Clotheslinery

Walking through East Harlem the other day, I happened upon a once-iconic New York scene that has mostly disappeared in recent years - clothes hanging out to dry on lines strung between apartment buildings. Thank goodness I had my camera with me and could document the clothes flapping in a cool autumn breeze.

You don't see clotheslines much anymore. England's about the only place I've seen "working" clotheslines in recent years. English-mum Jeannie always hung clothes outside to dry, no matter the temperature. Only a dowsing rain would cause her to use her clothes dryer. But I never see clothes a-wave on lines in the United States. Not in New York. Or Atlanta. The closest we come to fresh-air drying anything is a wet towel thrown over a hotel railing at the beach.

Growing up, we had a clothesline that spanned our backyard (which was pretty wide). There was a wooden pole used to prop it up in the middle so the wet clothes wouldn't drag the ground. A nostalgic sight - the various materials flapping back and forth.

A few months ago, Bro sent an email with basic clothesline rules. Thought I'd share:

THE BASIC RULES FOR CLOTHESLINES
1. Wash the clothesline before hanging any clothes - walk the entire length of each line with a damp cloth.

2. Hang the clothes in a certain order; always hang "whites" with "whites," and hang them first.

3. Never hang a shirt by the shoulders - always by the tail! What will the neighbors think?

4. Wash day on a Monday . . . Never hang clothes on the weekend, or Sunday, for Heaven's sake!

5. Hang the sheets and towels on the outside lines to hide your "unmentionables" in the middle (perverts & busybodies, y'know!)

6. It doesn't matter if it is sub-zero weather . . . Clothes will "freeze-dry."

7. Always gather the clothes pins when taking down dry clothes. Pins left on the lines are "tacky."

8. Line the clothes up so that each item shares one of the clothes pins with the next washed item.

9. Make sure the clothes are off the line before dinner time, neatly folded in the clothes basket, and ready to be ironed.

10. IRONED?! Well, that's a whole 'nother subject!

Still, I wouldn't trade a clothes dryer for an outdoor clothesline. The dryer just asks me to dump the clothes in and set a timer, then delivers fresh, warm, fluffy clothes in a matter of minutes. A clothesline requires a lot more time and energy. The clothesline is a romantic notion for painters, photographers, and nostalgic types. But in the real, work-a-day world? No thanks.

Do you still use an outdoor clothesline?

Let's hear it for Shock-tober!

Well, it's finally here. The month I longed for back in August.

It's turned right cool here in New York City. The leaves are slowly dissolving from green to yellow/red/orange. Those that have already dropped are blowing dryly across sidewalks and park paths. Halloween decorations are everywhere, including in my own tiny "tenement." Chilies and stews are on full boil. College football reigns supreme. Ahh, autumn!

What I love about October - at the heart of it - are the memories of years past and the anticipation of the festivities that will fill out the rest of the year. This month we honor early memories of school carnivals and childhood Halloweens, as well as the first anniversary of daughter Kate and son-in-law Greg and other family anniversaries and birthdays.

October's celebrations morph into a November full of birthdays and anniversaries, culminating in a most splendiferous Thanksgiving. (Can you smell the turkey and pumpkin pie?) And no sooner will we finish giving thanks than the fun-filled wildness and holy celebration of Christmas will be upon us. Bam-bam-bam. All in a row. Wonderful!

Need a little help getting into the October holiday spirit? I've offered plenty of suggestions over the past four years. Links to some of my posts about scary movies, songs, stories, and whatnot can be found here. Enjoy!

Bundle up, kick some leaves, give some treats (or tricks), and get ready for the year-end holiday fun-fest.

Meet the Gumpertzs

Last week, I got to know a couple of New York families - the Gumpertzs and the Baldizzis. I visited their homes and saw where they ate, slept, lived. I looked at pictures of parents and grandparents, listened to some of their favorite music, and saw the street-view from their front room windows. Last week, I visited the Tenement Museum on Orchard Street.

Friend Beth was in town for a few days, so we pounded the pavement visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the new High Line Park, Cathedral of St. John the Divine and Trinity Wall Street, Times Square, and the Empire State Building. But one place I'd never been was the Tenement Museum on the Lower East Side. Beth's visit gave me the opportunity to see this treasure for the first time.

I've always been curious about it. I mean, how interesting could visiting a tenement be? "And here's a really tiny room where 14 people slept. Over here's is the coal stove. Notice there's no running water or toilet." Really. Seen one poverty-stricken apartment, seen 'em all.

But the Tenement Museum's tours are based on the stories of real people who lived at 97 Orchard Street over time - from the 1860's to the 1930's. Each family has been researched through immigration and court records, oral histories, and the things they left behind, enabling tour guides to pull visitors into the lives of the families who lived in the building.

Several tours are available, giving a slice-of-time look at how the tenement dwellers coped with local and global events that shaped their lives. We took "Getting By," where we experienced how the Gumpertz family coped with the Panic of 1973 (um, pretty much exactly what we're going through today) and the Baldizzis made it through the Great Depression. Other tours focus on the garment industry, one Irish family's experience, the life of a Sephardic-Jewish teen, and a neighborhood walking tour. Each tour cost $20, which is kinda pricey, but you really get your money's worth.

Immigration is a touchy issue, I know, but in hearing these stories, I was struck by how similar the arguments then are to the arguments now. "There's no excuse for hard-working people not to have enough money to pay for food, housing, education, medicine." "Only people born here deserve jobs and benefits." "If we let these people in, we'll no longer be Americans, but Irish. . .German . . . Polish . . . Italian . . . " No one could possibly dispute that the vast majority of immigrants coming to the United States in the 19th and early 20th centuries were hard working, imaginative folks who mostly blended in (though some never did). It takes hearing stories of real people to bring that message home.

The other thing that struck me, living in a tiny NYC apartment of my own, was "Wow! A little paint, a new hardwood floor, a private bath, and you could rent this 'tenement' for $1800-2000/month these days." The tour was a great history of apartment-living in the city and how what was required of landlords changed over time. The biggest breakthrough was when the powers-that-be determined that every New York apartment-dweller had the right to air (thanks for the air shafts, guys!), water (at least cold running water), and light (a window in every room).

When I scrape up enough money, I hope to take the other tours and meet more New York families. I highly recommend spending time with the Gumpertzs and the Baldizzis.

When men wore hats and women wore gloves

When did we stop dressing like grown-ups? With every episode of Mad Men, I find myself longing for men in suits, ties, and those great hats that our daddies used to wear and women in shapely dresses, suits, and gloves.

Adults dressed like grown-ups for the first 12-14 years of my life, then it all went to hell in a hand basket. While leaving behind the classic late 50's/early 60's fashion, we never moved forward enough to coolness of The Jetsons, opting instead for dowdy fashion statements like platform shoes and drab pantsuits. Nehru jackets and lime-green polyester leisure suits sounded the death-knell of smart, chic fashion for men and women, I think.

President Kennedy is credited for single-handedly killing the men's hat industry, because he didn't wear one at his Inauguration. Even I know that's false, since he wore a top-hat for the occasion. OK, so we can't blame JFK for men shunning those lovely grey fedoras of a bygone era. Still, I would love to see them make a come-back. Guys, put away those baseball caps (unless you're actually playing baseball) and grab a real man's hat.

I don't know when women stopped wearing gloves, usually white ones, whenever they went out. I love the idea of gloves year-round. I am at the mercy of public transport and hate putting my bare-naked hands on handles, poles, and stairway railings. Yes, it's true, those white gloves would be mighty dirty by the end of the day, but I would feel so much safer having a bit of fabric between me and whatever's lurking on door-railings. Plus, they look adorable. But not with dowdy pantsuits.

Looking around the subway car this morning, I noticed very few people dressed for business - a few men in suits/ties, a couple of women in nice dresses, but beyond that it was sloppy, dress-for-comfort stuff. We all looked run-down and sad. Let's face it - if the people of New York City aren't wearing classic, neat styles, then nobody is.

I think we could change this sad state of fashion by bringing back men's felt hats and women's white gloves. I do not, however, advocate bringing back stiff girdles, garter belts and stockings - uncomfortable and a pain in the rear.

OK, I hear you all moaning out there, dressed in your sweatpants and running shoes. But I'd give anything to bring the Don Draper-Joan Holloway look back to the workplace.

Think I could pick up some white gloves at Bloomingdale's or Lord & Taylor?

Oh, Behave!

We seem to be living in a time of rampant rudeness. Celebrities reach new heights of publicity by digging to new lows in behavior. Politicians raise funds from their faithful by engaging in conduct that would've gotten them a stint in kindergarten "time out." Regular Joes and Janes eschew (I love the word "eschew") constructive town-hall dialogue in favor of gun-wielding scream-fests.

What would their mamas and Sunday School teachers say about this appalling lack of good old fashioned manners? I know what mine would say (as she so often did as we headed out the front door to school) "True politeness is to say the kindest things in the kindest way."

Now, no one holds the First Amendment in higher regard than Shorty PJs. But Shorty earnestly believes that Free Speech is in no way threatened by an infusion of civility and proper conduct. Please - say what you want, say what you think, but "do unto others as you would have them do unto you" at the same time. Take the high road.

But suspecting my pleas will fall upon deaf ears, I hereby recommend that we appoint a Nabob of Nice. A Queen of Serene. A Knight of Polite. Someone who can re-educate us in the simple art of polite regard for other human beings. After all, there are perfectly acceptable ways of making your voice heard in civil ways without resorting to screaming, interrupting, shoe-throwing, microphone-grabbing, or gun-totin'.

Problem is, I'm not sure how we'd choose the right person for this Manners Maven. It couldn't be through election or political appointment. Too much opportunity for corruption. Maybe we could all make nominations, then draw one name out - sort of a "Root Out The Rudeness" Lottery. We could toss in the names of mamas and daddies, teachers, or folks famous for their civilized deportment (Miss Manners and Julie Andrews come to mind). It'd be a tough job, but slowly - through much practice and perseverance - we might just turn ourselves around before we descend to the depths of snarling, animalistic behavior. Might be worth a try.

So all of you seething Joe Wilsons, Kanye Wests, Serenas, Barbara Walters, Qaddafis, and screaming citizens out there, take note. You are dragging civilization down. I order you to spend significant time each day meditating on the Golden Rule, your Scout motto, and your kindergarten rules of behavior. That way, you will make your voice heard loud and clear without resorting to rudeness. And who knows? It might just get you some publicity.

Now. Go have a cup of tea and play nice.

Book Hippies vs. Bag People

While flipping through an old yearbook the other evening, I was struck by a glaring difference between the high schooler of the 1960s and the high schooler of today. No, it isn't drugs, sex, or clothing. It's not the hairstyles, make-up, or locker configurations. It's the way we carry our books.

When I was in high school (Class of 1969 - yes, it's been 40 years), we carried our books on our hips with one arm or close to our chest with both arms, sans backpack (not yet though of) or book satchel (which was really old-fashioned). Depending on the chosen carry-method, we always had one - and only one - arm free to open doors and lockers, pick up assignments or papers as we entered/left class, and smooth down our hair or skirt. Not much leeway for trouble, having only one idle hand.

Now, there was a very distinct method to stacking our books so that we could carry them comfortably with one arm to and from class, bus/car, and home. The foundation upon which our loosely carried bundle was built was a large rigid notebook filled with loose-leaf paper, dividers, and often a little plastic pouch that held pens, pencils, and protractor. Then, depending on the size of our history, English/literature, math, and science books, we stacked accordingly - narrower books could be placed side by side on the notebook, with wider tomes placed underneath or on top to stabilize the stack.

We girls also had our purses (John Romaine, natch - no shoulder bags) clasped firmly in our book-carrying hand. And sometimes there was a lunch sack (brown paper, once we outgrew our Howdy Doody lunchboxes). I don't remember it being a big deal. We managed.

But we didn't carry all of our books around all the time. That's what lockers were for - no matter how far-flung from scheduled classes. Usually, we carried the ever-present notebook with a book or two to tide us through a couple of classes. Our bundles increased as we left for home at the end of the day, but, again, we usually didn't have to carry every single book - usually two or three were all we needed.

Contrast that with today's Bag People. Poor kids. It seems reasonable to believe that this new bag-method is more efficient that the hippy-method, but I don't think it is. Enormous backpacks stuffed beyond all reason (what is in there?), hoisted upon young backs, causing them to lean forward just to get enough traction to move. Plus, backpacks leave both hands free to, well, get into all kinds of trouble that could be avoided if left to the devices of only one-handed-chaos-causing. Think about it. My career advice to today's students: chiropractor.

I don't know which book-carrying way is better. I do know that I don't envy today's school kids their beasts of burden. Oh. And I do know that our clothes were cuter. Sayin'.

Searching for the Guiding Light during Tomorrow's Secret Storm

Friday, September 18, 2009, will mark another nail in the coffin of real television soap operas. That's the last broadcast of "Guiding Light," which has lived on radio and TV for over 70 years. "As The World Turns" is the last of the old-time soaps still standing. Gone already are greats of the 50's and 60's like "Search for Tomorrow," "The Edge of Night," "Love of Life," and "The Secret Storm," all popular when I was growing up.

My definition of a real soap opera is a program that:

started as a radio show and/or began broadcasting on television before 1960.

started as a 15-minute program. ("As The World Turns" is the only exception, since it began as a ground-breaking 30-minute show. Big news in 1956.)

was recorded at a studio in New York City.

My mother was a big soap fan before she went back into the workplace in the late 50's. I remember she'd fix us our Campbell's Soup and Hi-C to keep us quiet while she watched "Search for Tomorrow" and "The Guiding Light," 15 minutes each. Then we'd go down for our naps, but if we didn't sleep too long, we could catch a bit of "As the World Turns" and "Love of Life." "Secret Storm" and "The Edge of Night" came on a little later in the afternoon, so we could keep up with those, too.

Now, don't get the idea that we sat around watching TV all afternoon. Mother was ironing or sewing or in and out of the kitchen. We'd play inside and out - we were kids, after all, and our world didn't revolve around Mother's soap operas. But they were background noise. And the Tates and Bergmans and Bauers and Hughes, et. al., were like long-lost relatives that could only communicate through TV plots.

As we grew up, went to school, and found other ways to spend our time, we only had to check in occasionally with our soap families to get up to speed with the action. And, alas, as teens we gravitated toward "American Bandstand" and "Dark Shadows," only stopping by Oakdale and Springfield and Henderson during Christmas break or in the summer.

I can't remember the last time I watched "Guiding Light." Funny, but during a news story about its soon-to-be demise, I recognized a goodly portion of the cast - older, portlier, but still familiar. Just like a real family.

I raise a plastic cup of Hi-C to the cast of "Guiding Light." Cheers, you rascals!

The Curious Case of the Never-ending Dirty Coffee Mugs

Gather 'round for a spine-chilling tale of dirty coffee mugs, spoons, and plastic ware that appear out of nowhere in the sink at the office and never disappear. (You're quaking already, I can tell.)

A variety of dirty mugs, cups, containers, and utensils seem to be reproducing before our very eyes in the 4th floor breakroom. Oh, sure, it started off innocently enough - a black mug here, a butter container there. But now the sink is almost full. And it's been over a week. Black mug still there. Container still there. But new little friends have joined them. All rooted firmly to the sink and staring at us. Daring us to wash them; daring us to walk away.

This frightens me on several different levels:

1. What unknown creature(s) put the items into the sink in the first place expecting them to wash, dry, and replace themselves?

2. What else might the co-worker creature(s) leave for me to "clean up" outside of the kitchen?

3. What if the sink gets so full that I can't rinse out my own dirty mug and plate? Do I just throw 'em in there and walk away?

4. Since I never see anyone doing this evil deed, when and how does it happen? Are these creatures invisible or do they feed at night/early morning before the rest of the staff arrives?

5. Because it happens over and over and over, am I caught in a "Twilight Zone" episode or "Ground Hogs Day"?

To be honest, it is not a unique occurrence, this symbiosis between dirty mugs and office sinks. In fact, I don't think I've ever worked anywhere that didn't have dirty dishes magically appear in the sink and sit. And sit. And sit. Until somebody gets so fed up with the science experiments growing in their workplace kitchen laboratory, that s/he dons rubber gloves and a mask and washes all the dishes on their own.

Yes, you're so smug sitting there reading this and thinking, "This will never happen to me!" And maybe you're right. Maybe the co-worker creature only follows me around. But the next time you look into an office break room sink and see one lonely black mug sitting there, beware! You may not be as safe as you think. Mwwaaaahhhaaaaaa.

The usefulness of guilt

Years ago I participated in a Sunday School class for parents with teens. The focus was on the good, the bad, and the incorrigible and was led by a child psychologist. One parent raised the question of using guilt and, hey, wasn't that a bad thing? The teacher laughed and said that guilt is not necessarily bad and often is the only thing a parent has. Finally. Something I could use.

Tuesday's New York Times had a great article about the usefulness of guilt and atonement in raising considerate, conscientious adults. Now, there's a big difference between guilt (about the act or behavior) and shame (about the "badness" or incompetence of a person). Several studies are showing that guilt, properly handled, can really help a child understand undesirable behavior and the importance of making amends.

Of course, much has been made over the years about parents, usually mothers, who instill feelings of guilt children. Literature and jokes are rife with famous "guilt groups" - Catholic, Jewish, Puritan - famous for causing life-long guilt (or shame, depending on how it's handled). The reality in my own life is that, yes, guilt - the stuff tied to behavior - has kept me out of a lot of trouble, especially before the age of 30.

It's funny, but when I was growing up I never considered how bad behavior would effect me; I always thought of how it would hurt and disappoint Mother and Daddy. While it didn't keep me from all unfortunate behavior (I have a long trail of that, goodness knows), it did keep me from doing a lot of stupid stuff in my teens and early 20's. The potential guilt of hurting my parents saved me from making some real blunders. The enormity of bad guilt-feelings just wasn't worth the momentary delight of doing something questionable.

The other side of that coin is that there is behavior I wish I felt guilty for: too much food, not enough exercise, lack of patience, etc. Hmmm. I'll have to work on that.

Just got the news!

Daughter and Son-in-Law expecting a baby boy!

Due date: February 22, 2010

The Write Address

Good penmanship can pay off. A little bit. Thanks to some whip-crackin' elementary school teachers, I have a nice, clear handwriting style. Last year I ran an ad on craigslist offering - for a small price - to hand-address cards, invitations, and thank-you notes, having no idea if anyone would take me up on the offer.

Believe it or not, several folks have hired me. My first job was addressing 100 birth announcements for a couple in Greenwich Village. I sat in the "party room" of their apartment building to complete the addressing assignment. The next job involved writing thank-you notes for a recently married couple. They typed out what they wanted to say in the notes and provided the addresses and cards, and I did the writing. Both of those little jobs helped me buy Christmas presents last year.

Now, there's a trick to hand-addressing envelopes, whatever the size. Especially when the card has to be addressed something like: Mr. Stephen and Dr. Elizabeth Jonesenbergenstein. Sure, I can use an ampersand, unless the customer asks me to spell out everything, but that still doesn't save much space. What I'm saying is, there's a bit of finesse involved in keeping the address neat, readable, and correct (and on one line).

A couple of weeks ago, I posted my ad again and got an immediate request from a high-profile non-profit group who had 500 invitations to address for a big party at one of the Hampton mansions. I was given pages and pages of the addresses, a fistful of green Sharpie pens (to match the logo on the envelopes), and boxes of beautifully-designed envelopes. Quite a nice little weekend job, actually.

This was a fun project. Lots of famous people and philanthropists were on the list. Imagine that Sarah and Matthew, or Liev and Naomi, or designer Donna, or writer Elie - well, I could go on and on, but I won't - got invitations in my very own handwriting! And, no, I do not remember their addresses, so don't ask. I'm trustworthy in that way. It was kind of cool.

But I will tell you this. The #1 zip code for these invitees was 10021, the primo NYC zip. People - well, certain people - vie to land a place between the north side of East 69th and the south side of East 76th and between Fifth Avenue and the East River. And Park Avenue won the prize for street frequency. (Obviously not my end of Park Avenue, zip code 10029. I suspect no one vies for 10029.) Plus, it was fun to get to write "PH" on many of them. I'd love to poke my nose into any penthouse on Park in 10021. Sigh.

I finished the project on time, and the client loved the work, so job well-done. The organization has an even bigger fund-raiser in the autumn and promises to call me again. 4,000 envelopes next time. I think I'll need more than a weekend for that one.

Moral of the story: write neatly. You never know where your handwriting will show up. But stay out of my territory. I own 10021, baby!

Stardust. Golden.

Let me begin by saying, I was not there. More about that later.

This weekend marks the 40th anniversary of Woodstock. The real Woodstock - the muddy, half-a-million-strong, Country Joe/Janis Joplin/Jimi Hendrix Woodstock, not the pale re-creations that followed. Truthfully, I've enjoyed watching all the documentaries and retrospectives, witnessing the fun and hearing the raw music from my own dry, cool place stocked with plenty of food and toilet facilities.

As crazy as Woodstock still looks even in this day and age, I find comfort in the fact that a number of long-term, monogamous, traditionally-married relationships grew out of the festival. Who knew? I guess we figured all those young folk just scampered off to communes and smoked themselves to death.

I find comfort in the fact that Woodstock-attendees are now mainstream journalists, business people, educators, religious leaders. They had a great time forty years ago and yet, survived it and moved on to become productive citizens.

And I find comfort in the fact that the music is still kick-ass. Way more kick-ass than anything that's come along since. Guess you need a real cause to create kick-ass music, and young folks haven't seemed able to find a collective cause big enough to inspire, well, kick-ass music.

Now. Back to me. In August of 1969, I was busy getting ready to head to college. A faraway music festival was barely on my radar until the news about it started hitting television news. And coming from a conservative, Republican, Southern Baptist family, my attending Woodstock - college preparations or no - wouldn't have occurred to me, anyway. So, yeah, I missed the music event of the century. But I found all the stories and film footage about the festival very cool, and the music forced me to think outside of my comfort-zone. (Uh, oh - was this conservative Southern Baptist girl going to be lead astray at some point in the future? Stay tuned.)

Still, even if I had the chance to go back to my 18th summer, knowing what I know now - knowing what a big deal Woodstock would be in the annals of history, I don't think I'd show up. I've never been much of a concert-goer. I don't like long lines, traffic jams, and music-amplification that makes my ears bleed. And I really wouldn't want to spend a couple of days in mud, even for Janis and Jimi. Such a wimp, I know.

But I love living the experience vicariously through films, documentaries, and interviews from my air-cooled, food-laden apartment with indoor plumbing. I salute the hundreds of thousands of kids who showed up for three amazing days of peace, love, and music at Max Yasgur's farm. It could've gone horribly wrong, but it didn't.

Some would say most of those kids eventually sold out, became Establishment. Well, yeah. Eventually, the Establishment becomes you. But, please. Is there anything sadder than an old hippie? I mean, one who still lives like a hippie? Yet, even those of us who were too conservative or too disinterested to attend Woodstock carry some little bit of the philosophy with us, I hope. The reality is, though, that Woodstock didn't change anything. Not in any huge, long-lasting way. Except to demonstrate that 400,000 or so young people could get together for three days of music without violence, government intervention, cellphones, and iPods.

For those of you sick of hearing about it, too bad. I'm sure you're tired of hearing about the assassination of JFK, the moon-landing, and the Beatles. Boomer retrospectives are no different from our own parents' recollections of the Depression or World War II. You'll be the same way about whatever it is you consider history-making for your generation.

The fact is that forty years ago Woodstock stood and delivered. And the music was kick-ass. Stardust. Golden.

Come, October!

Summer. You can have it. I can’t believe anyone over the age of 18 is bemoaning the fact that summer is almost over. OK, I’ll cut the kids and teachers some slack, since I understand the reluctance to return to the old school routine. But summer is my least favorite season, and the sooner it’s gone, the better, in my opinion.

I loved it as a kid, of course. All those long, long days, playing out in the wading pool or – once in a great while – getting to go to an actual swimming pool, making lanyards a thousand different ways at some day-camp or another, eating watermelon (the kind with seeds), seeing how many books I could read in the library’s Summer Book Program. Sometimes I went down to Florida to friends in St. Petersburg or Aunt Nell’s in Orlando (before DisneyWorld – but she had a pool, which was all that mattered).

With the exception of the Great Journey West in 1959, I don’t remember many elaborate family vacations. We traveled enough throughout the year from Chattanooga to Atlanta or to Nashville to see family. Holidays at the beach or some exotic locations happened rarely, if ever. So to child/teen-me, summer was just one long lazy time to goof around and wear shorts.

And then I grew up. College summers were spent working to earn money enough for cute clothes – all those mini- and midi-skirts and coats, hot pants, suede belts and boots (early 70’s, remember) – so I learned pretty fast that those lazy-hazy-crazy days of summer were gone for good. And once into the full-blown workaday world after college, the childhood-summer experience could only be re-created over a 7-10-day vacation to the beach or mountains. Then back to work.

So here’s what summer means to me now: Heat. Humidity. Endless Bad-Hair Days. Work. Bad TV. Silly action movies. Unflattering clothes. High power bills (I refuse to live without air-conditioning, sorry).

My body, mind, and spirit longs to feel that first hint of an autumn nip in the air. Oh, to be able to open the windows and feel a wonderful cool breeze blowing through! To don a turtleneck sweater and jeans and take an energizing walk through the park. To see the first hint of gold or red in the treetops.

I love autumn, winter, and spring. Marvelous seasons! But summer? Meh. As for me, I’ll take cool, crisp air and brilliant fall colors, January’s bitter cold and snow (I love snow!), and the new grass and flowers of spring over the languid heat of summer anytime.

Ah, October – can you get here soon?

Four More Years!

August 9 marked the fourth anniversary of Shorty PJs. I know I've been a slack-blogger of late and promise to get back on track soon. My head is a-swirl with ideas: NYC Zip Code Envy, What Should Be on My Real Resume, Summer of Dead Celebrities - well, a long list, I assure you.

Until I get my act together and regain my blogging momentum, why don't you take a stroll down Shorty PJs Memory Lane and read her posts from August 2005 (see left navigation)? The first posts are tentative and fraught with trying to figure out how blogging works. The last post of the month was about the hurricane that hit New Orleans (before we knew how really bad it was). Yet, I think those early posts are some of my best.

To my faithful readers, thanks for putting up with me for the last 48 months. You're a swell buncha' folks, and I've loved getting to know you better through blogging. Four more years!

The Horror! The Horror!

Don't you love a good scary story? Particularly when somebody else is telling it to you? (Cue moans - wwwooooooo!)

Now that I'm able to keep my ears plugged during commutes with an iPod, I've become addicted to podcasts of old radio shows of the horror persuasion. The stories are just right for my train ride from Spanish Harlem to Grand Central and the hike up to Second Avenue, lasting 25-30 minutes each. Most are from the 1940s and 50s, though a goodly number are from the 1970s, and originate from the U.S., England, Canada, and South Africa.

The plays often feature the likes of Orson Welles, Vincent Price, and a variety of Broadway stalwarts. Sometimes I can see the ending from a mile away, but once in a while the resolution is a complete shocker. Still, I haven't found any real stinkers, yet. The stories go a long way toward keeping me entertained on a crowded subway, though I might be too scared to listen to them once fall and winter set in, and I'm travelling to and from in the dark.

If you're looking for free horror story downloads, may I suggest:

• The Horror! (Old Time Radio)


• Horror Stories


• Vintage Horror Radio

Excuse me while I grab my blankie, plug in my earphones, and put my thumb in my mouth. Now. Start. Wwwwwwoooooooo!

Extremes

Yesterday was a day of extremes. The Hot/Cold kind. I know I said in my previous post that I felt like pulling the covers over my head, but the day was just to beautiful to do that. Wildly craving fresh tomatoes and basil, I ventured down to Union Square and the big Saturday farmers market. Of course, I couldn't be down 14th Street way and not venture to Sarita's Mac and Cheese (S'mac) on E. 12th and Sundaes & Cones on E. 10th, eh? So here's the "extreme" breakdown.


Hot:

The weather. Sunny and warm, felt like upper-80's but I might be stretching it. NYC has had the third-coolest summer on record, so any time the clouds move out and the sun beams down, we all hit the streets. But all that walking and concrete heat things up. This Southern girl was glowing.

Sarita's Buffalo Chicken mac-and-cheese. Like extra spicy hot wings without the bones and with creamy, cheesey macaroni. Hot, hot, hot, but oh, so good. I try something new every time I visit S'mac. This time it was a toss-up between the Buffalo Chicken and the Masala. I've had the 4-cheese, the Cajun (red peppers and andouille sausage), the French (brie and figs), the Swiss (Gruyere and bacon), and now the Buffalo Chicken. Next time, Masala. I promise.

Sundaes & Cones wasabi ice cream. Y'all know it's my favorite. Sweet but with a great little wasabi-burn to it. Mmmmm.

Cold:

Sitting on an ice block in Union Square at the one-day art installation "Burning Ice." I'm glad I took the time to read the explanatory sign, since one of the artists did a video interview with me as I sat cooling my ass. The melting ice has an environmental message. I'm just sorry I couldn't stick around for the big ice block to turn red. Never mind. Those ice-block benches were pretty darn popular in yesterday's heat.

Sundaes & Cones wasabi ice cream. Brrr cold. And especially cool with a scoop of ginger ice cream to beat down some of the wasabi "heat."

Extremes. Worth coming out from under the covers for, I testify - spicy mac-and-cheese and a frozen rear-end.

Oh, by the way, Shorty fans: As I did with my Mother of the Bride experience in MoBster Diaries, I've started a new blog called Confusions of Grandeur rather than boring you with my grandparenting experience here on Shorty PJs. You're welcome.

Cocooning

Life is unsettled on several fronts right now. Significant down-sizing at work has left us an office of the walking dead (those who are losing their jobs) and the walking wounded (those of us left to carry on). The economy is still if-fy, and even though it seems to be improving, I think we’re all gun-shy and protective of what little money and few benefits we have. And, geez, can we stop hearing about Michael Jackson? Sheesh!

So I’ve decided to pull the covers over my head - figuratively, if not literally. It’s all about comfort, friends: comfort food, comfort music/books/movies, comfort experiences. I’m going at things gently, gently. Avoiding as many unpleasant confrontations as possible. Tiptoeing through any potential mine-fields. Plugging in my earphones and listening to music from the early 1960s, when things were “safe” in my little world. I’m trying to eat healthy-ish, but if it’s a choice of raw veggies or homemade mashed potatoes with butter, I’m peeling the potatoes as I write.

In fact, with the heat and humidity in New York, I believe the time is right for my annual “Christmas in July (or August) Weekend.” I’ll stock up on cocoa, cinnamon, and peppermint, turn the air-conditioning down to frigid, and have a Christmas movie marathon Saturday and Sunday. Deck them halls.

Yes, I’m going to my safe place now. Cocooning. Let me know when it’s OK to come out.

The Coolest Thing That Ever Happened

It wasn't Woodstock or the Beatles. It certainly wasn't the Vietnam War. Or bell-bottoms, the 1964 1/2 Mustang, Jimi, Janis, or Twiggy. Nope. The thing that colored everything from education to politics and television (The Jetsons, many a Twilight Zone episode) for my generation was the Space Race.

The Soviet launch of Sputnik in 1957 threw our parents - and by extension, little us - into a tizzy. Not that we didn't have a morbid fascination about the pointy satellite. I remember many a clear night we'd gather outside just to see it pass overhead. But, by gum, it meant that we Americans had better catch up here. I mean, really. Were we going to let the USSR's German scientists beat our German scientists? Hell, no!

The trickle-down effect of Sputnik on those of us sitting in neat rows in a classroom was more emphasis on math and science (I'm blaming the Space Race for "new" math. Still hold a grudge.) . Oh, and suddenly every schoolroom had a television set so that we could watch every satellite-rocket-capsule launch and orbit. Very cool. We were invested in the Space Race at a very young age, friends.

It got more interesting once we passed the monkey-in-spacesuit stage and moved to the astronaut phase. Alan Shepard and John Glenn were (and still are, I reckon) huge heroes to us Baby Boomers. Talk about reality TV! Whoa! The John Glenn flight is still a nail-biter, even though I know it turns out OK.

But, honestly, did anybody take President Kennedy seriously when he challenged us to send a man to the moon and safely return him to earth within the decade of the 1960's? Hm. Well, whether anybody did or not, NASA hopped right on it, and most of us were right there with 'em. We knew the astronauts, the various space programs (Mercury, Gemini, Apollo), and the types of rockets (Atlas, Saturn).

This week we celebrate the 40th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing. Yes. The Coolest Thing That Ever Happened. I never tire of watching coverage of the event. It's still so incredible that human beings ever set foot on that big silver ball in the sky. Who knew what Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin would find there? (And thanks, Michael Collins, for hanging around in the command module to pick them up, by the way.) Sure there was all kinds of science, but, you know - what if there was something science fiction there that we hadn't counted on? (Fortunately, whew!, not.) And a good chunk our our planet watched the whole Coolest Thing Ever on television together. Bump the coolness factor up a notch.

OK. So here's why I thing the Apollo 11 moon landing ranks as the Coolest Thing That Ever Happened:

1. It was the first time that humans touched the surface of the moon. Really. Not some flying saucer sci-fi movie. Really. And I still have a hard time getting my head around it.

2. We were all invested in it - emotionally, educationally, and - yes - financially. We wanted it to succeed because we'd been taken along for the ride from the beginning; we wanted a happy ending. This is true for Americans, but I suspect lots of folks around the world were invested in the event, too. It brought us together in a good way, not in a bad, calamitous way.

3. It worked! It could have been a disaster, but it wasn't. All those little bolts and screws and all that science and astronaut training worked. Very cool.

4. Moon rocks, baby! Moon rocks!

I feel sorry for those of you too young to remember it. Can't imagine what you'd consider the Coolest Thing That Ever Happened, but I bet whatever it is can't begin to compare. Because for 40 years the second thought that enters my head when I see the moon (right after "Wow!") is that earth-bound humans have hopped around in its dust. And that is just the coolest thing that ever happened.

Ode to My Own Bed

Oh it's fine to travel here and yon
For work or rest or play -
To Bombay, Beijing, Bruges, or Bonn.
A change of scene is good, they say.

But whatever the climate or the price
Or wherever I lay my head,
Neither a sleeping bag nor silk sheets entice
In comparison to my own dear bed.

A 5-star hotel offers no finer rest,
Than my mattress that fits me just right.
No pop star or royalty ever possessed,
Such worn soft old sheets that invite.

The down of my featherbed and comfy duvet,
Afford perfect rest for my bones.
My pillows are perfect. I know it's cliche -
But nothing compares to that bed of my own.

So while travel is fun and exciting to do,
More than a few days of it causes such dread,
Because no place on earth can ever renew
Like a night in my very own bed.

If your heart is in your dream . . .

. . . no request is too extreme. Not even going back in time 50 years and being an 8-year-old kid at Disneyland.

OK. I wasn't able to actually be an 8-year-old kid, but I sure acted like one. I screamed my head off during all the "mountain" rides: Space, Thunder, Splash. I talked to all the creatures in Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, Alice in Wonderland, Pinocchio, Snow White, and Peter Pan. I twirled those Teacups at nausea-inducing speed and sang along with the birds and flowers in The Enchanted Tiki Room. In short, I channeled my inner 8-year-old. And it was incredibly therapeutic.

I got to go to "The Happiest Place on Earth" twice during my recent visit to Anaheim: once with Lil Sis and Bro-in-Law - full day fun - and once on a Twilight Pass with a friend from work once all our work-duties were done. I thoroughly enjoyed both visits.

After years of frequenting DisneyWorld in Florida, I finally got to return to the original park that my family ventured to in 1959. Yes, my Golden Anniversary. No matter how many times I was told that DisneyWorld is massively larger than Disneyland, I just couldn't believe it in my 8-year-old-memory head. Once I went back to the original, I can attest that, yes, it is teeny-tiny compared to DisneyWorld.

My recap? Here 'tis:

• Disneyland's Sleeping Beauty castle is almost laughably small. I had forgotten that it looks so different from DisneyWorld's Cinderella castle. All I can say is, when Sleeping Beauty wakes up and sees how gigantic Cindy's castle is, she is going to be right pissed!



• The great thing about little Disneyland is that it's very doable in just a few hours. Things aren't as spread out as the Florida park. It's cozier.



• Disneyland has a few rides that DisneyWorld doesn't, mostly rides I remember from my visit in 1959: Alice in Wonderland, Storybook Land, Pinocchio. Evidently, DW doesn't have a Mr. Toad's Wild Ride anymore (What's up with that? It used to have one.). Of course, DW has rides that Disneyland doesn't have, so I guess it's a wash. But even the same rides are different in the two parks.



• You get to go to Hell and back in Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. There's something satisfying in that. (To DisneyWorld: Put that ride back!)



• Disneyland has New Orleans Square (with Pirates of Caribbean, Haunted Mansion). DisneyWorld has Liberty Square (with Hall of Presidents, Haunted Mansion - Pirates is in Adventureland, I think, at DW). Nice restaurants in New Orleans Square, by the way.



• The Astro Orbiter that brother David loved "shifting gears" in during our 1959 visit has been revamped to look more Jules Verne than the NASA-type rocket orbiter of 50 years ago. So, in a way, the Orbiter looks more 19th-century than Jetson-like. Interesting.



• Loved the Buzz Lightyear ride, shooting my ray gun and racking up points. Woo-hoo!



• No Carousel of Progress. :-( Guess we've just progressed too much (though I think it's still at DisneyWorld).



• Matterhorn - great as it was when brand new in 1959, though I did remind Lil Sis that the thing was 50 years old as we ascended the first hill. Probably not good timing.



• The new E-ticket rides in 1959 were The Matterhorn, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea Submarines, and the Monorail (probably not really an E-ticket) - all still going strong. Alas, the 20,000 Leagues theme has been changed to Nemo - very disappointing. Go back to 20,000 Leagues, Disneyland!



• Worst ride? Indiana Jones and Temple of Doom. A lawsuit (or 50) waiting to happen. I love thrill rides, but this was just jarring and jolting. It hurt! Yuck.



• Swiss Family Robinson Treehouse has been changed to Tarzan's Treehouse. I'm a little sad, but I can live with it.

So, if your dream is to spend a little time as your 8-year-old self, try Disneyland. It's cute as all git-out. And thanks again, Mother and Daddy, for showing us the Happiest Place on Earth fifty years ago.

Hotel Sweet Hotel

Living in a hotel for two weeks is not all it's cracked up to be. Oh, sure, I have floor-to-ceiling windows, a massive down-comfortered king-sized bed, and nice flat-screen TV. Room service at my fingertips. Maid service. All the ice I could possibly want.

But it ain't home. The view from those floor-to-ceiling windows is kind of flat with some brown mountains in the background and a smattering of lights, not my funky Spanish Harlem skyline with spectacular sunsets. I would gladly trade this king-sized bed for my old double bed with perfect pillows, just right for me. And my ancient boat-anchor television set is all I really need - this fancy-schmancy TV is a waste.

Can you tell I'm homesick? Two weeks is too long to put up with complicated alarm clocks, weird bathroom faucets, tiny little shampoo bottles , and a toilet tissue roller that's almost impossible to reach. Or without my own little kitchen, easy chair, and the sound of Metro North trains rumbling under my window.

Maybe it would be different if I could spend my days around the pool or romping about in Disneyland. But this is no vacation. And not even a wonderful hotel room can take the place of my own little apartment, full of familiar things, at the end of a long day.

Believe me, I'm grateful to have a job where a two-week hotel stay is about the only thing I have to complain about. Still, I'm counting the days until those rattling Metro North trains rock me to sleep at night.

From the "Happiest Place on Earth"

Happy Independence Day! More to come about our Disneyland adventure, but for now: Happy Birthday USA!

Gonna take a sentimental journey . . .

In the summer of 1959, two very brave parents loaded their four children (ages 6-14) into a station wagon and struck out from Chattanooga, Tennessee, for California and the vacation of a lifetime. Three weeks of camping out in state and national parks, soaking up the countryside, living on Spam and capping it off with a trip to Disneyland - what were they thinkin'?

The itinerary was impressive. Bro and I worked it out as best we could remember:
1. Chattanooga, Tennessee (home)
2. Chickasaw State Park, Tennessee
3. Sallisaw State Park, Oklahoma
4. Amarillo, Texas
5. Glorieta, New Mexico (a fancy church conference center; yeah, we had to go to church)
6. Mesa Verde, Colorado (cliff dwellings - my favorite!)
7. Grand Canyon (South Rim), Arizona
8. Big Bear, California
9. Anaheim, California (yea! Finally, Disneyland!)
10. Zion National Park, Utah
11. Salt Lake City, Utah
12. Moab, Utah (to see friends of Mother and Daddy)
13. Grand Junction, Colorado (we're unsure of the name of the town)
14. Somewhere close to Kansas City, Kansas (just a big old lonely field in back of that motel)
15. Granite City, Illinois (to see the Nash cousins)
16. Nashville, Tennessee (to see the Frazier/Greene cousins)
17. Chattanooga, Tennessee (home)

Makes me tired to think of it, but only in retrospective. As kids, it was a great adventure. No planning on our part, of course; we just fell in line and piled into and out of the car when told. Imagine the months of organizing that went into this trip! I wish I'd asked Mother and Daddy about it.

So. This year marks the 50th (50th!!) anniversary of that wild Frazier vacation to California. Tomorrow I head for California for 2 1/2 weeks, mostly for work. But I start it off with a visit to Lil Sis, who now lives in Yorba Linda, right next to Anaheim.

And on Thursday, she and I and Bro-in-law will pay a Golden Anniversary Commemorative visit to Disneyland. I haven't been there since 1959, though I've been to DisneyWorld in Florida lots of times. I do wonder how Disneyland of 2009 will stack up against the memories of an 8-year-old Tennessee girl. Will the Matterhorn seem as big? Is the bucket ride still there? Will Mr. Toad's Wild Ride still be, er, wild?

Dear Mother and Daddy: Thank you for stuffing us into that blue and white Chevy station wagon and taking us on the most incredible, memorable vacation that was ever known to four children. It was fun and educational and unforgettable. I'll even forgive the camping and the Spam.

Wonder if I can get a pair of gold Mickey ears?

Ooh, Grandma! What a big mouth you have!

Just got the news from daughter Kate. I'm going to be a grandma! She and Greg are over the moon. Baby due end of February-March (they'll find out more when she goes for the blood test next week). Congratulations to the Mama- and Daddy-to-be!

I told Kate that I'd wait until she gave me the go-ahead to make the announcement, thinking they might want to keep it to themselves for a bit. But she said there wasn't any way she could keep that secret, so I was free to let the world know.

And thanks to Blogger, Facebook, and Twitter, I'm doing just that. Ooh, Grandma! What a big mouth you have!

Girls of Gold

A couple of weeks ago, we had our annual Girlfriends Weekend. Last year's gathering was sort of a 6-day "weekend" in New York, so this year we headed for a more bucolic setting - Blue Ridge, Georgia. As always, it was time spent catching up, gossiping, wondering "where are they now?" - all enhanced with lots of munchies and adult beverages.

Blue Ridge offered lots of advantages (for example, a lovely big cabin with a spectacular view and a hot tub), not the least of which was that we were just up the hill from my brother's mountain home. Bro and Bill - yeah, the two Bills - greeted us with champagne and a cheese tray on Friday and treated us to a splendiferous dinner on Saturday night. As I said, Blue Ridge has it's advantages. And a good time was had by all.

The weekend coincided with my rediscovering of the TV show "The Golden Girls" of late. With the recent death of Bea Arthur, programmers have taken the opportunity to run GG marathons and add the show back to the play list, I suppose. I'd forgotten how laugh-out-loud funny the show is, by the way. Hilarious writing, plus each actress being true to her particular shtick, makes it timeless. Only the massive shoulder pad fashions nail it to the 80s-90s period.

I've been trying to match up my own Golden Girls with the TV counterparts, but I haven't been very successful. OK, let's face it, I'm definitely the Dorothy Zbornak type - bossy, sarcastic - though I wish I had a touch more Blanche Devereaux sexiness and Rose Nylund sweetness. But the Girls? Hmm. I'm not sure they fit exactly. I think each of them are a combination of sweetness, sexiness, and sarcastic. Wonder which GG character my friends identify with?

Maybe it's time for a few more "stereotypes" and another go at a Golden Girls-type program. That said, don't call it The Golden Girls. And it better have some damn funny writing.

I do know this. That I love my own Girls of Gold and treasure our time together. Next year, the beach?

Simma' down!

Imagine being 88 years old and so saturated with anger that you march yourself to the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC and start firing away. White hot anger. Dangerous, soul-splitting anger.

Instead of sitting on the back porch enjoying a bowl of ice cream with his grandkids or training for a community 5K run, James von Brunn preferred nurturing his white supremacist views and his deep hatred of Jews. Taking in big scoops of vileness via the internet and meetings with like-minded souls. Souls who spend every waking minute in twisted anger, blaming whole groups of people for whatever ails them. This is no Angry Young Man. This is a guy who has spent his whole life wrapped/warped in hate.

What a waste of life, health, and love. Who needs sky-rocketing blood pressure, dodgy ulcers, little capillaries just waiting to explode in your brain? More importantly, who wants to miss deep, fun, loving relationships?

When I think of the people I love, I find they belong to all sorts of "groups." White-bread folks. Jews. African Americans. Latinos. Blonds. Yankees. Gay. Straight. Muslims. Rednecks (not the same as white supremacists). Shoot, there may even be a white supremacist in there somewhere (hope not, but I'll love 'em anyway). Why, I wouldn't give up any of them, even if something ticks me off about their particular "group" at one time or another.

People aren't groups. People aren't demographics. People are individuals. True, some are lousy -yeah, we can all name a few of them. But most folks are just wonderful, and life is richer for loving and learning from them.

If you don't like someone, move on. But don't spend your life poking around in the flames of hatred. Don't repeatedly strike a match to kerosene for 88 years, for God's sake. Turn down the heat. Go have some ice cream with somebody you do love. Get a hobby that's not built on hate.

In short, simma' down!

Manhattan babies don't sleep tight until the dawn

Finally. My life has a soundtrack. Having been the last creature on earth to fall into the MP3 pit, I am now the owner of a slim, spiffy hot pink iPod, thanks to Daughter and Son-in-Law. It took a couple of weeks to figure out the whole iTunes thing and how to move my music from CD to the darn thing, but I think I've got the hang of it now.

This tiny little thing holds lots of song favorites, a couple of audiobooks, and several podcasts, allowing me to shut out everyone else's iPod noise on the subway. Fine with me. But over the past few days, one playlist has risen above the others to get me to and from work - New York songs.

Any idea how many songs there are about New York City? A ba-zillion. Far and away more songs have been written about NYC than any other city on earth - nothing comes close. I'm sure I'll be downloading to the playlist from now till doomsday, but here's what I have so far:

New York State of Mind - Billy Joel (Don't care if it's Chinatown, or 'round Riverside . . . )

Rhapsody in Blue - original George Gershwin recording with Paul Whiteman Orchestra (#1 New York song of the ages. Perfectly captures the city's rhythms.)

Theme from "New York, New York" - Frank Sinatra (Start spreadin' the news. I'll probably add in Liza's version as well, since it was her song in the first place.)

Lullaby of Broadway - Jerry Orbach and cast of "42nd Street" (Allentown? The hip-hooray and ballyhoo.)

Arthur's Theme - Christopher Cross (When you get caught between the moon and, well, you-know-where.)

Take the A Train - Duke Ellington (Too cool for its own good.)

On Broadway - George Benson (. . . and one thin dime won't even shine your shoes.)

Boy from New York City - Manhattan Transfer (Oooooh, weeee. You ought to come and see.)

Manhattan - Ella Fitzgerald (But I'll only take Manhattan, not the Bronx and Staten Island, too.)

NYC - from "Annie" (Too hot. Too cold. Too late, I'm sold.)

The 59th Street Bridge Song - Simon and Garfunkel (Lookin' for fun and feelin' groovy.)

New York, New York - (from "On the Town") Mel Torme (A helluva town.)

And I've just scratched the surface. Lots of my New York favorites aren't here yet. But let me tell ya', folks, nothing perks up the walking pace like "On Broadway" or "Rhapsody in Blue." And as yellow taxis whiz by and the top of the Chrysler Building comes into view, I feel like I'm in the middle of my own private 1930's movie.

I own this town, baby! Me and George, Ella, Frank, and Jerry. The Bronx is up and the Battery's down.