Thursday, February 9, 2012
Clutter
Less than two days left on my visit to southern Florida and I have seen the sun for a total of 25 minutes if you do not count its miraculous appearance everyday at about 4:30 when you are on your way to do something else. It’s been a good trip though, seeing family, friends, taking care of business. I’ve managed to get a hint of color despite the constant cloud cover and even dipped myself into the healing salt water. It has not ben a wasted trip. I am committed to de-cluttering when I get home as time permits. As I sit here now, I am staring at a bookcase full of old books that no one will ever read again. Not classics; just old. I’m certain no one even bought these books but that they just showed up here courtesy of a well-intentioned visitor: titles like Playboys Book of Games, and Trump (he probably wrote it himself). Actually, there are one or two that I’m guessing my father read at some point in the distant past: one by Joseph Heller whose jacket is torn so I can’t see the title, and Russell Baker’s Good Times. I might be tempted to pick these up myself were it to suddenly snow instead of rain and if the mall were to close, the car break down and the electricity fail so that I was forced to close the computer and all electronic devices. I could take them home where such things do happen but then I would have to carry them there and that’s ridiculous! These old hard-copy volumes weigh far too much to put in a carry-on bag. I wonder if they are available on Kobo. Then there are the shelves of videos and tapes: an audio version of Grisham’s The Partner; I think I gave him that, when his eyesight was failing and someone suggested he might enjoy books-on-tape. He didn’t. Neither do I. I much prefer the voices in my own head providing character and nuance. Perhaps he didn’t like it because I chose such an ordinary work of non-art. Perhaps he would have thrilled to the words of actual literature. Where did I buy this, Costco? There’s a video of Victor Borge that I might watch again someday, and one called Let’s Go Mets which I will not but might yield a quarter or so on a tag-sale-table. Most are home videos: copies of TV programs the viewer just had to save, and unedited footage of family visits and events that might get played someday and will provide a few hours of reminiscent entertainment until one gets bored with all the static and lengthy moments of inactivity. Would that they were edited highlight reels but, alas… I have easily three times as many of these already in my home library that my husband assiduously transferred to dvd, again without editing them, and then I believe saved the videotapes anyway so now we don’t always know what was re-recorder and what is a potential gem waiting to be discovered but there is never time to watch them anyway. No, it’s just clutter, unless… I suddenly can see myself as an old lady whose memory has gone, staring at these old images hour after hour, trying to put my finger on this or that face, this or that place, knowing it is familiar but having a connection that is a fleeting and delicate as a wish on the wind. Will there be available anything as antique as a VCR by then? Perhaps I should transfer them to DVD.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
'Tis the Get in Shape Season
Bone tired. This is what that must mean. My body feels punished. I took a Hatha Yoga class last night figuring it would stretch me out from the Body Jam class I took the night before that had caused me to wake up hobbled.
Are all these teachers lunatics? Where did they get the idea that anyone needs to jump up on a step and “bend that knee and kick that butt” thirty-two times on one side, until the calf muscle feels like it will explode through your skin like a cherry-bomb? And Yoga, that benign form of exercise that always relaxed me in the past… how did it morph into this painful experience? I’m not a fan of ordinary push-ups but plank position on fully extended arms “and now lower yourself but don’t touch the floor and hold… and hold… and hold… “ put me into a realm of pain I had heretofore imagined coming only courtesy of a rack. “And twist!” Twist? Are you serious? I am reminded of a trip my parents took me on when I was 10 years old to Pennsylvania and the Lititz Pretzel Factory where we watched and practiced the laying out of a strip of dough in a big smile and then twisting the ends and pressing them to the outer line. “Lititz”. Pennsylvania, hands down, has the best names.
But I digress. Was the body truly meant to assume these positions? The instructor looked good. I, however, felt extreme empathy with the wishbone at Thanksgiving. And that turkey was dead! Beaded with sweat and limbs stretched to the limit, I was in agony.
BUT, that little black dress I put away two seasons ago… fits! And so it is I take my latest does of Ibuprophen and limp into another hot shower. Ah, I feel better already.
Are all these teachers lunatics? Where did they get the idea that anyone needs to jump up on a step and “bend that knee and kick that butt” thirty-two times on one side, until the calf muscle feels like it will explode through your skin like a cherry-bomb? And Yoga, that benign form of exercise that always relaxed me in the past… how did it morph into this painful experience? I’m not a fan of ordinary push-ups but plank position on fully extended arms “and now lower yourself but don’t touch the floor and hold… and hold… and hold… “ put me into a realm of pain I had heretofore imagined coming only courtesy of a rack. “And twist!” Twist? Are you serious? I am reminded of a trip my parents took me on when I was 10 years old to Pennsylvania and the Lititz Pretzel Factory where we watched and practiced the laying out of a strip of dough in a big smile and then twisting the ends and pressing them to the outer line. “Lititz”. Pennsylvania, hands down, has the best names.
But I digress. Was the body truly meant to assume these positions? The instructor looked good. I, however, felt extreme empathy with the wishbone at Thanksgiving. And that turkey was dead! Beaded with sweat and limbs stretched to the limit, I was in agony.
BUT, that little black dress I put away two seasons ago… fits! And so it is I take my latest does of Ibuprophen and limp into another hot shower. Ah, I feel better already.
Friday, November 4, 2011
Return to Civilization
I heard a beautiful sound tonight and the rush of joy it brought to my heart was more than I could ever have anticipated. I flushed the toilet. After almost a week of no electricity in my home, the simple joy of flushing a toilet, of hearing the water sucked out of the bowl and on to its sewage-bound destination was overwhelming. Flipping a light switch and having the light come on… what a miracle. I filled the dishwasher with the encrusted dishes from the week-long pile-up in the waterless sink, set it to ‘heavy wash’ and ‘tough scrub’, and started my shopping list. We need everything. I threw out a hefty bag filled with the contents of my refrigerator and will turn my attention to the freezer tomorrow. It all has to go before I talk myself into believing any of it is edible. I don’t want food poisoning to add any more victims to the death toll from last Saturday’s Nor’easter. I heard on the news today that one more person has died as a result of carbon monoxide poisoning from a poorly ventilated generator. Add to shopping list: carbon monoxide detector and a generator. Exhausted, I watched TV just because I could. I pulled back the multiple layers of extra quilts and blankets and crawled into bed. Tomorrow I clean up the residue of camp life around the fireplace in the living room and remove the streaks of candlewax from the kitchen counters. But tonight, I sleep, so grateful for the modern amenities and with a new respect for the trees.
11 a.m. the next morning, And... they're off again. Thud. )That's my heart hitting the floor.)
And they're back! Yay!!!! Now let's KEEP IT THIS WAY!
11 a.m. the next morning, And... they're off again. Thud. )That's my heart hitting the floor.)
And they're back! Yay!!!! Now let's KEEP IT THIS WAY!
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Awful Autumn or the Fall F**k Up
What a month. What a season! First Hurricane Irene. The power outage was extremely inconvenient, but at least we could go outside, use the grill and once the wind stopped, we really didn’t worry that a tree would fall on us. We survived Irene to escape to Italy for an idyllic if somewhat whirlwind vacation and returned home to fall pray to the weather change and the upper respiratory infection that was, according to the pharmacist, “going around”. But the Halloween Nor’easter that ripped through the northeast last weekend was another matter altogether. My faithful readers, (the few of you) are you all right?
“Ripped” is really the wrong word for this storm. It rather crawled across the land depositing a blanket of heavy, wet snow that crushed trees and our spirits with equal force. The sound was incredible. Snowfall is generally quiet. But this pre-season interloper set siege to the leaf-laden trees and simply overwhelmed them. All day and night the sounds of limbs and, in many cases, whole trees cracking and crashing to the ground was like something out of a science fiction movie with giants stomping over everything in their path. Or a war movie: the “BOOMS” sounded like bombs dropping in the distance. Except the one that hit the side of the house; that sounded like a direct hit. Being outside to clear the driveway was a nerve-wracking, futile endeavor. I’ve never seen such heavy snowfall for so long. I’m surprised they haven’t named her/him/it. It deserves a name. Something seasonal: the Awful Autumnal; the Halloween Horror; the Fall F**k-Up. It has certainly f**ked up my fall.
There’s no power, no heat, no running water. On line at a local Red Cross relief shelter, waiting for two hours to take a shower after four days of filth and freezing, one woman I spoke to said she got a cell phone call from Ohio and another got one from INDIA! Apparently, our little town burg made international news as the worst hit even in hard hit Connecticut. On every street, trees lean on power wires forming terrifying tunnels for our cars to pass under. The utility company is overwhelmed and absent. I’ve never seen where a tree limb on a powerline didn’t bring an immediate response. Well, on Saturday, at the height of the storm, we first lost power in the mid-afternoon. Within fifteen minutes I saw a utility truck pass by and moments later power was restored… for an hour. It went out again and has stayed out. And I have not seen another truck. We honkered down in front of the fireplace to discover that all our wood was wet except for the very bottom of the pile which we unpiled to retrieve the ten pieces of dry wood. We live in a forest and my son took his SUV out in a blizzard to find wood. You can’t make this stuff up. He returned some time later with a bag of salt we would not need, five packs of wood and Chinese food. Like Christmas, you can always depend upon your local Chinese restaurant to find a way when all others are hiding under their beds. Isn’t it fascinating that restaurants are the only ones to think ahead and buy generators?
We are in New Jersey now, staying with our older son, his wife and our terrific granddaughter, babysitting, hanging out and making a conscious decision NOT to freak out about the stuff we are SUPPOSED to be doing.
“Ripped” is really the wrong word for this storm. It rather crawled across the land depositing a blanket of heavy, wet snow that crushed trees and our spirits with equal force. The sound was incredible. Snowfall is generally quiet. But this pre-season interloper set siege to the leaf-laden trees and simply overwhelmed them. All day and night the sounds of limbs and, in many cases, whole trees cracking and crashing to the ground was like something out of a science fiction movie with giants stomping over everything in their path. Or a war movie: the “BOOMS” sounded like bombs dropping in the distance. Except the one that hit the side of the house; that sounded like a direct hit. Being outside to clear the driveway was a nerve-wracking, futile endeavor. I’ve never seen such heavy snowfall for so long. I’m surprised they haven’t named her/him/it. It deserves a name. Something seasonal: the Awful Autumnal; the Halloween Horror; the Fall F**k-Up. It has certainly f**ked up my fall.
There’s no power, no heat, no running water. On line at a local Red Cross relief shelter, waiting for two hours to take a shower after four days of filth and freezing, one woman I spoke to said she got a cell phone call from Ohio and another got one from INDIA! Apparently, our little town burg made international news as the worst hit even in hard hit Connecticut. On every street, trees lean on power wires forming terrifying tunnels for our cars to pass under. The utility company is overwhelmed and absent. I’ve never seen where a tree limb on a powerline didn’t bring an immediate response. Well, on Saturday, at the height of the storm, we first lost power in the mid-afternoon. Within fifteen minutes I saw a utility truck pass by and moments later power was restored… for an hour. It went out again and has stayed out. And I have not seen another truck. We honkered down in front of the fireplace to discover that all our wood was wet except for the very bottom of the pile which we unpiled to retrieve the ten pieces of dry wood. We live in a forest and my son took his SUV out in a blizzard to find wood. You can’t make this stuff up. He returned some time later with a bag of salt we would not need, five packs of wood and Chinese food. Like Christmas, you can always depend upon your local Chinese restaurant to find a way when all others are hiding under their beds. Isn’t it fascinating that restaurants are the only ones to think ahead and buy generators?
We are in New Jersey now, staying with our older son, his wife and our terrific granddaughter, babysitting, hanging out and making a conscious decision NOT to freak out about the stuff we are SUPPOSED to be doing.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Live from Firenze
Complete day 1 in Florence is in the bag but I must start with yesterday.
I left the train tickets on the kitchen table. I left my shoes in Canneregio beside the bed... I think. I was upset all day because I realized the first of these mistakes as we packed to leave Venice ... no, I must go back further. First, we overslept... No further. Two nights ago...
It started when I broke that man's candle on the Strada Nuovo after a complimentary aperetif and a bottle of Valpolicella when my husband told me to pose next to the display of brightly lit candle holders. Who said you can drink all the wine you want in Italy because it has a lower alcohol content so you wonàt get drunk? (By the way, the drinking age in Venice is strictly adhered to! No one under 16 can drink!) Anyway, they probably never had this valpolicella! So, tipsy, I placed my fingers on the ledge not realizing the candles were resting on a piece of wood that was as tipsy as I was. I didnàt see it fall; I heard the crash and the man yelling in Italian. I said "I'll buy it!" but he kept yelling so I started to walk away which made him yell in English, "Where are you going?" I said I had offered to buy it but he was being mean! So he got nicer. I offered him money and he started giving me change, insisting I only had to pay his cost... I think he gave me more that I had given him but it was dark so who knows. And then he insisted on wrapping it! And then I started crying! I don't know why because it was over but there I was, in a puddle. And I realized, I hate making mistakes!!! Boy, was I right.
So we go back to our beautiful hotel and book a tour for 10:30 a.m. to the island of Murano to see the glass factories and I ask for a wake-up call at 7 which never comes. We wake up at 9:20 thanks to the maid who closed our shutters when she turned down our bed thus leaving us in blissful darkness. We fly out of bed, grab breakfast, arrange our check out, leave the bags with the bellman so we can quickly grab them as we head for our 3:30 train to Florence and then it hits me... the tickets! I had put all our papers in a blue folder weeks ago and when the tickets arrived by Fedex, I put them there as well. But two days before the trip, our travel arranger sent me a whole new set of vouchers so I removed the old ones and put the new ones in the folder. On the day we left, I took the folder and, on a whim, told my husband to put the envelope in his suitcase so we'd have two copies. This would have been perfect since the train tickets were in the envelope, and had my husband listened to me, we would have been fine. But he didn't. It remained on the kitchen table and we left for Italy.
So I spent the entire day beating myself up. Why should I have expected he would bring the envelope. I have never held him responsible for any of the "business" of our lives. WHy would I expect he'd start now. My mistake ached in my body all day, It was a pall over me as we took the boat to Murano and walked the beautiful cobbled streets and bridges of that wonderland of handmade glass objects. I was nauseaus as we walked to the ferrovia to get new tickets for Florence; sick in my stomach thinking about calling my son in CT and asking his to overnight them to us so we could get a refund on the unused tickets and still get to Rome on Thursday; just miserable as i watched the Italian countryside slip past the window, and somwhere between Padova and Bologna I realized I had forgotten my shoes! I was certain of it. In my haste to pack in Venice, I was certain I had neglected to pick them up from beside the bed. And the shock started me laughing. They were the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned and they were in Venice and I was on a train I had paid for twice to a city I had never seen before but I was certain would cripple me if I tried to walk it in my mocassins. My husband was sleeping and I was shaking with laughter. Tears stremed down my face and the woman next to me must have thought I'd gone crazy because she didn't so much as look in my direction which made me laugh harder. But I hadn't lost my mind. Just my shoes. And my tickets. And the pain in my heart. It was gone.
We got to the hotel, called my son who reminded us how we'd be lost without him. We agreed. We went to our room (another story) and I opened my suitcase. There were my shoes,right on top. Perhaps the curse has passed.
I left the train tickets on the kitchen table. I left my shoes in Canneregio beside the bed... I think. I was upset all day because I realized the first of these mistakes as we packed to leave Venice ... no, I must go back further. First, we overslept... No further. Two nights ago...
It started when I broke that man's candle on the Strada Nuovo after a complimentary aperetif and a bottle of Valpolicella when my husband told me to pose next to the display of brightly lit candle holders. Who said you can drink all the wine you want in Italy because it has a lower alcohol content so you wonàt get drunk? (By the way, the drinking age in Venice is strictly adhered to! No one under 16 can drink!) Anyway, they probably never had this valpolicella! So, tipsy, I placed my fingers on the ledge not realizing the candles were resting on a piece of wood that was as tipsy as I was. I didnàt see it fall; I heard the crash and the man yelling in Italian. I said "I'll buy it!" but he kept yelling so I started to walk away which made him yell in English, "Where are you going?" I said I had offered to buy it but he was being mean! So he got nicer. I offered him money and he started giving me change, insisting I only had to pay his cost... I think he gave me more that I had given him but it was dark so who knows. And then he insisted on wrapping it! And then I started crying! I don't know why because it was over but there I was, in a puddle. And I realized, I hate making mistakes!!! Boy, was I right.
So we go back to our beautiful hotel and book a tour for 10:30 a.m. to the island of Murano to see the glass factories and I ask for a wake-up call at 7 which never comes. We wake up at 9:20 thanks to the maid who closed our shutters when she turned down our bed thus leaving us in blissful darkness. We fly out of bed, grab breakfast, arrange our check out, leave the bags with the bellman so we can quickly grab them as we head for our 3:30 train to Florence and then it hits me... the tickets! I had put all our papers in a blue folder weeks ago and when the tickets arrived by Fedex, I put them there as well. But two days before the trip, our travel arranger sent me a whole new set of vouchers so I removed the old ones and put the new ones in the folder. On the day we left, I took the folder and, on a whim, told my husband to put the envelope in his suitcase so we'd have two copies. This would have been perfect since the train tickets were in the envelope, and had my husband listened to me, we would have been fine. But he didn't. It remained on the kitchen table and we left for Italy.
So I spent the entire day beating myself up. Why should I have expected he would bring the envelope. I have never held him responsible for any of the "business" of our lives. WHy would I expect he'd start now. My mistake ached in my body all day, It was a pall over me as we took the boat to Murano and walked the beautiful cobbled streets and bridges of that wonderland of handmade glass objects. I was nauseaus as we walked to the ferrovia to get new tickets for Florence; sick in my stomach thinking about calling my son in CT and asking his to overnight them to us so we could get a refund on the unused tickets and still get to Rome on Thursday; just miserable as i watched the Italian countryside slip past the window, and somwhere between Padova and Bologna I realized I had forgotten my shoes! I was certain of it. In my haste to pack in Venice, I was certain I had neglected to pick them up from beside the bed. And the shock started me laughing. They were the most comfortable shoes I have ever owned and they were in Venice and I was on a train I had paid for twice to a city I had never seen before but I was certain would cripple me if I tried to walk it in my mocassins. My husband was sleeping and I was shaking with laughter. Tears stremed down my face and the woman next to me must have thought I'd gone crazy because she didn't so much as look in my direction which made me laugh harder. But I hadn't lost my mind. Just my shoes. And my tickets. And the pain in my heart. It was gone.
We got to the hotel, called my son who reminded us how we'd be lost without him. We agreed. We went to our room (another story) and I opened my suitcase. There were my shoes,right on top. Perhaps the curse has passed.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Staying Present
I lectured today on the need to stay “present”. Well, it wasn’t much of a lecture actually. I was teaching Acting 1 to a group of high school students, which is quickly becoming a really cool way to start the day. I mean, just when I started to be convinced that I hated teaching, I got the chance to start a year with kids in this public arts magnet school and, you know what? It ain’t so bad. In fact, I’m thinking I could be pretty good at it, if I could be exempt from the formal lesson plans and the bureaucracy and the cafeteria duty, etc.
But back to being “present”. I have gotten in the habit of looking at the calendar and saying, “Two weeks from now, I’ll be in Venice.” Two weeks from this moment, I’ll be having a glass of vino rosa in la Piazza San Marco.” Two weeks from now, I’ll be driving to Sorrento.” And that’s not good. Between now and then, I have a lot of stuff to do! Most of it requires a great deal of concentration! If I’m focused on “then”, I explained to my class, I wouldn’t be a very good teacher “now”. I saw them nodding in agreement as I suggested they put away thoughts of their upcoming history class and stayed focused on the task at hand. Be “here” right now.
This blog entry is a case in point. There’s no wi-fi where I am sitting, babysitting two kids who have been given “lunch detention”. There are several things I could be doing to make better use of this time, but the lack of an internet connection prevents me from catching up on my several other jobs. I could bitch. I could be frustrated. Instead, what a nice moment to relax and let my thoughts go where they want to go. … to Italia.
But back to being “present”. I have gotten in the habit of looking at the calendar and saying, “Two weeks from now, I’ll be in Venice.” Two weeks from this moment, I’ll be having a glass of vino rosa in la Piazza San Marco.” Two weeks from now, I’ll be driving to Sorrento.” And that’s not good. Between now and then, I have a lot of stuff to do! Most of it requires a great deal of concentration! If I’m focused on “then”, I explained to my class, I wouldn’t be a very good teacher “now”. I saw them nodding in agreement as I suggested they put away thoughts of their upcoming history class and stayed focused on the task at hand. Be “here” right now.
This blog entry is a case in point. There’s no wi-fi where I am sitting, babysitting two kids who have been given “lunch detention”. There are several things I could be doing to make better use of this time, but the lack of an internet connection prevents me from catching up on my several other jobs. I could bitch. I could be frustrated. Instead, what a nice moment to relax and let my thoughts go where they want to go. … to Italia.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Italia
My husband is diligently, and FINALLY, planning our dream-trip to Italy. I admit I have been incapable of doing it myself. The Internet sites overwhelm me; the various touring companies confuse me. I get nervous. So I challenged him to “get it done”, and he’s doing it. With his usual meticulous approach to shopping, he has now been on a website called European Destinations since the wee hours of the morning. This is not his first visit to the site. He has consulted with Costco Tours, Perillo Tours, Soriano Tours and everyone we have ever known who has ventured there before us, and has returned to European Destinations armed with knowledge. He’s got us going to Venice, Florence, Rome and Sorrento with side trips to the Amalfi Coast, Pompeii, and I don’t know what else because he keeps saying I should come and look at what he has planned and when I get there he says he’s not ready. He has thrown out several oohs and ahs when encountering such ideas as taking our rented car and doing the Amalfi Coast on our own, a bicycle trip through Tuscany and touring Florence on the back of a Vespa, prompting me to think he is planning the “50 Ways to Die on your Trip to Italy” tour. Not a bad way to go when you think of it.
Omigod, we did it! We’re going! We clicked to send, danced around the kitchen, called my mother, danced around some more. It’s not quite real to me yet. I mean, you don’t just dream about something for as long as I’ve dreamed about this and then just say, “Oh, okay, we’re going.” WE’RE GOING! And now… we’re shopping for an Italian language program.
Omigod, we did it! We’re going! We clicked to send, danced around the kitchen, called my mother, danced around some more. It’s not quite real to me yet. I mean, you don’t just dream about something for as long as I’ve dreamed about this and then just say, “Oh, okay, we’re going.” WE’RE GOING! And now… we’re shopping for an Italian language program.
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