemy” in her acceptance speech.

Yes...

Susan Says' Pick for Best Moment in the 9:00-9:30 segment: There is a four way tie between Regina King’s beautiful mother smiling at her daughter from the audience, Priyanka Chopra’s sensational matte-red pout,Tom Hiddleston just for being Tom Hiddleston and Terence Howard’s fabulous plaid tuxedo jacket.

and yes.

Awful.

Odd.

Tina Fey, still smarting after being faked out about Bill Cosby soon took the stage. with a newly brunette Amy Pohler, glued to her as always. Amy wore a green tablecloth from Home Goods while later, Keri Rustle appeared draped in several yards of paper she’d ripped from one of those rolls that covers the exam table in a doctor’s office.

Susan Says’ Pick for Best Moment of the 9:30-10:00 segment: Jon Snow. No need to say another word.

In the absence of substantial content, we now jump to…

Susan Says’ Pick for Best Moment of the 10:00-10:30 segment: There is another tie—Margo Martindale’s sensible shoes peeking out from the hem of her gown and Minnie Driver’s pronunciation of the word “bastards.”

Tito the Cat and I were getting a little excited now. He, because he knew that once the show was done, I’d haul myself into the kitchen to give him and his pals their evening treat of Nine Lives and an insulin shot and me, well, I was looking forward to watching the local weather which would be scads more fun than this.

Daenarys' is Seth's freebie.

As the 2016 Emmys wound down, there were some speeches from the “Game of Thrones” crowd during which a sleep-addled Seth stumbled down to mutter something about wishing he could take a ride on the back of a dragon…or was it a ride on Emily Clarke? I’m not sure. I just wondered why Peter Dinklage hadn’t taken a shower for the occasion.

Susan Says’ Pick for Best Moment of the 10:30-11:00 Segment: Jimmy Kimmel, now in a white dinner jacket, saying goodnight.

In hindsight, it might not be “It’s me, not you.” It might be “Well, it kind of was you.” But award shows are like childbirth, you forget from one year to the next how painful they are…so, see you next year, I’m sure.

"Don't wake me until the Emmys are over, please."

I Remember Mama

2016-09-19T09:14:00.001-04:00

As I write this, my mother would have been 85 today. Her late September birthday would herald the cooler days she looked forward to after an un-airconditioned summer in the city. We’d celebrate surviving July and August along with her birthday as I was growing up.

Birthdays were simple and gifts were modest but if I had provided her with the kind of festivities she deserved, there would have been a marching band, thousands of balloons restrained in nets until the exciting moment of release and a call from the president.

My mother was born in the house I grew up in, in Brooklyn. One would never have guessed that her first language wasn’t English because she spoke it better than most.

She loved words and was an amazing writer who wrote fairy tales, poetry, short stories and letters that were so entertaining that no one lucky enough to receive one, ever threw it away. She was also a gifted artist whose drawings and paintings hang on my walls. Come over and I’ll show them to you.

She attended the Arts Student’s League in Manhattan and won an award, presented by Fiorello LaGuardia, for designing a coat that was produced and sold in Macy’s. When I was growing up, every single morning for about ten years, there would be a new, freshly drawn cartoon scotch-taped to the mirror in the bathroom. It was a running comic strip starring our cats and I began every single day with laughter.

I have them all in a book now and when I need to, I bring it out and laugh and cry for a while.

She was a single mother way before it was the norm and, until the fifth grade, I was the only child in school whose parents were divorced.

We moved back to the house where my grandparents, aunts and uncle lived and I was treated like a princess by everyone within its’ sheltering walls. My mother saw to it that I wanted for nothing. It was a struggle for her but I was so busy being bounced from knee to knee that I didn’t notice.

Things, then, were repaired not tossed out once they broke, frayed or faded and she covered my books in paper supermarket sacks and made sure I used both sides of my notebook’s pages. She also made her own patterns and sewed my clothes. I would have been the best-dressed girl in Queen Victoria’s England.

The things she made were fabulous but insanely out-of-style and once I was old enough to realize this, I was pretty conflicted.

She came to her senses in time for my adolescence, thank God. I got my first job then and have paid for my own clothes ever since.

Money was tight but books, records and an occasional trip to Broadway (we paid $4 for a mezzanine seat) were always squeezed into the budget. By the time I was a teen, I’d seen Zero Mostel in Fiddler on the Roof, the original cast of Man of La Mancha and had enjoyed my share of ballets and concerts.

We’d always eat a pretzel from a cart on the street afterward or stop into a cafeteria on Broadway called Hector’s which is long gone but upon whose smooth railings I would slide my tray, still humming the music from the show. Rice pudding, served in a fluted dish, would always round out a meal there.

She’d take me to film festivals at the Regency Theater on the West Side and we’d walk for miles, taking the subway back to Brooklyn with aching feet and a grand feeling of accomplishment.

She was very mischevious. When I was old enough to know better, she convinced me that plumbers used “plumber’s monkeys” that had been trained to do simple tasks and go into small spaces and I believed this until very recently.

She and I would laugh at everything, our sides aching and I never so much as stepped out for a carton of milk at the corner without kissing her goodbye. I would then kiss her hello, upon my return, five minutes later.

Was she perfect? Although I thought so when I was little, of course not. Did we fight? Like mad dogs let out of the pound. Did I rail against her restrictions when I was a teen, convinced that she was the most old-fashioned fuddy duddy on the face of the earth? You bet. Do I miss her every single day? You know I do. Happy birthday, Ma. See you in the funny papers.

Even though she's not smiling, this is one of my favorite pictures of my mother.

Tropical Dreams

2016-08-05T14:09:00.005-04:00

We’ve had some seriously warm temperatures and high humidity around these parts lately. In fact, the weather has felt downright tropical.

Recently, as a result of the sultry nights where my curtains have not stirred and the frogs out back were busily singing the song of their people in the most lusty of tones, I had a series of disturbing dreams.

About two weeks ago, I dreamed there was a large crowd gathered in a huge hall which appeared to be festooned in patriotic colors. It was full of people, some angry, some jubilant and many wearing foolish contraptions on their heads. These people didn’t appear to be cowboys yet were wearing their hats while others wore headgear resembling an elephant but this was neither a safari nor a rally to protect endangered species.

The very next week, I had another dream. Again, many people in various stages of emotion were gathered in a large space and they, too, wore silly things upon their heads. This time, the hats resembled donkeys but many wore little green Robin Hood caps, too. Odd, I thought, as I wondered if, like that storied denizen of Sherwood Forest, they advocated stealing from the rich and giving to the poor.

Claime to fame: Starring role on hit TV show

Claim to fame: His father invented
a duck whistle

In my dream, these gatherings had more in common than not. There were many idiots who received a turn to speak but, as the tropically induced images unfolded, they possessed nothing but the spectral illusion of minor celebrity. Yet, in both dreams, there were other speakers who made valid, authentic and even emotionally wrenching pleas to follow one way or the other and each group presented a balance of pathos and rage, stupidity and inanity.

Troubled, I struggled to wake as I do when I realize I’m having a bad dream. Seth tells me that, in my sleep, I mumbled things about a “third party,” but he just thought I was dreaming I was at a party and let me sleep on.

Both dreams hosted a large percentage of prominent speakers who appeared to have benefited from the privilege of good orthodontics. Was this a dental convention, I wondered but soon understood that these dreams were actually about leadership. As the discord levels in the large gathering spots swelled and ebbed, my sleep grew more restless.

"How big of an ass am I? This much!"

"Well, duh. I'm loaded.

Soon the leaders’ spouses took the stage. One appeared to be some sort of trophy wife qualified to speak by a great ass and good make-up while the other was, apparently, a former leader beset by scandal both sexual and financial who through hollow charm has managed to keep himself in the public eye.

Later, in both dreams, each aspiring leader was introduced….one by a well-spoken, life-size Barbie Doll, the other by a spooky robot .

Spooky vs. Barbie

I continued the battle to wake but, instead, remained mired in what was now a full blown nightmare as each leader emerged.

One had beady eyes and a head of hair that defied the imagination of even the most phantasmic hairdresser. It was more like the floating gables of the Sydney Opera House than hair, more like a tumbleweed caught in a bramble, unable to continue its journey back to the desert.

The second aspiring leader wore all white. Was she a virgin, a bride, an orderly in an asylum? Or, was she the leader of a terrifying cult? Was that a leftover speck of soylent green from lunch on her otherwise pristine vestments? As both leaders spoke, they alternately covered doom and redemption or sharing and caring.

Both did a lot of pointing into the audience to imaginary friends as they attempted to connect with their be-hatted public but, to me, they were both scary, both equally full of testosterone and both pretty lousy speakers.

The two nightmares ended on a good note: more balloons than I have ever seen in one place, cascading from some hidden cache and -- since this was a dream – inflated by magic as opposed to what, in reality, would have been thousands of balloon filling minions who later died from both exhaustion and helium toxicity. In my sleep, Seth says I reached out, accidentally hitting him in the head as I flailed but I was simply batting balloons about, enjoying the one truly uplifting moment in each dream.

I hope, as the summer turns to fall and the weather cools, the fresh air will foster better dreams than those I experienced in July.

Mr. Magoo and the Manhole

2016-07-20T11:48:00.002-04:00

Watch out, for the love of God,
watch out, Mr. Magoo!!

Lately, I’ve been worried that I’m losing my sense of humor.

Having once been able to find the funny in just about anything, the constant stream of disasters has left me numb.

Full disclosure before we go any further: I was the kid who fretted horribly that Mr. Magoo would fall down a manhole, agonized over Herman Munster’s obliviousness to his social impediments and worried the castaways on Gilligan’s Island would never be rescued. However, I could also laugh at the hapless Nazis of Hogan’s Heroes and chuckled happily when Curly and Moe engaged in their sado-masochistic hijinks.

As a result of this schizophrenic approach to both TV and life, I developed into a hybrid--filling my emotional tank with the high octane of both joy and sorrow.

Recent events have altered me. Anxious about terrorism, travel, politics and social unrest (to name but a few), I am less inclined to mine the depths of life’s pathos in search of mirth.

You can say that again, Sebastian.

I found myself in a low place the other day. The news was very bad---again. But the television gods were with me as, clicking away from CNN, I stumbled upon a movie so reliably sweet that only the most lost among us could not be coaxed into the light by its good nature.

“You’ve Got Mail,” starring Tom Hanks, the Jimmy Stewart of my generation and Meg Ryan in pre-cosmetic surgical radiance, was put there just for me…and a million others who needed a boost.

This perfect example of the “rom-com” formula: conflict that, over the course of snappy dialogue and bewitching scenes of New York City at its best, blooms into true love, was just what the doctor ordered.

Settling back, I pushed the darkness aside with the intention of losing myself in this classic scenario but, almost immediately, started to worry that -- these days -- a bomb might go off while Tom Hanks enjoyed a busy street fair. Later, during scenes in a bustling store, I remembered how uncomfortable I now feel in crowds. Would Meg and Tom drop to the floor if disaster struck or hide behind that display of high-end cookware? Did they even know where the closest exit was?

I then realized just how deeply mired I’ve become in anxiety.

I know many of you feel it, too so I began to stew over the encroaching national, if not global, sense of angst and its destructive effects until, abruptly, I’d had enough of all the darn gloom.

So, with a broad stroke, I pushed the goblins from my shoulder straight to the ground. Focusing on the movie with new eyes, I noticed that,in high def, Meg’s skin was not as flawless as originally observed. Immediately, I felt better. Next, a line of dialogue mentioning the need to move to Brooklyn because the rents were cheaper made me laugh out loud---albeit bitterly, but it was a start.

Huzzah--no where to be found!!!

Soon, I enjoyed the catharsis of a good cry thanks to a poignant moment and we all know how closely related tears are to laughter, yes?

Ultimately, I relied on my go-to standard for feeling happy: Is Adrian Brody anywhere in this movie? If the answer is no, you have reason to celebrate. He is not, I repeat not, to be found anywhere in “You’ve Got Mail.”

Do you really think Hanks is
the new me? I'm skeptical.

Soon, I was feeling better. I suddenly noticed how well my most recent pedicure has held up. The flowers on the deck were looking great. We’d recently had a lovely time with friends. I’d soon be visiting the kids…it had just rained and the air smelled fresh…the sun was shining and -- come on, you know where this is heading – I am still here to see it all.

Don’t worry, I promise not to ask you to start a gratitude journal but I would like to leave you, dear readers, with a sense of hope that we all can share. Good things happen, too. More people are good than bad and, most of the time, Mr. Magoo manages to steer clear of the manhole.

Though we will all continue to be tested in a variety of ways, the sun will come out…if not tomorrow, the day after. Rent “You’ve Got Mail” from Netflix…I hate spoilers but, not for nothing, it has a happy ending.

Why, Meg? WHY????

Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend

2016-05-31T15:27:00.001-04:00

Did you know that baseball has a smell?

It doesn’t smell of one particular thing. It’s not just sweat, pine tar or unwashed uniforms. If Glade created a room freshener called “Opening Day,” you’d need essence of a well-worn mitt, old cleats encrusted with infield clay and the leathery aroma of the ball, itself.

I’d buy cans of it and spray it all over the house.

The smell of baseball makes me remember a brownstone in Brooklyn, packed to the gills with baseball-nutty immigrants who grew to love (and become slightly obsessed with) the most American of pastimes.

It will be no surprise to learn that my family loved the Dodgers, named -- legend has it -- due to the fancy footwork necessary to “dodge” getting flattened by a trolley car in the busy borough we called home. But that was a bit before my time.

I was raised on the New York Mets.

My grandpa and uncle, often joined by my mother, grandma and a constant stream of aunts and cousins, spent hours watching them and cursing them but, really, loving them in front of one of the first color TVs in the neighborhood. Housed in its own huge veneer cabinet -- complete with doily and candy dish filled with colorful, cellophane wrapped sour balls -- the lure of that green field and the blue sky above it, showcased on that convex screen, soon sang its siren song.

How I loved these guys--each so different but
so good!

It was from my very own spot on the carpet in front of the men in their easy chairs that I learned the rules, came to recognize the varied styles of the commentators, and, most significantly, connected baseball to an unequaled sensation of safety.

Yes, Ump. I was safe.

Cocooned in a space where nothing could harm me more than the tickle of the popcorn my uncle might toss and then pretend he hadn’t, I spent many happy hours and, soon, I, too, genuinely loved the game.

And, specifically, I loved the aspect of baseball that many people criticize--the length and pace of those nine long innings. A baseball game has no time limit---it takes however long it damn well takes.

Accept it, people.

But baseball isn’t slow, it’s measured. It doesn’t drag, it’s nuanced.

You said it, George.

Bursting with the constant possibility of excitement, we delighted in the suspense of an apparently lazy inning only to be catapulted from our languor by the sudden drama of a great play or thrilling hit.

Even Chewie plays.

Those moments, however rewarding, are second to the epic arguments about the faults, foibles and strengths of the players…the bonding over hatred of the umps (based on their most recent call)…and plotting Draconian revenge for heinous trades (Tom Seaver in 1977 is the perfect example. I still haven’t recovered). We fretted over injuries, memorized stats and, simply put, united over true affection for a home team

Play-offs and pennants were icing on the cake (or should I say “field”) but when the Mets won their first world series in 1969, it changed our lives in an almost biblical sense. David defeated Goliath that year and the following season I began to nag my mother to take me (I was eleven) on the two hour subway ride to Shea Stadium.

My first time there was so memorable that I remember exactly what I was wearing, that I stood on the final leg of the trip so to fully experience the elevated Number 7 swing into the curve of the holy ground of Flushing, New York and that we sat* next to a cheerful man who, when he bought his family ice cream, bought some for us, too.

I defy any artist to mix a more beautiful shade of green than the sunlit emerald of the outfield. Revealed after winding through Shea’s concrete tunnels, perfumed by the pungency of absorbing years of spilled beer and wafting smoke from grilled Italian sausage, I remember gasping as I stepped forth on that first visit and, blinking in the sunshine, saw it in person for the first time.

Shea. I shall miss you forever.

I agree, Yogi.

Aware that my passion for the game is flagging (it's not so much fun watching alone), Tom and Charlie have encouraged me to rediscover my interest so, I’ve begun watching again. The ghosts of my grandpa and uncle stop by occasionally but, mostly, I’m by myself--eager to email the kids afterward about that great play, hit, save or infuriating error.

Can I recreate the magic of my youth? It’s doubtful but, surely, there is more magic to be made.

I still love it. And it must love me back because baseball still makes me feel good. Despite all its changes and new faces, a home run is still exciting, the umps are still blind and the grass is still that crazy green.

I can still smell it. Let’s see what the season holds…..

*For you Shea fanatics, we sat in the green seats on that first visit but in the sunshine, not under the dreaded over-hang.

Put him him the Hall of Fame!!!!!

Nothing Says "I Love Mom" Like a Pink Baseball Bat

2016-05-17T16:08:00.002-04:00

This is just.....

Last week, after a perfectly lovely Mother’s Day, Seth wondered aloud as to where the boys will “take him” for his Father’s Day weekend. “Las Vegas?” he mused. “Although I hear Nashville and Miami are very nice, too!”

....stupid.

It appears that Seth was under the delusion, after having been exposed to the hoopla and huzzahs that Mother’s Day has become, that he is entitled to an extravaganza, as well---specifically, a "bachelor" type party complete with strippers, drunken tattooing and other shenanagins.

Once I was able to convince him that this is not the case for Father’s Day (including that his days of strippers and shenanagins are now strictly visible only in his rear view mirror) and deal with the pouting and comfort eating that followed, I had to agree that Seth’s perceptions about Mother’s Day are correct.

A sweet little holiday has blown up into something unrecognizable from not only my youth where mom got a homemade card and a hug but even my years as a young mama where the card and hug rule still applied.

Our immersion in social media is greatly to blame, wouldn’t you agree?

Can you spare a few
wire hangers? I'm running low.

Several days before the second Sunday in May, many of us start searching the archives for adorable photos of ourselves with our mothers and we slap them up on Facebook, plastering our “walls” with cute sayings and art that has been created for this purpose alone.

I noticed that almost all of my friends’ kids were also changing their profile pictures to include their mothers and I spent the week in a cold sweat---would my sons do this?

My boys, who, for the most part, seem to like me just fine, are notoriously removed from most seasonal dictates and the corresponding social media mayhem. No, I reasoned….they would not.

I would be humiliated.

Come see, Woody! He looks just
like Frank Sinatra!

So I started my campaign: dropping hints, emailing them irresistible photos of us smiling into the camera—hoping they would choose to pin our private affection to the public busom of Facebook like those giant bubble gum corsages from many decades ago--penny Bazookas sewn together with a ribbon and worn for a special day. Well, hell, didn’t I always want one of those when I was little?

People will think those ingrates don’t love me, I privately lamented as more and more Facebook tributes popped up until finally, they did it (boys, I’ll put the checks in the mail later today). Whew!

See, world---they love me, they really do!

There are brunches and lunches with photo ops and exhausted florists making deliveries for 48 hours straight as they bunch posies, wrap raffia and exchange quizzical looks when faced with transcribing cards where one brother, who shall remain unnamed, horribly insults the other brother in the card of his own mother’s bouquet…just before signing it “Love, Charlie.”

The stores promote countless sales. Restaurants offer Mom free sundaes. News anchors smugly remind us again and again not to dare and forget the momentous day. Even professional baseball players are forced to wear pink cleats and helmets and hit with pink bats in honor of Mom. There was enough bright pink on the field last week when the Mets played, to confuse any self-respecting flamingo enjoying a Mother’s Day Mimosa in the stands.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved it. I ate it up like the attention whore I’ve always been (thanks, Mom).

Posting photos, opening cards, smiling at my reflection in the mylar of my balloons and fielding phone calls, I was Eve in the Garden of Eden on the very first Mother’s Day.

She, too, wondered if her boys would remember and it actually did get a little dicey since this was before Al Gore invented the internet. But Eve’s kids managed to mail their cards on time and everything was just fine until all that unpleasantness began with the apples and the snakes.

I'm very worried the kids will forget it's Mother's Day! After all,
it's the first one!!

"Oh, Joffrey...come give mama a big hug."

My son, Tom, was home for Mother’s Day and we followed a drinking game’s rules while binge-watching Game of Thrones. Instead of tossing back a shot, Tom had to hug me whenever someone was disemboweled, mutilated or suffered a hideous amputation in a sword fight. This made for lots of hugging so mama was happy.

Father’s Day simply hasn’t achieved the status of Mother’s Day. Oops, too bad. I take good care of Seth every day so if he wants an extra slice of cheese in his sandwich on June 19, I’ll see what I can do. Where he got this idea about a weekend of craziness in a penthouse suite in Vegas, I don’t know but if he calls you to organize it, please just hang up.

As for “Susan Says,” she enjoyed her day greatly. I hope all you lovely mothers reading this did, too.

A philosophy I have tried to live by.

Shock and Awe: A Review of The 2016 Grammy Awards

2016-02-16T14:38:00.003-05:00

Every year around this time, I get a little freaked out.

The world seems more worrisome, my anxieties become magnified and thoughts of digging a bunker in the backyard start to make a lot of sense.

I used to think it was a brush with the seasonal mood disorders linked to extended northeastern winters but I've been wondering lately if it might be more about the aggravating banality of “award season” than lack of sunshine.

And, last night, the Grammys did nothing to change my mind…or my mood

For me, they started out on a very weird note.

C'mon, show us those choppers....

Many of you are aware of my desire to punch Taylor Swift right in the face. Yet, when she pranced out like a glittering praying mantis, I felt unexpected waves of benevolence and appreciation.

After considerable soul-searching as well as reading through the entire mental disorders section of Merck’s Manual, I deduced that the cause of this anomaly was a result of the world’s current confluence of woes and terrors. Taylor Swift – even in a cat suit and blindingly white new dental veneers, -- is preferable to ISIS.

Looks great but, in fact,
needs a sandwich.

That’s quite a compliment coming from me.

Mr. Weekend

In fact, the night was full of oddities---a new, skinnier Adele, a downright emaciated Sam Smith, Ice Cube’s son who narrowed his eyes and held up a hand covered with giant rings as if people might care what he spends his allowance on, a successful Jewish rapper (Drake), a song I thought I didn’t like (“Girl Crush”) but, literally, cannot stop singing this morning, Johnny Depp playing the guitar, a man named “Weekend” whose hair is obviously a result of prolonged exposure to radiation and my new friend, Taylor Swift’s demented behavior when someone beat her out for a Grammy. To appear that unhinged by joy when you lose an award is clearly an attempt to channel homicidal energy away from an actual shooting or stabbing. She hugs and emotes instead of killing.

I feel you, Tay-Tay, I really do.

Hey, those are MY
eyebrows!

I was bored and fidgety early in the night. I was also worried that I might be aging out of the ability to enjoy what was unfolding before me…or that I no longer even cared. Therefore, I was relieved to feel reassuring stirrings of wrath and/or disgust at the appearance of Ariana Grande, that pastry licking twerp named for a Starbucks menu item, Demi Lovato, wearing Emily Blunt’s eyebrows and showing lots of under-boob, Robin Thicke and his pompadour both of whom don’t seem to grasp that they are yesterday’s donuts as well as affection and concern for poor Stevie Wonder who proved yet again that whoever dresses him, hates his guts.

Come and get'em, bitch.

The performance by the Eagles made me sad. Grieving and somber, their substitution of Jackson Brown for Glen Frey made sense but Frey was the irreplaceable heart of this band. Their signature harmonies are gone forever and they looked very aware of this last night with the terminally cranky Don Henley appearing even more annoyed than ever. I hope they all invested their money wisely because it’s over, boys. Thank God for royalties.

"What is happening to me????

Adele seemed to be having her issues, too. Wearing a mother-of the groom dress right off the rack from Nordstrom's, was it awful lighting, a bad sound system or was she actually completely off-key?

I’d been looking forward to her performance all evening. Who wasn’t? But, apparently aware that something was amiss, she seemed increasingly desperate as the song – a luscious number co-written by my beloved Bruno Mars – went on, raising her volume in hope of finding her groove. It was not to be found but if anyone can rest on her laurels, it is she.

I remained hopeful that there would be a memorable “Grammy moment” but my hope waned as “the tributes” began.

No. Just no.

A messy and joyless tribute to the career of Lionel Ritchie was first, followed by Lady Gaga’s extended seizure in homage to David Bowie. Gaga clearly did not understand Bowie because her antics were more of a Pee Wee Herman skit gone horribly wrong than a tribute. But, lest we forget, Gaga is in her twenties --too young to have truly experienced Bowie and his various musical incarnations. No cram session of Bowie videos can give even the talented Lady G a feel for what and who he was.

Tribute Number Three almost saved the show for me. Bonnie Raitt, still a total bad ass at the age of 66 with that streak in her hair and that guitar slung across her skinny hips, the awesome Gary Clark Jr. and the rasp of Chris Stapleton did the late, great BB King proud with their rendition of “The Thrill is Gone.” Now that was a tribute---three talented people, singing and playing as if the music might actually matter more than wardrobe and pyrotechnics.

As for Justin Bieber, his performance was a last ditch effort, suggested by his pediatrician, to get his testicles to totally descend. He strutted and and leaped about but it is reported today that, alas, they are still in hiding.

"Not tonight, Mommy. Not tonight."

A highlight of the evening was the live-from-stage performance of the opening number of the new Broadway musical "Hamilton." A hip hop version of the life of Alexander Hamilton, it's a fresh and entertaining take on the life of one of our founding fathers as well as a potential way to interest today's students in a fascinating chapter of history. I hope to see it one day but tickets are both sold out for decades and unaffordable.

Sofia and Pit Bull.

The show wound down with the resurrection of Alice Cooper, the appearance of an aloof Beyonce who, I fear, is starting to believe all her press and a cheerful performance by Pit Bull, joined onstage by the magnificent Sofia Vergara.

Sofia is, once again, getting criticized for flaunting her sexuality. These critics are people who do not have an ass like hers yet wish they did. If I had that tushie, I’d wear the gold spangled number she had on and shake it at the supermarket every day in every aisle. Twice.

I will conclude as I began…with Taylor Swift.

After winning the Grammy for album of the year, she delivered an articulate acceptance speech that I have to assume was aimed right at the empty spot in Kanye West’s chest where his heart should be.

Acceptus Interruptus.

That lunatic has claimed, in song lyrics on a recent album, that “he made that bitch famous”, referring to his interruption of her acceptance of a Grammy in 2009. Taylor took defiant ownership of her fame last night with a withering statement meant for Kanye to which I add the suggestion that he shut up and go home to his den of fame whores…..and remember, Kanye, no one calls Taylor a bitch but me.

Stevie, if you could see this, you would not be laughing.

Kate Winslet Wants to Kill Me

2015-11-17T12:19:00.000-05:00

911 Operator: “911, what’s your emergency?”

Susan Says: “Kate Winslet wants to kill me. Please hurry.”

911 Operator: “Kate Winslet? Isn’t she the one who got naked in Titanic?”

Susan Says: “That’s the one.”

911 Operator: “Is she there now?”

Susan Says: “She sure is.”

911 Operator: “Does she have a weapon?”

Susan Says: “No but she’s really frowning….and her eyes are dead. It’s like something out of

Zombie Apocalypse.”

911 Operator: “Oh my God. So she’s in your home?”

Susan Says: “Well, actually, she’s in a fashion spread in Saturday’s Wall Street Journal Magazine.”

911 Operator: “So, she’s not actually there?!”

Susan Says: “No, but I’m very scared. Remember, she let Leonardo DiCaprio slide off into the ocean after promising she’d never let go.”

911 Operator: “Lady, that was a movie. It was very upsetting, though.”

Susan Says: “Well, now she’s looking really mean and wearing awful clothes and I’m scared.”

911 Operator: “Ma’am, this number is for emergencies. I am going to end this call.”

Susan Says: “Please don’t. I’m also scared of the rest of the models in this issue. They’re all emaciated and look like zombies, too. Why do they think this kind of thing will sell clothes??”

911 Operator: “To be honest, ma’am, I don’t understand that myself. You’d think a smile and a little flesh on their bones would be more enticing.”

Susan Says: “I know! Now do you understand why I’m scared?”

911 Operator: “Yes, but I am not sending the police. Why don’t you have a nice snack. You’ll feel better.”

Susan Says: “I’ll tell you why! In another section of the same paper, they’re carrying on about this amazing new chef but he’s only making herring roe on kelp with charred dandelions!”

911 Operator: “God, no! That must have scared you more than Kate Winslet’s dead eyes.”

Susan Says: “It sure did. I just want some onion rings.”

911 Operator: “Me, too, ma’am. Me, too.”

Susan Says: “Well, thanks for talking. I guess I can just recycle the paper and put Kate Winslet face down.”

911 Operator: “You do that, ma’am. And please, next time only call 911 in case of an emergency.”

Susan Says: “Okay. Sorry.”

911 Operator: “That’s alright, ma’am. Enjoy your onion rings.”

What the Leaves Want You to Know

2015-10-27T11:40:00.000-04:00

Whatever you may be doing right now, stop it immediately.

Grab the sweater on the back of your chair or the hoodie from the weird pile of stuff near the door and head outside and turn slowly until you have covered a full 360. Now, remind yourself that life is still beautiful. The autumn leaves are here this year to remind you of that.

I’ve had the pleasure of living in my little town here in Connecticut for 21 years and have never seen a display of gorgeous color like this---the reds are flaming, the coppers virtually aglow and the yellows, oranges and golds are varied and burnished. Peer through them to that special shade of sky I call “October Periwinkle” or even a brooding grey wash of clouds and you have something to remind you of the indefinable majesty of life.

It’s something bigger and wider and kinder than the media’s crass agenda, the stupidity promoted on TV or the fact that Hannah Montana has become Miley Cyrus in all her ridiculous and sad vulgarity.

It is said that in a dry year, the trees perform some natural magic that helps preserve the moisture in their roots and that a fortunate by-product of this process is brighter than normal foliage. We’ve had a significant rain deficit so this all makes sense.

I prefer to interpret what’s out there—a display that’s caused people to, literally, pop from their cars and clamber up on rocks to snap photos they will email to friends who live in parts of the world where leaves simply do not do this – as a reminder that, no matter what, good things happen, too.

I’m not suggesting we ignore reality. How can we? We are plugged in all the time. In restaurants, nail salons and at gas pumps the unsettling ubiquity of cable news fills our hearts with utter dread. Personally, it wears me down, creating a perpetual sense of personal unease.

TV screens used to be in bars so sports fans didn’t have to miss a play but now they’re everywhere. Just the other day, while getting my hair cut, every head in the salon was turned to the TV as an awful scene right here in Connecticut was unfolding before our eyes. Thankfully, it was a false alarm but it scared every single one of us in there. Yet, despite the fears these ever-present screens create, we are also becoming somewhat anesthetized to the horror. None of that is good.

We, the comparatively fortunate few of Fairfield County here in southern New England -- though we occupy a world of madness and are certainly not untouched by the daily pain of the world -- can monitor it on our high def televisions and fancy phones behind artfully placed hay bales, mums and pumpkins that adorn our front steps every fall. We are certainly blessed to live where we do yet we all know too well what life is about.

But forget it for a moment and run and look into each other’s eyes and swoon together over the graceful tufted grasses, crimson sugar maples, golden sycamores and rusty sedums that are right outside our doors.

Stop for just a second as you emerge from your office, garage door or before you board your little tractor for a final mow and let this natural antidote lift your hearts and make you feel that life is wondrous. In a world where colors like this can appear on trees, briefly forget the fresh daily hell that the default page on your browser is serving you and breathe. You may need a Zyrtec afterward but it will have been worth it.

No, Susan Says has not become an optimist. Don’t worry, I am still the paranoid, hypersensitive and often gloomy wreck who won’t get on an airplane without having eaten a Xanax sandwich washed down with a slug of tequila. But, this year, the autumn leaves reminded me of the day when I wasn’t quite this crazy, worried or nutso.

Go take a look before they’re gone. And smile, because life can be beautiful, too.

All photos in this post were taken here in town by either me or Seth "Ansel Adams" Szold.

The Time Tunnel

2015-09-23T14:05:00.000-04:00

I first joined Facebook for one reason and one reason alone: to stalk my children.

In fact, I was so determined to participate in intrusive subterfuge that I signed up under a fake name but my son Tom sniffed it out and warned Charlie that I was up to no good. It took years to regain their trust but now I wrestle with myself constantly to obey proper mother/son social media protocol.

Facebook is a wonderful tool for people of my generation.

Buzzy channeling Donald Trump

We do not bully, use it for shaming or the exchange of gossip but, instead, are able remain in touch with distant friends and relatives. I get to meet someone’s new grandchild, enjoy photos from a wedding, check in with wonderful people from my youth and, obviously, spread pictures of Buzzy in a Zappos’s box throughout the universe.

Recently, Facebook facilitated a reunion between me and some old friends. Driving back to the old neighborhood, I enjoyed spending time with former public school classmates

Friends since kindergarten: Louise, Susan, Terri and Stephanie

We were there to see
the world famous Ramin Karimloo.
What? You haven't heard of him?

A few weeks later, I reconnected with another friend and playmate from the past for dinner at a club in Manhattan where someone we both enjoy was performing. How grow-up is that??

Seeing Lisa again was, to say the least, wonderful. Admittedly, many decades of no contact and the process of developing into fully-formed humans with new habits and routines can make reconnection a bit of a challenge but chemistry is chemistry and after accepting the fact that while the bags under my eyes were carrying suitcases of their own and Lisa looked young enough to be my daughter, I had a great time.

We did plenty of reminiscing but also learned about who we’ve each become over the years.

P.S. 103...where it all began.

The strange part for me -- besides the dozen or so disheveled Elmos and seedy Disney princesses I had to body check in Times Square -- was that when I was with Lisa, I was a girl again. On some subconscious level, the clock had been reset and the Elmos were gone but Tony Manero still walked the streets of Brooklyn and my mother was waiting for me at home, eager to hear about my evening.

At the BB King Blues Club on Forty Second Street, you are herded in like cattle and seated with strangers so our table consisted of several young women in halters, heels and very short skirts.

Flouncy and jouncy, they tossed their earrings and flipped their hair and leaned forward to whisper as their eyes took in their surroundings with the cool scrutiny of secret service agents looking for a potential assassin. And they scared me….just as they would have 40 years ago.

Today, if necessary, I could have easily withered them with the caustic bitterness achieved by decades of cynical thinking or, if I chose, I could mother them in case of an emergency. But, sitting with Lisa, I worried, “Oh, no. Mean girls!! I hope they’re not mean to me.

James Darren.....swoon. "The Time Tunnel"
was a TV show from the late 60's.

Ironically, a few minutes later, they spoke to us. I don’t remember the conversation but after I responded, one of them answered “Oh, you remind me so much of my mother!” and it was as if a portal opened. Like some low-budget science fiction movie with cheesy special effects, I was sucked backward through a spinning time tunnel. Heels over head, arms flailing with a terrible roaring in my ears, I was deposited back into the body currently wearing sturdy walking shoes and eyeglasses around my neck on a chain.

And, guess what! I was happy to be back.

I realized that I am actually quite comfortable being me…. with where and who I am. Note I did not say how I look….and, as I glanced over at Lisa, I noted that my return to the present had not aged her a bit. She still looked 35 years old and pretty as a picture.

The mean girls were not mean at all and suddenly I was reminding them to make sure they knew where the fire exits were located and assuring them there was nothing to fear since I never go anywhere without a flashlight in my bag.

They smiled at me indulgently and I settled back in my seat, surprised at my sense of contentment even though my ass was already getting stiff from sitting too long. It was a wonderful evening.

It's not so bad being grown up after all, is it, Lisa?

Summer, Part Two

2015-08-05T10:49:00.000-04:00

If you remember, the last time we met, we were enjoying lunch after a morning of playing outside. It was a summer day and we were children and the days were long and filled to the brim with fun and life and noise.

Plus, if it was noon, I’d already skinned both my knees.

See the bells on the handle....

The morning was spent climbing and jumping, smacking springy pink balls against walls and wondering when -- exactly -- the Good Humor man would push his cart down the street, jingling bells announcing his arrival. Very few of us have money but we're excited nonetheless.

After lunch, the weird twins from around the corner might stop by. Two pre-adolescent fraternal lummoxes, they are – in theory – too old to play with us. They wear matching sundresses and have wild hair and the red head will soon teach me how to swear. It is with her that I discover my love of profanity and receive encouragement on how to artfully combine these robust new words into useful combinations.

Her sister, Lummox #2, will tell me grisly stories about ghosts in graveyards that will not only make me sick with fear but will remain with me to this day, causing vague unease when I recall the details.

Stoops are for sitting.

If the afternoon got rainy, we’d disperse. I would sit in my vestibule with a book and a bowl of dusky grapes or juicy cherries and read. I’d tilt my folding chair farther and farther back until my grandma would intervene and the warm pavement would emit the distinctive aroma of summertime rain.

Sometimes we’d even be treated to a “sun shower” during which we’d prance about, literally shouting with joy.

Look at the size of that trunk!!!

My grandfather didn’t like the heat and prevailed upon my Uncle Tommy to procure something we’d only dare dream of. The day the air conditioner arrived, lifted out of the cavernous trunk of my uncle’s 1965 Pontiac, I marveled at its size which was, approximately, that of a piano. Way too big for the bay window, it sat on the floor of the living room and made the room so frigid that we’d wear sweaters. It was fantastic. In the winter, we kept plants on it.

But night was the best.

When I was very young, it meant a bath, fragrant talcum powder applied with a huge puff and fresh pajamas. Put to bed before dark, I resented my early bedtime only until I fell asleep which was almost immediate.

But, when we were older, extended families and friends would gather on the stoops as the kids played under the street lights. Every night on his way to work, one of my friend’s fathers would trudge to the subway station. Head down, in shirt sleeves and a brimmed hat, he’d already worked a full day and his obvious fatigue was a disquieting reminder that, apparently, it was a lot harder to be an adult than a kid.

Our biggest problem was choosing what flavor ice pop we’d pull from the refrigerated case of the bakery around the corner. They cost a nickel and cherry flavor would dye our lips bright red and we’d pretend we were wearing lipstick. My favorite flavor was lemon which was white as snow. We’d saunter home with sticky hands and faces and the mosquitoes, alerted by the sugar, would flit around our heads and whine into our ears.

Each day flowed into the next. Summers were long but inevitably we’d notice the days growing shorter but back then, everything seemed to happen in its own good time.

We didn’t go on vacation. We didn’t need to “get away.” Every day was already vacation.

Enjoy your summer, dear readers. There’s still plenty left.