A Grown Daughter's First Thanksgiving

(In loving memory of all the Moms and holiday cooks whose chairs are empty at our tables)


For many years my mother and aunts hosted all the holiday dinners. We gathered on a more or less rotating basis at the table of whoever was cooking, my young cousins and I never giving it much thought except to agree that the day was always delicious.


Somewhere along a not very clearly drawn line, the torch was passed and my generation became the dinner doers. The graying and slightly fragile women took a well deserved backseat to the hubbub, appearing with a baked offering and memories to be shared from a comfortable seat out of the kitchen. I accepted my torch willingly and held the holiday Olympics at my table for 20 years or so.


Last year, my daughter married and moved into her new home. She reminded my mother that she had long ago promised her Great Grandma’s dining room furniture. Moving day found it in her dining room with my daughter excitedly promising that the next holiday, Thanksgiving, would be at her house. I held my breath a little. Could the next relay of the torch be commencing?


In early November, the discussions began. “Mom, you are going to bring the stuffed mushrooms?” my daughter asked. “You know they’re my favorite and nobody makes them like you do.”


“Of course,” I told her. How easy, I thought. Just make the mushrooms. I’ll finally get to watch the parade on Thanksgiving morning. I could see myself lounging on the sofa, sipping coffee and watching the balloons float past Macys.

“How about making the stuffing?” My daughter asked a few days later. “You make the best stuffing, “ she went on, “It’s the only kind we like.” Well okay, mushrooms and stuffing. Still pretty easy. I can do it the night before and still relax all morning. “No problem,” I agreed.


Then the matter of the old oven in her new house and its unreliability surfaced. They were going to try to replace it after the holiday, my daughter explained. It wasn’t working quite right. I envisioned a half-cooked turkey or dinner eaten at midnight after waiting hours for the bird to brown. “Since I’m already making the stuffing, why don’t I just cook the turkey at my house and bring it over?” I said. “Fine, “ she said. “Oh, and could you make the gravy? Mine never tastes as good as yours.”


“Well, I guess I’ll make it at your house while you’re getting everything else together,” I told her, making a mental note to add the necessary ingredients to my shopping list.


My son asked if I would please make the candied yams. “I don’t think Lorraine know how to make them,” he said, frowning at the thought of his favorite part of the meal tasting any different. “And you’re making the pumpkin pie, right? Yours is the best.” I nodded and added it all to the list.


I bought the ingredients and located the baking dish for the green bean casserole before I was asked.


Wednesday afternoon the aromas in my house teased of the next day’s feast. All requests were finally completed and stowed in the refrigerator sometime after midnight. I roused myself at 3 a.m. to get the 20 pound turkey stuffed and in the oven, having calculated extra cooling, wrapping and transporting time into the usual minutes per pound rule. This of course was after my earlier nightgown clad run to the backyard trash can to retrieve the turkey wrapper that stated exactly how Tom weighed in.


Later that morning I packed up the hot turkey and it’s trimmings. On the fifth or sixth trip to the car I caught a glimpse of the Macy’s Parade Santa as the credits rolled, continuing my personal 20 year tradition. Heaven knows that I’d hardly recognize him without the words scrolling over his beard and button nose.


My daughter was setting the table and opening cans of olives when we arrived. Hunks of cheese and marinated mushrooms straight from the jar gave off a lovely aroma from the wedding gift serving dishes being used for the first time. “I made a chocolate pie,” she told me. “You know, instant pudding in a graham cracker crust.” “Uh huh,” I said as I handed her two pumpkin pies and the apple pie I knew my brother liked.


I heated and stirred and concocted the gravy from my arsenal of mobile ingredients. She boiled potatoes so I could mash them but I was relieved of that task when she accidentally dumped them down the drain.


We finally gathered around Great Grandma’s table sparkling with the new china and crystal on it’s maiden voyage. Satisfied looks and groans assured that dinner was just as expected. As always, food and conversation were savored far into the evening.


Much later when the dishes were done and the leftover packed up for journey home with their perspective takers, I eased myself into the corner of the sofa and relaxed. My middle-aged muscles ached and I gave into the overwhelming urge to close my eyes. I was just drifting off comfortably when my daughter plopped down beside me. Leaning against me she exhaled a long sigh.


“I’m exhausted,” she exclaimed. “This sure was a lot of work.” She paused and I felt her nodding her head with conviction. “I think we should have Thanksgiving at your house next year,” she said firmly.


I pretended to be asleep.



Linda Radice 2003

(Note: This article was previously published in the Westfield Leader Newspaper, November 17,2003.)

Episode 3, 1-800-ITS-HELL

Amazing as it sounds, Dell has one telephone number that works.  No employee knows any other number.  Last night I asked, very calmly, just where the main office, where Mother Dell makes the rules, is located.  Nobody knows. I had done a little research earlier on the net and found a number of locations in the US, all with telephone numbers.  I tried all of them.  The ones that were not a constant busy signal (really) instructed me to put in an extension number with the caveat that if I did not have one I would be disconnected.  I was. 


I don't know if Dell started out that way or if it was only after Dell Hell was created, but the big cats and the main Kahuna are  obviously avoiding everyone except their investment advisers.   According to my nightly phone friends, they have no idea whose in charge or where they are. 


It occurred to me that I could take a little leap in an attempt to sound like I knew what I was talking about.  Hey they've been doing  that to me for a week. I figured now it was my turn.  I told the first representative I was passed to that since I was doing business with Dell and purchasing a product from them,  I was entitled know what state they were incorporated in  so that I can check to see whether or not they are a business in good standing.  Suddenly I was passed onto another guy who quickly supplied  an address which actually turned out to be  just a mail stop mailing address.  I think I made him a little nervous though,  because he kept telling me that was all he was "allowed" to give out.   He also reaffirmed that there is only one phone number in the entire universe for Dell.


I suppose in our age of cell phone communications,  the families of Dell employees don't have to be supplied with an office telephone number. Maybe they do get one but must memorize it and are not allowed to write it down anywhere.   Then again, it could work like the CIA and no one will disclose that  a family member is employed there.   Come to think of it, I've never known anyone who worked for Dell.  My salesman's name was John Brown.  I'd spoken to representatives, natives of a country halfway around the world, that gave their names as  Bill Clark, Pat Jones and Bob Lane.  The devil takes many disguises...

But again I was calm and kept myself busy with other things while they "checked the details"  and "were very sorry for your problem."  I threw a bag of popcorn into the microwave and flipped through a couple of magazines while I waited to be connected, re-connected, and in between repeating my tale of woe. I calculate that even with their cheapo 800 number deal, I must be costing them something with my nightly calls.  I've  spent more than  15 hours on the phone on their bill, and every person I spoke to has logged the call into the system.  Sooner or later someone might figure out that eventually I'll cost them more in phone calls than the price of the monitor they can't seem to find.   If not, at the very least my nightly calls have forced me to relax, re-direct my thoughts, ponder some the great questions of the universe. Why is it that there are always a few infernal kernels of corn that just won't pop?

And on it goes...

The Missing Monitor, Episode 2

(The saga continues.)


It is possible that the devil might be a little overburdened lately.  What with Bin Laden still missing and, uh, so many Republicans,  he apparently had no choice but to cut back and outsource an entire division of Hell. 


I must have done something heinous in a past life, because Dell Hell has a spot with my name on it. It is  somewhere between the automated phone system and the last person I spoke to at the end of a three hour telephone marathon with no finish line in sight.   Of the  fourteen people I conversed with in an attempt to locate the missing monitor,  " we are very sorry for your problem"  was the one thing spoken clearly and emphatically by each one.  Other than that, nobody has a solution or any information.    


 In the course of three hours, I was disconnected four times and had to begin the entire process again.  Automated menu, order number, choose a dept, get an alleged "customer care representative," and begin the tale, complete with reading off order numbers again and verifying my identity. Half say the monitor was never shipped.  The other half thinks the monitor may have been shipped but they can't track it because there is no tracking number.  I admit I never took Shipping 101, nor do I have an MSS (Master of Shipping Shit) degree, but I would think that if there is no freaking tracking number folks, you damn well never put it in a box with my name on it and sent it out the door.  


I called them first on Monday to say that the monitor had not been received.  They told me I had to call back in 24 hours in order to allow enough time to "track it."  I gave them 72 hours before calling back.  Now they tell me to call back in another 24 to 48 hours because their "tracking records" have not been updated. Obviously, a sub-section of  Dell  Hell is Tracking Hell. 


Today I called the salesman I bought the damn thing with.  He had given me his phone number and direct extension which he has no idea how he will live to regret.  He graciously offered to help after listening to my story...and promptly connected me back to the same "customer care" (and to the wrong department) which was only ascertained after I went through my entire routine.  I was then transferred to another "I'm very sorry for your problem" woman. I finally told her  that I was sending everything back because the ordeal was making me sick and I just figured out that the antidote will be a MacIntosh.   "Oh you shouldn't do that," she said, "because you won't get properly credited."   This they understand how to do. So now they'll hold me hostage with my credit card whether I have the all the pieces or not.


The interesting part is that I noticed on my shipping bill that although I was having the thing shipped to my office, they had the billing address (my home address)  incorrect and called  to tell them so.  They "customer-cared" me immediately.  One phone call. One person. Two minutes.   


When last seen,  Miss Missing Monitor was tied to the railroad tracks with a steam engine bearing down upon her...

A Little Bit Longer...

(This is the first installment of the saga written a couple of years ago when I replaced my computer. It was cathartic in the writing as, in such situations, I have to laugh. Enjoy and stay tuned.)

I keep praying that my computer is not going to crash before I receive all the parts to put together the new one.  My old friend is short of breath and often cannot flex its tired electronic muscles from one task to the next.  I'm nursing it gently and not asking too much of it at one time. It blinks back at me like an elderly person with a confused smile as it struggles to remember the answer to my mouse-clicking questions.   Each time I have to re-boot in the middle of a function, I feel like the administrator of an electro shock therapy jolt to its befuddled brain.  And then I hope that I've zapped the right spot and not caused an internal sizzle that puts an end to it all.  So far my buddy keeps coming back to me each time I have to click again to restore its settings and cancel some odd pop up boxes that I don't recognize and scream "Warning" in red letters.   I keep mumbling, "Come on honey just hold on a little while longer," every time I sit down and turn it on. This is partly because I am sentimental, but also because I am pathetically disorganized and hereby confess to never having backed up much of anything it has stored for me.


Not to mention any names...but DELL...has not completed its piecemeal delivery of the new kid.  First they sent the printer.  That came two weeks ago.  Then a day or two later they sent the surge protector all by itself in a huge box. I got a big cushioned envelope with the data transfer thing-y in it a couple of days after that.  A week or so went by and I received the new design hybrid little red computer tower itself and a couple of assorted cables and discs.   They had said it would take a week to "build" so I figured that  was pretty well right on target.   The only thing I didn't get is the monitor, and as of now I am well past my "outside ship date."   


Two phone calls later to the outsourced location, which may be great for technical support but the stuff is being shipped from the U.S. for pity sake, and they keep telling me that they cannot trace the status  BUT the monitor hasn't been shipped yet anyway. They know it hasn't been shipped but they don't know why, and they can't trace it because they have no idea what location it’s being shipped from. 


 Perhaps I'm walking on the organizational practical side...an uncommon little trip for me...but I would have thought that the monitor would have been one of those simple early parts to ship.   I'll try calling them again today.  My friend on the other continent told me I have to wait  24 hours to try for information on alleged missing parts. Like reporting an adult missing person who might just have run away and doesn't want to be found.  I think maybe they are hoping it will call and let them know what bus station it’s holed up in.    

Meanwhile, my computer is hanging in there, an ongoing time capsule with mostly everything I've ever written stored inside.  I'm hoping it shares the rapport I feel for it and will keep it all safe just a little bit longer.   Stay tuned and keep your fingers crossed.  

What Is In Your Closet?

I'm in the middle of clearing out years of stuff from my house. I'm finding things I haven't seen in years, buried deep in closets and every place else I've put things for storage. I keep asking myself why I ever bought most of it in the first place. I'm not talking about the two cases of light bulbs, a carton of tile trivets, and outdated greeting cards left over from my son's Cub Scout fund raiser days. I know why I bought them. That was an act of charity predicated on not wanting to accompany an eight year old door to door and impose upon all our relatives. Everyone always bought the candy, but the hard goods didn't move much.


I found my Suzanne Sommers Thigh Master that I attempted once and should have returned under the money back guarantee. I found the contraption with a pulley that got hooked to a door knob and rubbery ropes that attached to the wrists and ankles. I actually followed the directions on that one, got down on the floor and hooked myself up to exercise. The pulley flew off the doorknob and whacked me in the head. I believe that is what happened before I threw it in the closet, but the resulting mini concussion may have wiped the exact circumstances from my memory. I found a second set of ankle weights. Why I have enough for four ankles, I don't know. However, I do make excellent use of the first set set because the box they are still sealed in makes a perfect doorstop. There are curtain rods in unopened packages, shelving I never put up, and a couple of Christmas gifts I hid when the kids were little and forgot where I put them. There are bags of clothing that I was certain would come back into style. Most of it has, three or four times without ever leaving the bag. I have warranties from appliances and gadgets I barely remember owning.


I have saved bank statements and insurance policies from companies that went out of business a decade ago. I have a copy of every income tax return I ever filed. I keep these things because I'm always worried that I'll have to prove something. I'm certain that as soon as I throw out those canceled checks from 1972, someone will knock on my door and demand to see proof that I paid the insurance premium on my ex-husband's car or want a copy the check for the bassinet we bought for my now 38 year old daughter before she was born. There are paid bills from credit cards I cut up 20 years ago. I keep thinking maybe one of them will send me a notice that they have no record of the bill being paid, that interest and late payments have continued to accrue, and I now owe them four hundred thousand dollars. I want to be able to pull the hard copy check with the big red bank stamp on it and say, "Ah hah!!"


The truth is that I've never had to prove anything. No one has ever asked for a canceled check or a bill stamped 'paid in full.'


Once the IRS sent me a letter stating in their frightening official way that I hadn't filed a return for a certain year. I thought I finally would have vindication for taking up the entire back of the closet from floor to ceiling with boxes of my saved paperwork. I could victoriously say, "So there!" to my friends who laugh about my belief that I will one day be called to substantiate my innocence with a crumbling piece of paper. I called the telephone number on the letter as the IRS asked me to. I explained that I had filed a return for that year and would be happy to send them a copy. I also told them that they had even sent me a refund for that year and I could send them a copy of that bank deposit as further proof. The woman asked for my social security number, checked in her computer, and then said that it was their mistake. THEY had gotten a number wrong. I asked where to send my proof that I had filed. She proceeded to tell me that it wasn't necessary and I could just ignore the letter. She apologized for the error. Not only did I not have to use documentation from my obsessively saved stash, the Internal Revenue Service told me to ignore something. And they were nice about it.


Everything else is being tossed, but I'm thinking maybe I just should let all my "proofs" remain snoozing, dusty and yellowing, like some old good luck charm in the back of my closet.

Time passing

I know I have no concept of the passage of time. I'll say something like "I just bought that stove" to one of my kids, and they'll look at me exasperated, "Mom, you bought that 12 years ago." I also can't recall when they adopted that annoying eye-rolling thing they do either.


Yesterday I was trying to remember when we painted the living room. I know we painted it the same color twice, but I can't recall the last time and the old trick of using events as a measure isn't working. Was that after we put the new tile floor in the bathroom? The year we got the dog? I know we painted it after we got the new light fixture in the dining room. That was the time we painted everything because before the new chandelier went in we painted the ceiling...which made the dining room walls look dingy so we painted them...which made the living room and sun porch look dingy...so we painted them too. I spent months cleaning rash-like paint spots off the hardwood floors and refer to that episode as the Great Painting Epidemic. When did we buy the chandelier? I could ask the kids, but I'm just not up to it.


This quirk runs in my family. One day my brother was visiting and noticed a broken electrical socket that needed to be replaced. We weren't using it, had covered it with a electrical tape, and it was in a corner hidden behind a chair. My brother, who was an electrician, said he would come by in a few days and replace it because he didn't want "the baby" to possibly touch it and get a shock. I suppose it wasn't all that long ago that he thinks he promised to return with a new socket and he had mentioned that he hadn't forgotten on several occasions. Some time has gone by. No one has touched the socket, the chair in the corner has been replaced twice, and "the baby" will be 32 years old in December.


One of my uncles used to write the date he painted a room on the wall in an inconspicuous spot. He was one of those meticulous organized men, with every screw and nail sorted and separated by size and type in jars. I can still see my aunt pointing to the scribble and justifying her pleas for new color, "See, you haven't painted this room in 15 years!" He couldn't deny it. Then he would have to get out the drop cloths and brushes instead of playing golf or going fishing.


Not being able to remember and leaving something tangible to hold you accountable is probably mostly a good thing. But since I'm not looking forward to the whole ordeal, I think I'll pour another cup of coffee and spend a little more time ruminating around in the luxury of forgetfulness.

The Boardwalk Argument

(I'm back at the Coney Island boardwalk again with a memory and a smile. For everyone who knew our friend Steve, you'll appreciate how much he loved this and his laughter)


Late in the afternoon after one of the Mermaid Parades, we were walking on the boardwalk and found ourselves behind a woman with a little dog on a leash. It was hard not to notice her. She was statuesque, dark haired, and wearing loose gauzy white pants and a long top that caught the wind, alternately billowing out and then wrapping around her frame. The dog was a fluffy white little number in a red jeweled collar who kept disappearing into the legs of its mistresses’ pants when the wind blew in that direction.


The woman looked back and then strode faster ahead of us. A few moments later, a short, chubby man came abreast of us obviously trying to catch up with her. He stopped, dramatically put his hands out to his sides and leaned back, palms up as if he was ready to belt out an aria. "Sheila!.....Sheeeiiillllaaaaa!" She didn't stop. "Shheeeilllaaaa!" he bellowed again to her, to the heavens, and to the crowd. She walked faster.


We then learned that apparently his name was Dickhead. "Dickhead!" she yelled back at him over her shoulder without losing her long-legged pace. He ran faster. "Shheeeiillaa!," his arms still outstretched. "Dickhead!!" she screamed back. It continued back and forth between them with everyone watching the ambulating argument as it passed by. She'd stop. He'd stop. The dog would stop and try to lay down for a rest. He'd croon, "Sheeiilla?"and she'd tug the dog up and shout back over her shoulder, "Dickhead!" with her arms waving like white sails.


She stopped for lemonade. He got on line next to her and moaned, "Sheila." She took her paper cup and hissed "Dickhead." She took off again. He persisted, stamping his feet. "Sheila??" She walked backwards for a moment jabbing her lemonade in his direction and enunciating the two syllables screeching-ly succinct. “Dick..Head!" He dropped to one knee, his hand on his chest. She glared and turned her back. They were oblivious.


I can't tell you how long the Coney Island boardwalk is by yards, but we walked the length of it absorbed in this argument consisting of two names by two passionate characters in an unwitting performance. When they reached the steps to walk down to the street, he put his arms out once more. "Sheila?" She stopped. "Dickhead." Suddenly, it was over with no other words spoken. We watched them step down to the sidewalk and disappear around the corner, arm in arm, the dog trotting next to them.


For years afterward, and most importantly after Steve became so sick, I could always make him laugh by saying, "I wonder whatever happened to Sheila and Dickhead?" I hope they catch the good thoughts I send them now and then, thanking them for making the memory that enabled me to laugh with my friend just a few more times.

Water Rising

I'm watching the news coverage on upcoming tropical storms and thinking about my own experience a few years ago with hurricane Floyd. That morning I went to work in my office up in the mountains where the heavy downpour all day didn't seem threatening. It was my own fault that I stayed too long. We flood down here in the valley, and I know that the main highway (Rt. 22) gets impassable and shut down for much less than what Floyd was dumping. I was busy and loyal and foolish enough to want " finish just one more thing" before heading home.


Rt 22 had already been closed for hours and I had to take back roads. A mile or so later, my car stalled from water for the first time but I was able to get it started and switch over to a higher road. The higher roads ran out pretty soon, and each new attempt at finding another that was passable eventually brought me to a point where the water was too high to drive through. Five hours later…for what usually is a twenty minute drive...I got about three blocks from home. The entire time my cell phone would not work even though it was fully charged, and I couldn't call to let anyone know where I was or what was happening.


It is scary to see water rising in front of you, but truly terrifying to see it quickly blocking the path behind you and being trapped in between. The water was suddenly creeping up the sides, and then in what seemed like seconds, over the hood and heading towards the windshield. The pressure against the door made it impossible to push open from the inside, and the water rushed in from the little crack I managed to achieve. The car had electric windows that were all tightly shut and inoperable. I was trapped and the car was slowing filling.

Someone was watching out for me because I stalled right in front of some young men who were watching from higher ground. They ran over and were able to pull the door open and me out, and held onto me as we walked out of the waist deep water. None of the three spoke English, but it is easy to communicate concern for another human being. They insisted I use their cell phone (which worked) to call home, and even went over and floated my car out of the deepest water. I wound up on one side of the overflowing brook and a bridge that separated me from home. I was able to wade over the bridge and walk one street over where my family came to meet me and take me the remaining two blocks.


Later on people asked why I didn't just find some high ground and sit in the car and wait. Of course that would have been the reasonable thing to do. It is hard to explain the pull that makes you want to just get home when you are in such a precarious situation. I didn't care about losing the car, all I wanted was to see my house and the faces in it. I wanted my dry pajamas and slippers. I wanted a cup of coffee at my kitchen table. I thought I could find a way to get there.


When I watch the people who say they won't evacuate in the face of an oncoming storm, I can understand how home can trump water rising. I could have drowned had it not been for those men whose names I never learned. They waived my thanks away and watched to make sure I made it over the bridge. My family was worried sick for a few hours. It was a stupid thing on my part. But I look at the faces of those people who insist they are staying put and know that it is not about the structure or the possessions in it.


When you're scared you want to go home…and you want to stay there.

A LIttle Bit About Fate

People find each other for a reason. I guess that’s fate. We all wander around bumping into and bouncing off each other. We get the answers as to why in bits and pieces, not in a Technicolor full screen version with a back story and a director's interview.


My friend Steve and I used to joke about it. We grew up two towns apart and still lived in the same place. Despite the fact that we went to lots of the same places as kids, teen-agers and adults and even knew some of the same people, we never met until we were over 50.


After he was diagnosed with Multiple Myeloma he asked if I would be his health care advocate in the event he became incapable of making his own decisions. We did it legally with all the properly executed paperwork. We talked about the things he wanted and how he felt about death and dying and we got all of that straight. What we didn't anticipate was how sick he would become and that his hospitalization would stretch to almost a year. After a couple of months he began telling the doctors and nurses to "ask Linda" whenever something needed to be discussed. I couldn't blame him, it was enough just to hang on, to deal with the sometimes daily dialysis, the pain in his back, and the very understandable depression.


Four months in, he went into the Intensive Care Unit for the first time and my schedule became daily trips to the hospital and remained so for the duration. I had to agree and sign for every procedure, bags and bags of blood and platelets, surgeries, intubations. There were so many specialists I started a list just to keep their names straight.


The important thing was that my friend was waiting each day for me to come. The ICU nurses would tell me that he would ask them throughout the day what time it was and when I would be arriving. Sometimes if he was confused from the medication, he told them that he heard my voice and that I was standing right outside his door. When his vocal chords were damaged by the intubation tubes and he was unable to talk, he would take my hand and kiss it and mouth "thank you," over and over.


There were horrible bad times when he raged and hated everyone, including me. It was so hard not to view my dear friend as hateful and hurtful, and I confess to sometimes losing that battle with myself. "Why am I doing this?" I would wonder, “the rest of my life is on hold while I take care of this person who says such mean things.” Articulate Steve knew how to say beautiful words, and could sting so very thoroughly with them as well.


But in the end there was such a peacefulness. The last time I saw him he was drowsy and smiling. “I’m sleepy,” he said, “Go home. Thank you. I love you. “


I've never regretted any of it. I would do it all over again for my friend.


This brings me back to that fate thing and why we got to know each other in the first place. He used to say to me, "I know my mother sent you." Maybe she had a hand in it. There are many things that my sweet friend did for me that made his place in my life a gift from somewhere as well, but I question nothing. Why else would we have finally crossed paths, for such a short number of years, and at just the right time?

All of Us Veggies

If one more person asks, upon learning that I'm a vegetarian, "but what do you eat?" I'm going to drop a tub of tofu on them...which I don't eat anyway because I don't care what you do to it, it still tastes like the sponge I wash my dishes with.



People seem to think that taking away meat and poultry leaves Ethiopia. They forget that there is a whole realm of food out there that did not start out mooing or clucking, and since I'm not heroin chic emaciated, I must have found it. There are plenty of choices that make me have to work hard at keeping my jeans fitting the way I want them to.


Not long ago I was at a wedding where you were asked to choose what entree you preferred. When the waiter came to me, I made the mistake of telling him that I was a vegetarian and just to bring me whatever vegetables they were serving without the meat. "Oh no," he said, "I'll have the chef make you something special." He eyed me like a handicapped relative and patted my shoulder sympathetically. When we were served he set my plate in front of me and said, "Now there you go, just for you," and stopped short of, "you poor thing." There was a yellow squash sliced in half length ways, surrounded by carrots and broccoli. The "chief" must have whisked the squash past a pot of steaming water or turned a hairdryer on it (with the diffuser in place and set on low), because it was barely room temperature and still "thunked" when tapped on the table. The broccoli and carrots were raw. Everyone else had tiny browned potatoes and string beans almondine, all fully cooked to perfection.


I sometimes wonder if its some sort of weird subconscious punishment for the non-conforming, non-carnivores. "Here, eat this anemic looking squash, that’s what you get for not eating this nice filet mignon, what the heck is wrong with you?" They are also the "enhanced flavor Nazis" too. "No Seasonings for YOU!! Move to the back of the line."


I've been offered things like carrots on a bed of lettuce at a dinner party "because I know you're a vegetarian," when everyone else is enjoying a plethora of nicely cooked veggies along with their meat, or some sort of pasta. I'm always tempted to reply, "Oh no, I don't want to be a bother. I'll just go out and graze in the back yard, I noticed some nice looking dandelion leaves on my way in."


I'm not a vegan, I never met an egg or a piece of cheese I didn't like. I put milk in my coffee. I eat some fish. That puts me in a technical "Pescetarian" sub category, I suppose. I still love the smell of steaks cooking on a charcoal grill, but I just don't want to eat them. Pizza and lots of Chinese food is still meatless, along with a zillion other things. I don't get freaked if meat touches my food. And when I was in Italy I tasted the salami and prosciutto in four different regions. I'm a vegetarian, not an idiot.


At that wedding of my cousin the beautiful bride and the uncooked squash, I shrewdly ate enough calamari and roasted peppers at the cocktail hour so that the "squash that thumped," was a laugh for our table. When the wedding cake was served the waiter looked at me and hesitated, holding the plate with my slice in his hand until I reached over and took it from him. Yeah right, are you kidding me?

Steve's Summer Solstice

(Since this daily writing is in part due to the promise I made to Steve, this one is a about an experience I would never have had if I hadn't known him.)

The "Mermaid Parade" takes place every year, on the weekend closest to the summer solstice on the Coney Island boardwalk. It is a celebration of the beginning of summer, usually led by some mid-level celebrity as Grand Marshal, and anyone can be in it.


It is an amazing sight. The spectators number in the thousands to watch hundreds of costumed mermaids march or glide on intricate floats along with their under-the-sea male counterparts, accompanied by bands and musical groups of every kind. There are cover girl mermaids, elderly mermaids, cross-dressing mermaids, mommy mermaids with baby mermaids, and some mostly naked mermaids spray painted gold or silver.. People drape themselves in netting and necklaces of shells, hats adorned with starfish, and there are sequins and sparkles enough to gratify any gypsy soul, including my own.


After the parade, the celebration continues long into the night. There is music on the boardwalk and you can work your way down dancing to rock, hip hop, salsa, listen to steel drums, and toss coins into the instrument cases of some pretty damn good street musicians. Don't bother waiting on the never-ending line at Nathan's, there are a ton of ethnic foods to choose from, and inhale.


We took the subway all the way out, it stops a few hundred yards from the boardwalk, and is elevated and sunny once you get a little further along. The first few stops were pretty routine, but then mermaids started hopping on. Every shape and size, decked from the simple bottom of the sea creature to the most elaborate showgirl type. Each stop drew a few more, and suddenly the car became a traveling pre-celebration party, with everyone laughing and comparing costumes, a virtual sea of summer solstice strangers engaging the moments. I've ridden the subway back from Shea with a car full of Mets fans after they won (really), but even they were not as much fun as that bunch of mermaids-for-a-day we rode with.


Maybe the solstice has some scientific magnetic force that beefs up our endorphins, or plays on those receptors in the brain that make us happy. I'm not interested in that would be explanation. I think it was the sparkles and the music and nobody giving a damn if they looked foolish (they didn't) or silly. We welcomed the summer dancing barefoot with mermaids. How much better can it get?

Trees And Other Souls

My office window gives me a minute to minute update of the weather. The view from my seat is the top half of the white building across the street and one slightly pathetic tree whose branches reach to this second floor horizon. I watch the seasons change through it, and on the worst work days I imagine that it waves in my direction reassuring me that there is life outside this workplace. Today I'm watching a torrential rain beating its leaves and the wind bending it side to side. I'm hoping that nothing cracks or breaks off causing someone to decide it is not aesthetic enough to be on the main street of this pretentious burb.

Appearance is what matters here, and I am so out of place... Alice through the looking glass in the form of a middle-aged day-dreamer in my favorite hippie thrift store skirt. It is in the air and in the cafe where they charge even more than Starbucks, and in the window of the elite "doggy store" where a sign in the window advertises "Just Arrived ! Italian Cashmere Sweaters." There are three banks and an investment broker on every block, a town furrier (cold storage on site for ALL your furs, ladies) and the Hummers still take up two parking spaces, gas prices notwithstanding.

Last summer there was a homeless woman who sat in the little park on nice days and took refuge in the train station when it rained. The townsfolk were outraged and sent letters to the editor and complaints to the cops. I walked past her many times, sitting on a bench with a bag at her feet and a winter hat on her short summer hair. If she wasn't taking a little cat nap she'd smile and ask me the time. My answer...1 o'clock, 5 o'clock, 10:30 AM,... always drew the same response, "Oh thank you dear, that's good." People called her “disgraceful' and 'dangerous.” They implied that she kept others from being comfortable in the park and made commuters uneasy in the station, no doubt quaking in their fine leather shoes and designer suits as they waited to hop a train to Wall Street. A few were more bold in their revulsion and said that she just made the town "look bad" and that somebody better do something about it before more of "them" appeared. Apparently they were convinced that the homeless have a hotline to advise each other of where the good benches are.

It was quite the buzz for a month or so, and then the powers that be had her ousted. “Sheriff, this town just ain't big enough for a couple of thousand millionaires and a little old homeless lady.” The little park with its carefully appointed landscape and fake fountain waterfall is perfect once again.

So, I worry about my tree. The sidewalk Gestapo here patrols for "neat" flower boxes, ornamental details and tiny shrubbery trimmed just so. What are its chances if it ends up with some branches stripped or missing a limb with a nasty open wound for all of downtown to see?

I worry about some of these people too. I worry about their souls.

Timmy And The Teasers

(Note: Previously published in "Little Book of Poems and other Writings" 2003)


I stopped to have coffee after work with my dear friend Mike, still dressed in my nine to five persona skirt and heels and looking forward to winding down and sharing a little gossip. His 20-ish nephew was visiting with two friends in tow, using his home as a stopover for the night. They sat with us in the fading evening light, comfortably, youthfully slouched on couches and cushions.


Young men never seem to miss a chance to plunder one of their own. A continuous right of passage I suppose, inflicted on each other as they constantly try to one up even the closest of friends. They pounced unmercifully on Tim, the quietest one who was seated next to me on a small settee. “Yep, Tim doesn’t have a girlfriend.” They started in. “Do you believe that?”


“ Old Timmy, 18 years old and no woman.” Rob jabbed an “18” into the air for emphasis. He continued. “We’re taking him to the city tonight…gonna get him a woman…old Tim’s never…”


As the only woman in the room and assuredly the person he was most embarrassed to be hearing this recital, I broke in. “The weather should be nice tonight for walking around in the city. Are you going into the village?” They were merciless. “Maybe Tim will have better luck in New York, he keeps striking out in Pennsylvania.” Rob shot back.


Because I was old enough to be his mother…but wasn’t…I could see that “old Tim” possessed the on-the-brink good looks that in a few short years would have his taunting friends vying for his young lady overflow.


He acknowledged their ribbing with downcast eyes and gave a swift apologetic glance in my direction with his long lashed, very deep blues. A tiny smile pulled at his sweetly sensuous mouth. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t… I noticed that too.


The other guys pushed on with the attempted humiliation while Mike and I ignored them and talked around it all. A few minutes went by with Tim continuing to be un-responsive to their taunts. I glanced at my seat mate and suddenly noticed that while his head remained down, his eyes were aimed in my direction and fixed on my crossed legs, watching me unconsciously dangling one black high heeled shoe from my toes. He would glance away quickly checking to see if I had noticed, and then again allow his eyes to run down the black stockings, pause at the swaying heel, and slowly back up my leg.


To my knowledge, I hadn’t had my legs checked out by a man his age in quite some time. Because I was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t…I un-crossed my legs slowly, inviting his full attention. Lazily I stretched each one straight out, a- la- Mrs. Robinson, before crossing back over. I continued to dangle the high heeled shoe, grateful that my stockings had survived the day without a run, and thankful that the gams are the last to go. His appreciation was palpable and made my own heart light with sweet recollections of men and lovers who were young long ago.


There, before his unsuspecting pals filled with their own bravado, Tim and I shared our little secret, neither of us letting on what we both knew. A few moments when the teasing of his peers was drowned out in his own unexpected stop along the way. I knew this sweet young man would soon realize with delicious surprise that he more then had what it took. I willed him the understanding that, used passionately and lovingly, it would make him a very happy man indeed and that most good things come at just the right time.


I smile when I remember that afternoon and my performance for an unacknowledged audience of one. My gift to a young man from a woman who was old enough to be his mother… but wasn’t.

Wisdom

Not so long ago, my Granddaughter had a great affinity for Band-Aids. Immediately after a greeting hug and kiss, she would ask in her tiny girl voice, “See my Band-Aids?” and pull up the legs of her pants to reveal four or five cartoon-character-ed adhesive strips across each leg.


Of course this Grandma would seriously ask about the circumstances of each. She would shrug her little shoulders at every inquiry, but continue to point down the line until all received the proper sympathetic consideration.


If I was fortunate enough to be there at bedtime, I would hold her sweet weight in my lap while she listened to the story she had chosen. Reluctant to give in to sleep, she lasted until the book was finished. Then she would point to a spot on her arm or leg, say “boo boo” in her sleepy voice, and offer it up for attention. Again and again, her fingertip resting on unblemished skin, we’d repeat the ritual. After each healing kiss, she would sigh and burrow in closer until her eyes closed and the deep breathing of her innocent sleep began.


I often think about her wisdom. How simple to ask for what is needed with no further thought for justification in the request.


How wonderful it would be to offer up that place that needs comfort, attention, reassurance. Perhaps one of the rough spots we face every day. Or maybe one of the ones that never go away.


The child in me envies the ability of the very young to understand what we often forget. How simple it is to offer your heart to be kissed and made better.

The Family That Picnics Together

(This is another "dusted off" piece, but in keeping with yesterday's entry, good food for thought. If anyone in my family is insulted, I apologize. I love you all.)


We were approaching the due date of our annual family reunion picnic. My father was one of seven children who married and pro-created Catholic-ally, and I have twenty seven first cousins who are mostly married with children and grandchildren. There are only three of the original seven left, two uncles and an aunt.


When everyone shows up, we are our own little village...or circus depending on the pull of the universe and any one or forty three personalities having some sort of delusional off day. Last year, half of them were in a snit, and in the spirit of some weird unity, an entire block declined to attend. I was trying to remember exactly why this morning and had to think for a few minutes, which is always the way of a past unpleasantness whose origin is never as important as the result.


We had talked about doing a picnic for years and finally got it together just three seasons ago. After the first one, e-mails flew back and forth between the cousins about how much fun we'd had and how it brought back so many memories of us all growing up together. We had shared many 4th of July celebrations, riotous loud affairs when our young parents joined in to toss water balloons and horseshoes, and bocce that went on all afternoon. Of course, they were Italian picnics with the best food anywhere and all my favorites, Aunt Millie's eggplant parmesan and my grandmother's anisette cookies to name just two.


My father's brothers and sisters remained close by all their lives, to the benefit of everyone. Sunday visits to one or the other were the rule in a time when nobody was too busy for a leisurely afternoon. It seemed everyone was thrilled to be together again.


Then somebody got insulted somewhere between the fall and the following summer. There are a few versions of who did what and what was said to who. A couple of nasty themed e-mails were hurled and copied into the entire family e-mail address list. Many tried to soothe over the situation and some didn't want to get involved for fear of making it worse. There is no lack of loud and pointed communication skills in this family. I suppose the ensuing hard feelings still exist because I just learned that the succeeding group would not be attending again due to each individual having "a prior commitment."


One aunt turned 90. One uncle is 85. We cousins are in our 40's and 50's, with a few past the 60 mark. There have been some serious medical issues.


I don't know if any of my relatives read this blog, but who gives a damn who said what to who. Did you forget how nice it was to say "Hey, do you remember.... ?" That we looked at each others grandchildren and said, "Did you ever think.....?" We share this one remarkable family, warts and disappointments included. Get over it. Get on with it. Let it go. I don't want to be standing in some cemetery listening to your regrets.



POSTSCRIPT: After this was written, two of "the cousins" passed away. My brother John, and my cousin Dennis. May they rest in peace. And yes, I stood in the cemetery and listened...

Just A Little Bit

(The 2010 Dodge Poetry Festival is coming up soon. This was written before the 2008 Festival, but carries the message at the end I want everyone to know today. The poem is newer, and I share that with you too)



I am hoping for beautiful weather for the weekend for the Dodge Poetry Festival. I want a sunny and warm invitation to let me lose myself there for two days. I need all the poetry I can get. I need to spend more money than I should on books. I need to see all the familiar faces and give them a hug. I need to hear the ones I don't know and escape in their words. I need to figure out how not to feel guilty and sick and sad about wanting to have all of the above.


I went to Dodge 2006 trying to remember every moment to bring back to Steve because he was too weak to go. I called him on the way home while it was all still fresh to report and brought him an armload of books and an extra program.
This time I go having learned that my brother's brain tumor is "end stage," and the doctors say three to six months. He has outlived his prognosis by two years, but that’s not enough for me. I'm selfish. He's my baby brother and my only sibling.


I want my buddy Steve alive and talking non-stop all over Waterloo Village. I want my brother's brain with no malignant cells and for him to tease me like the little brat he always was. I want him to play, “Do you remember when?” with me at my dining room table as we linger for hours after a holiday dinner.


Right this minute, I want certain market-watching idiots in my workplace to stop whining about it and just go on up to the counting house and shove their investments someplace really uncomfortable. I have all I can do to keep from screaming. I wish them just ten minutes of knowing someone you love is dying, and to hold their hand and know that they know it too. I'm sick of all the crap that never mattered.


And to my friends who read this blog…I love you...right now... for all the things that do matter, and for however long we have.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Did You?

I wondered if you knew me at the end
when I dropped morphine into your cheek,
watched the clock,
the undertaker’s card tacked to the wall.
I wanted you to reach over
and poke me in the ribs
until I smacked you back
so you could call Mom
and she would tell me to stop –
stop what I was doing.
“Just leave him alone,” she’d say
“Ignore him and he’ll be fine. “

Linda Radice July, 2010

Tatoo....or Two ?

I do not have a tattoo. I am not tempted to get one, even in a place so hidden it would never see past my underwear. My children do not share my reluctance to dabble in such decoration. My daughter has a smiley face at the base of her spine. My son has a few more interesting designs.

When my son was little, I slathered his skin with sunscreen and made him wear a hat to avoid skin damage. He was ( and still is) allergic to fabric softener, and we used fragrance and dye free soap and detergents to keep his arms and legs free from rashes that itched and irritated. He is not, however, allergic to the tattoo artist's paint, nor does he seem to mind the pain the needles cause or the burning aftermath that shines with Bacitracin.

He started out small...the masks of tragedy and comedy, and the Impala symbol for his classic cars on his forearms. Then came his last name in gothic letters across his shoulder blades, and then some flames leaping from his ankle and partway up his calf. He has an almost completed "sleeve" that starts on his right shoulder and carries on down toward his elbow. I have to say that the artist does wonderful, intricate work on the detailed mural of buildings, a woman's face, and an old car that blend together beautifully. I suppose I just never thought that the tender baby skin I powdered and oiled and protected was being primed as a canvas.

His self-expression thing is probably my own fault. I let him get his ear pierced when he was in the third grade. The other mothers were horrified, a number of his friends started asking for earrings, and one kid's father told my son that "only fags wear earrings." That incident was one of my stellar mother moments. Suffice to say that after I spoke to the man, he kept a lot of space between us forever after.

I never had a problem with clothes or hair. My generation was the one that cleared all those paths, and my kids benefited from my, "as long as you're clean," attitude. My son had a multitude of hair styles. He grew it down to his rear end and had a Mohawk. Then there were colors. Red, blue, and green, in a style that required a variation spiky Mohawk with short dyed hair around the sides and back. He insisted on wearing the largest jeans he could find, size 48 waist, hacked off at the bottom and held up with a woven belt that went around him twice. He topped that off with a triple extra large t-shirt that hung well past his knees. For a couple of years, he appeared as a rather squat, well padded adolescent. On the evening of his junior prom, he came downstairs in his perfectly fitted tuxedo, a slim and trim, size 25 waist, 16 year old. We had forgotten what he really looked like.

My daughter was more conservative, but I do remember the "Punky Brewster" two different color shoes phase, and she did have "very big hair" at the same time she dated a guy with a Porsche that had a sun roof. When she got into the car and the roof was open, her hair stuck right up through it.

There are a lot worse things than having sections of your body look like a page from the Sunday comics. I admire other people's tatts and the talent of the artists who do such amazing work. I'm all for everyone doing their own thing. And since I’ve long passed financing my kids self-expression of choice, I say go for it.

Where Do You Come From?

The town I've lived in all my life has changed. It has gone from the bedroom community of my youth, (close to the NYC rail lines and buses for commuters) to a little village with many immigrants, mostly South American. The downtown strip of stores are now Spanish food stores and restaurants, places that teach ESL, and travel agents with store fronts full of little booths where people can pay by the minute to phone home.


Many have a problem with the new population. There is overcrowding in the schools, illegal housing problems, and that old common fear of people who are different. There has been "white flight" going on for years now, and I've been asked many times when I'm going to sell and get out. I would be dishonest if I didn't say that I'm not happy with the increase in my property taxes because of the need for more classrooms and services due to the changes. But for now, my family and friends are pretty much still within spittin' distance, this is my home, and I happen to like diversity.


Maybe it is the second or third generation that has conveniently forgotten how their grandparents or great-grandparents wound up here. Or maybe they don't have a story as I do, one that they just can't forget, about the settling in of their ancestors.


My mother's parents came from Sicily. They first lived in Brooklyn where my grandfather, a tailor, worked until they were able to save enough money to buy a house. They found one right here, a block from the spot where I'm writing this, and moved in sometime in the early 1930's. One of the neighbors was not happy about the family with the fig tree, grape arbor and chicken coop in the back yard. The man who lived directly across the street came to my grandfather and offered to buy his house if he would not buy another one close by. He made no apologies when he stated that he did not want Italians in his neighborhood. My grandfather was the gentlest soul I've ever known and I cannot imagine what his response could have been, but my understanding is that he just told the man that he did not want to sell his house.


As my mother told the story, this man also had a daughter who was my Mom’s age, and the little girls played together due to the kindness of his wife. My mother was allowed to play at her friend's house only when the father was not at home, but he would not allow his daughter to play with my Mom’s other friend, a little Jewish girl, at all.


My grandfather was successful and went on to own a tailoring factory nearby. He later bought a bigger house in town, but kept the one around the corner. It stayed in the family, from my grandfather to my uncle and to my cousin who finally sold it just a few years ago. My mother and uncles had wonderful memories of that house and the loving extended family that occupied it. It is where my father courted my mother.


My grandfather never told me about the incident, so I don’t know how he really felt about that discrimination. What I do know about him is that he was a kind and honest man, devoted to his family, and that I was the apple of his eye, "My sweet Leenduce," until he died in 1964.

My mother told the story many times, a first hand lesson for her children to remember, and I am grateful for the impression it made on me.


I often think about the unfortunate ending to the man across the street too. He died of a heart attack one Sunday morning. In church.

Bar Poets

I read my poetry for the first time in a bar. In one of those dive-y bars, which are just about the only ones that allowed our particular trick pony poetry circus to perform.


My debut had been scheduled, a reading with a few others for a small local journal that had published our poems, and the posters announcing this minor event a month hence were up in the local store windows.


The problem was that I'd had terrible stage fright my whole life. I was terrified of any sort of public speaking, and I was sure that I would chicken out. My dear friend Steve would hear none of my “I don’t think I can do its” and set out to help me overcome it. A musician who had performed for almost 40 years, he had a tough time convincing me that I could ever be on a stage unafraid and natural.


He started his crash course on, of all things, the New York City subway system. One afternoon on a very crowded train, he started singing “You Don’t Know Me,” in his beautiful voice, and motioned to me to join in knowing that I knew all the words. I shook my head, mortified, but he kept nodding and smiling until I tentatively began. “From your diaphragm !” he said during a breath, “louder!” The train shot through the tunnel with 40 strap hanging strangers listening as I let my voice get a little stronger, my shaking disguised by my swaying to keep my footing. I didn’t faint, some of our fellow travelers applauded, and he insisted we repeat the entertainment for every ride thereafter.


Then he rehearsed me for weeks reading my scheduled repertoire…”project, slow down, project”… until I was sick of my poems and myself. He was sure I’d be able to fly. I privately thought I’d keep my belly to the ground and plead illness.


The night of the reading arrived. It was in a bar on Somerset St. in North Plainfield, three blocks from my house, where they washed the glasses in the bathroom sink and had "none of that fancy new beer... this is what we got on tap and you'll drink it." Aside from our little group trying to transform a small corner into a coffee house with no coffee, it was full of tired men on a Friday night. Nobody came looking for poetry at the Sky Lounge. They wanted cold beer and the ball game.


While I waited to begin, I was shaking so hard I still thought I'd have to give up. I was convinced that if I managed to get through part of the first poem, the bar patrons would considerately boo me off the wobbly stool that was the stage and I could leave.


Sitting up there gave a different perspective. They were watching the game, shooting pool, and largely ignoring us. Steve was standing in the back of the room directly in my vision after telling me to just read to him and forget about everyone else, but I was too nervous to look anywhere except at the vibrating pages in my hands when I took a gulp and began.


One line into the first poem, I heard the loud "break" of a pool game beginning, the sports commentators droning, and the conversation around the bar. I relaxed a little, thinking that no one was going to listen anyway.


I suppose all the rehearsing and reassurance had taken root without me knowing it. I was muddling through slowly, projecting at my blessedly inattentive audience, when suddenly I realized that the room had gotten quiet. The pool game had stopped and they’d muted the TVs. When I looked up they were looking back. Steve was grinning. When I looked down, I could hear them listening.


They applauded when I finished. A man at the end of the bar called out and asked if I had any more. Afterwards when I walked over for a drink, they reached out to shake my hand with their rough working man's clasps and told me how much they had enjoyed it.


I have a poster from that reading, blue and fading, hanging on the wall next to my desk. It fills me up every time I look at it. My paralyzing old stage fright never came back. My sweet friend is gone, but I see him standing in the back of the room every time I take the stage.

Such a little thing...

(Note: I dusted this old one off, because my sentiments are still the same. Many things in it have changed, but it makes no difference as it still goes out as a giant hug to all my friends who read this)



A client sent me flowers today. He told me that he appreciated all the extra work I did for him, and since it wasn't appropriate to hug me, flowers it was. He reminds me of my uncles, Italian men with expressive faces and hands that illustrate every word they say. The rest of my office would have been uncomfortable had this kindly older man given me a hug. I would have thought it perfectly natural. There were a few times during his frustrating matter, through no fault of his own, that I felt like hugging him too.


I come from a touchy clan. It takes half an hour to greet and appropriately hug and kiss...beginning respectfully with the elderly and working your way down. Nobody claims "personal space" around them either. First of all, there's not enough room given the amount of people who usually show up. Secondly, you can't be that far away for the constant nudging and stroking necessary in conversation. We don't know how to emphasize without physical contact.


I'd like to hug some of my clients. I'd like to hug the people who serve up my coffee every morning. Sometimes I have to restrain myself from hugging my granddaughter as much as I'd like. She's old enough now to squirm away to more interesting things than being squeezed and smooched by me. I did impulsively hug my boss once when he gave me a nice bonus, and I think he was surprised but only mildly embarrassed.


My husband's family was not used to the likes of this. They are far more reserved in a "How do you do," sort of way. A quick peck on the cheek and a little shoulder clasp of a second or two is about it. They are respectful of each others space and talk one at a time. They wait for for someone to stop speaking instead of interrupting....and even notice when somebody interrupts them. Then along comes full-body- hugging-kiss-on-both-cheeks-and-a-little-rub-on-the-back-of-the-neck-yackety-yack - me. The Eye-talian girl who married in.


A number of years later they're all used to me, although I'm still the only dark-haired, dark-eyed chatterer in the bunch. About three years in, my father-in-law told me that he loved it when I came to visit because I always hugged and kissed him....coming and going.

Hello There...

I am one of those people that strangers talk to. People appear and begin conversations with me all the time.


Just now I was on my way to Dunkin Donuts for coffee, a two block walk from my office, and an older woman stopped me to ask if I thought it was going to rain and did I think she should stay in town and have lunch or go on back home.


Its the kind of conversation I get often. Rarely does anyone just want to know what time it is, they want a discussion. And, as in the case today, my calculated judgment. Now the sun is out and I told the lady that if she didn't have an umbrella then maybe she should go home, so I'm sitting here feeling guilty that I spoiled her downtown lunch on a nice afternoon. I'm wondering if she'll have her umbrella if I ever run into her again, and if she'll see fit to smack me with it..."Thanks a lot. Don't you realize I don't know how many nice lunches I could have left at my age!" ...whack, whack.


My friend tells me that I look 'approachable.' Yeah, well, so do hookers. Its a good thing she's a well meaning friend, because she laughs when I say that, but she also admits that she doesn't get accosted nearly as often. When I consider how I think I would look to the casual passerby, I imagine appearing unfocused and preoccupied. I'm not usually thinking about what I'm doing or where I'm going, and frankly congratulate myself when I don't walk right past my destination or forget what I went into the store to get.


I'm amazed anyone would think I'd be the one to strike up a conversation with, but they seem to think I know something. Maybe my far off expression leads them to believe that I'm gathering information from a benevolent spiritual guide instead of trying to get that one damn line in a half written poem or what it was I promised myself I wouldn't forget to do.


Although I seem to be popular with all ages of strangers, I'm the biggest hit with elderly men. Maybe whatever attracts them to me is a vibe that I have a soft spot for them. I love to listen to their stories, respect their wisdom, and always come away having learned something. They always seem disappointed when I have to say goodbye, which is just another thing I can add that to my ever expanding and invisible guilt quota jar. I often feel like offering my phone number so we can continue another time, but then consider their little old wives finding it scrawled in a shaky hand on the back of a prescription bag and demanding to know "who this hussy Linda is." And then I see them trying to explain that I was just a woman they met on the street who looked..friendly.

The Rules About Shoes

(Note: An introduction to "The Rules According to Linda," of which there are many)


I counted my shoes a year or so ago. I have lots of them. I admit to no specific number invoking The Shoe Privacy Act, which was instituted under the Rules According to Linda after the final count was made. Since the Act precludes me from having to make any defense, I will just state that the secret number includes all my shoes, the ones I don't wear often, sneakers and boots, and the ones I have never worn and ask myself why I bought them in the first place. If they fit in a shoebox, I counted them.


Men do not get the shoe thing. For them, a few pairs in black and brown work with everything. They generally have one or two types, all of them rather flat. Contrary to women, they do not buy shoes to go with their clothing, they buy clothing and have the pants hemmed to go with their shoes. They have no concept of heel height, for example, or how different skirt lengths demand different heels. There are colors, and then there are shades of colors. Then there are the dressy and casual categories. We need shades of colors in a charted course of different heel heights. It is a complicated formula and we don't expect men to crack the code. We accept that most men think all shades of navy are blue, and that the phrase, "it looks fine," means that it looks fine to THEM because they honestly think it doesn't matter. I don't fault any man for this as long as they do not violate the Shoe Privacy Act and ask too many accounting questions.


Shoe manufacturers play a hand in our obsession with shoe shopping because they purposely make it difficult to find comfortable and stylish shoes which makes long hours of new shoe exposure necessary. I also believe that there is some sort of calming drug infused into those little disposable socks the store hands out for trying on purposes. This is why we are able to jam our feet into narrow-pointed-toed-half-mile-high heels and keep our balance long enough to view our feet in those 8 inch mirrors. And the reason that there only those low mirrors in any shoe store in the land is so that we can't see ourselves unattractively grimacing as we walk.


If all of the above sounds like a justification for owning so many pairs of shoes, it is not. It is universal. Women can always buy shoes without having to measure up to the figure deemed stylishly acceptable for the season.


And, under Rule Number 623, Subsection I of The Shoe Privacy Act:
"Shoes are a concession bestowed upon women for giving birth and enduring menopause."

Any more questions?


: )

Multiples...or Who's Crazy?

Somebody told me about a series on one of the cable channels that I don't subscribe to about a Mormon family with one husband and multiple wives. I have to say that like a lot of others, I am fascinated by the concept of the life of multiple wives, albeit from a woman's point of view.


Men find it fascinating for obvious reasons, not the least of which is that it appears like a variety dream come true. However, I wonder if even a small percentage set that vision aside to think about how the guy manages to keep all those wives and children in shoes and spaghetti. Or how he explains it to his health insurance company. "Lets see Mr. Jones, it appears that you have 17 children and...can this be correct...6 wives? Your policy entitles you, under the family plan, to a spouse and children. A spouse. One." Perhaps the companies that write insurance in those states have some sort of an "Additional Spouse Inclusion Rider" that can be had for so many dollars per extra wife. I also wonder how a man with multiple wives determines who to list as his "next of kin" without some sort of showdown at the old homestead.


All things being equal, should there not be a sect where one woman has multiple husbands? I asked a few friends what they thought in a sort of socio-survey divided more or less equally between both sexes. The guys looked a little puzzled, thoughtful, and didn't give much of a response. However, each and every woman had the same reaction. Stunned. Horrified. Flabbergasted. "Are you kidding?" "Are you insane?" Some of my more colorful friends used phrases that would probably get me thrown off the internet, but the reactions go something like this and mostly in the same order:


"One is more than enough."

"Who the hell wants to wash all that underwear?"

"What ! And listen to MULTIPLE husbands complain that they don't get enough sex?"


I offered up the theory that there could be one expert husband for everything. A carpenter, a car mechanic,an accountant, a chef, a lawyer, an appliance repair man, a computer whiz, etc. That didn't faze one of them, or even stop the flow of reasons why my question was nutty in the first place. One woman retorted, "You HIRE somebody to fix things, If he does it wrong he has to fix it without fighting with you. Then you pay the guy and get him the heck outta your house."

Even my Mother shook her head at me on that one and repeated one of her favorites. "The shoemaker's children go barefoot," she said. "Haven't you been listening all these years?"


I offered up how so many incomes could let one wife lead a pretty nice life. Oh sure, they said, but they'd be so drained from tending to multiple male psyches that they'd be too tired to shop. And what if they all wanted a child? We'd be up all night with infants and could kiss our waistlines goodbye forever.


Then they went off on having multiple sets of in-laws and having to cook stuff the way all those mothers-in-law used to make it. One friend told me I had much too fertile an imagination, and perhaps I should take up something that would require me to focus on reality, or maybe something soothing like knitting.

The men have long forgotten my question, but my female friends are still mumbling. Okay. I get it, I get it. Oy vey and Amen.

Unnatural Attachments

I have to buy a new computer. And soon. I'll probably get online with Dell today and put the order in because the one I'm typing on, according to a friend who knows these things, is ready to crash. It is nine years old, which in computer years is probably equal to cranking your Model T. Technology passed it by long ago. There are many things it cannot do, and it has given up some of the things it used to do so effortlessly. It has gotten slow. It blinks a few extra times before making a decision. Sometimes it freezes up and then limps along arthritic-ally. It is an aging soul.

I know I get too attached to things, but this beige-y old model has served me well. Compared to the new young things adorned in fashionable colors, it is a little faded and it's monitor carries some extra baggage in the rear end. That is perfectly appropriate. I'm grown accustomed to its look and sound and where all the lights blink.

Its been so patient when I'm reaching for a word that seems to have fallen out of my brain, and it has listened to my curses when my nonchalant muse takes extended breaks. I've read e-mails that have made me laugh to tears. I've been informed about many new babies, and have learned of the deaths of old friends while looking into it's eyes. It's been a lifeline in the hard times when my friends comforted me, and I've tried to return the favor. My family knows to tiptoe by when I'm typing away here, and that I'm so absorbed I'd probably not notice them anyway. Published pieces came from its innards, re-worked and saved over and over again. Multitudes of submission letters, and my self-addressed-return-envelopes so I could receive rejections in glorious black and white.

Time flies by when I sit in front of it's screen. When my house is asleep, this computer and I are word lovers until the wee hours. It was an affair that started at my own behest, and on such intimate terms. I connected all of it's wires and components myself, under my desk and in places no one else has ever touched.

How ironic I will order it's replacement through it. We will download it's years of documents and information into a shiny new model with a slim shape and a huge screen....a liposuctioned, botox state of the art number that I will get used to in time. But I will miss this familiar old friend.

Ma Who??

I must be turning into one heck of a cranky old lady. Today I called my telephone company to ask about some outrageous charges on my bill. I usually don't look at the bill and just pay it, partly because I have better things to do but mostly because I'm disorganized and tend to pluck a bill from the pile on my desk exercising some sixth sense that tells me to pay before they shut whatever service off.


This morning the land line phone bill was calling me, and since I'd already had a cup of coffee and could focus on the so-called "breakdown of charges," I paid more attention than usual. I decided to call the alleged customer service number. I got a man on the phone with a thick accent who made me repeat my name and telephone number twice (and repeated it back to me incorrectly) before we could move on with my questions, which he did not understand. He was "very sorry” and transferred me to another department. The second department was no better. Nor the third. I politely asked if it was possible to speak with an English speaking service rep. As I waited I wondered where their end of “reach out and touch someone” went, along with the ironic fact that they are in the “communications” business.


I finally got a guy in the US who understood the question and my statement that I've been a loyal AT&T customer for thirty-five years. With the same telephone number, I might add.
Why is my bill so high? Apparently I am being charged every time I call my daughter's cell phone from my land line phone...even though she lives about seven miles away and it’s the same area code. He explained that her cell phone company does not have a "contract" with AT&T and therefore even if she was standing right next to me, the phone call is being routed more than 15 miles away and that I am already being charged in my "package" just for the privilege of being able to dial and have the call go out to that area. Then it’s an additional 45 cents per minute. However, I can pay another $17.95 a month and have a service that would enable me to make calls, limited to a set number of minutes per month, to "most" areas within NJ. "Most" is central and part of North Jersey. South Jersey would be additional.

I proceeded to tell the young man that I used to have what was called "extended service" for a few dollars month which gave me unlimited calls to ONE area of my choosing. He told me that sort of thing never existed with AT&T.


Do not tell a woman over fifty that something did not exist. Especially someone who sounds like the dust hasn't settled on his prom picture. And most especially when that fifty-something woman is beginning to question her short term memory. Pardon me, but I can remember the names of all my grade school teachers, the librarian, and the color socks my grandfather wore...light brown thin cotton ones...and the name of every car insurance company I've had since I got my license. I just can't remember where my damn sunglasses are. And sometimes my cat's name. And once in a while, totally un-induced by any alcoholic substance...my own.

Me: "Excuse me? Are you telling me that I imagined having that service?"

Mr. 20-Something: "I'm saying that we never had that type of service."

Me: "Well that’s funny because I spent 20 years calling my best friend every day on about 2 bucks a month until they changed it and limited it to 20 hours a month, and that was still a good deal."

Mr. 20-Something: "Well not since I've been here."

Me: How old are you?

Mr. 20-Something, "Why?"

Me: "Listen kid, I'm not asking you out on a date. I'm just telling you not to tell me "never" when you probably didn't even exist when I was dialing my friend in Somerville daily on a ROTARY phone. And in case you don't know, that’s a phone with a dial that you had to stick your finger in to turn each digit of the number and it made a pleasant little clicking sound in your ear on the return spin. And every phone rang with a little bell....rrrriiiinnnnngggg!....and not the tune of your hip-hop-indie-band-commercial-jingle choice."

Mr. 20-Something: "M'am, you're correct. I don't know what you're talking about, but why don't I tell you about the new services and packages we're offering?"


I have to give the kid credit for his smooth move into a sales pitch for more things I don't need that will cost me more money. I told him I'd call him back when I had more time. I suddenly didn't have the energy to tell him about the good old days of dependable service and reasonable rates. And, like the cranky old lady I think I've become, I just didn't have it in me to explain it to someone who has probably never heard a busy signal.

A Year Ago Today...

I suppose since I started with one of these older pieces, the story should continue. This is dated October 9, 2008. In memory of.


A year ago today my telephone rang at 6:00AM. It was one of those not-quite-awake-moments when you're not sure if you are really hearing what you think you are, but I managed to get to the kitchen to pick it up before the fourth ring and the answering machine clicking on. I remember leaning against the wall with the phone in my ear still half asleep and frightened because it was still in that slice of early morning when no one should be calling. The voice on the other end mispronounced my name. Another bad sign.
In a heavy Jamaican accent, she identified herself as calling the nursing home Steve had been transferred to, and then said what sounded like "I'm calling to tell you that Steven has "aspired." I asked her to repeat it..."Steven has aspired," she said patiently. For a crazy moment I wanted to say "to what?" My sweet friend aspired to a lot of things...having a great band, being a good poet, having loving people in his life. I wanted to ask her which thing he was wishing for that morning when the sun was feeling its way toward my curtained windows... which I was bizarrely noting needed to be washed.
She of course meant that he had expired. That term the medical professionals think sounds better than "died" or saying, "so-and-so is "dead." Milk expires, the registration on my car expires, those stupid store coupons expire. My friend shouldn't expire. I know this because the doctors didn't stamp a date on him after his diagnosis, and he certainly had another half a lifetime of things to do before he was finished.
She went on to say that when they checked him at 4:00 AM he was sleeping. At 5:00 AM, they found he had "aspired." She told me that, according to the doctor, he went peacefully in his sleep.
I think it was his last gift to me. I didn't have to make the final decision he'd trusted me with, and I will always be grateful.
I'd asked to write his obituary. I wrote it that morning, and the words came without effort or editing. The paper printed it exactly as written. Steve was my cheerleader and instigator, always pushing me to "write! just write!!" He was the one I'd call and read my freshly finished pieces to, and the one who stood in the back of the room for courage the first time I read in public.
I'd met him in a writer's group. It seemed like coming full circle.

Please...Just A Few More Million

Some of my friends were discussing Stem Cell research. I've had an up close experience with that magic of modern medicine. This is almost two years old, but the discussions prompted me to share it.



October is a sad month again this year, which is ironic because it has always made me feel alive and energetic. The sky is the bluest shade blue, and the sun (although it blinds me after 5:PM driving down RT 22) shines crispy-beautiful. Two years ago in October we started the treks to Hackensack Medical Center to harvest Steve's stem cells.
On some of the most beautiful days of the year I sat with him in a room with four other patients hooked to machines that took blood out of their bodies, sent it into a centrifuge to separate the cells, and put the rest back in. Amazing stuff indeed. We watched the little hanging bag filling with layers of blood...dark red at the bottom, lighter red, pinkish red, and finally the coveted creamy yellow stem cells floating on the top layer.
We'd talk in millions....how many did we think got harvested that day? The docs wanted thirty million, some to use and some to keep frozen for a possible second transplant if needed. The other patients and the friends beside them compared notes. We congratulated each other on the climbing numbers, like gamblers rejoicing in lottery winnings.
Steve's stem cells were slow to give themselves up despite the daily Nuprogen injections he gave himself in the abdomen to increase their production. We gave them little pep talks in the car on the way..."C'mon you guys, step up to the plate! We need some homers here." After all, it was during the playoffs, and Steve loved baseball almost as much as music.
After a few extra tries, they finally had enough of those little cells on ice. They let him rest for a couple of weeks and then started the heavy duty chemo in preparation of the actual transplant. Then the precious cells were put back in. They did their little dance down to his marrow, engrafted, and started producing new healthy blood. The magic was working.
And then last October he died.
This year I can't help but look at the glinting sun and that blue sky and think about those rides to Hackensack on beautiful mornings when we were so optimistic. We had Kerouac's "On the Road" on CD to listen to in the car...but it never got played. It was hard to concentrate on anything but the millions we hoped to win at the end of the trip.

Pennies

When I was a kid, I used to think how nice it would be if everything cost a penny. Bubble gum, shoes, a house. The field was leveled, and a penny was the price. I'd daydream about it on long rides in the back seat of my father's big old Chevy, watching for as many items as I could spot from the window that would all be priced so accordingly. I was probably five or six, just old enough to understand that a penny didn't go very far even though in the late 50's it went a little ways further than it does now.
But, that was when candy was sold from big jars on the candy store counter, and some of it was even two or three for a penny if you settled for the less favorite kind. In my childish mind I also thought that it would a good solution so adults would not have to worry about money as much as they seemed to.
I mentioned my theory to a slightly older friend of mine. She was 7 or 8, and, if you ask me now, probably lacked any child-like imagination straight from the womb. We were laying in the grass on a summer afternoon under the big tree that still shades my mother's front yard. She pursed her lips and scowled. "That wouldn't work at all," she told me. "How would you know who had more money than you did?"
I told her you could tell by who had more things. "But they'd all just cost a penny so how would you know whose things are better?" She went on to opine that then people would get paid in pennies, people would have to carry around big bags of pennies, and the world would run out of pennies.
"What about nickels and dollars?" I asked her.
“They still have to always make change in pennies because everything COSTS a penny…stupid. “ She replied. “And anyway, I’m going to be rich and not even use pennies. I won’t need them.” She finished.
Maybe I was a little socialist. Or maybe it was just penny-candy inspired thinking based on the fact that back then children never had many pennies of their own. It was a big deal to find one on the sidewalk, or one that had fallen out of your father's pocket and slid under the cushions of his favorite chair. Whatever it was, after my friend scoffed at my one cent daydream, I didn't play my wishful game again.
I lost track of her after grade school, but I bet she has lots of things that make her better. And I hope she reads this.

Just A Litle More Proof Please...

(Thanks to Tony Gruenwald for sending the article that prompted this !)


When I was "proofed" when buying a bottle of wine yesterday, I was elated. The young man at the checkout showed no signs of nearsightedness, and displayed a nice sense of humor when I replied, 'Well Bless your heart!"
Of course, seconds after my momentary thrill I realized that it was just store policy. I thought that was only because it was a supermarket that sold alcohol. Why that should make a difference, I don't know, but I often wonder who makes "the rules," so I took that with a grain of salt...and a couple of glasses of that nice wine.
Today, a friend e-mailed me an article from the Sunday Times on the subject. It appears that this "proofing" of everyone is now law. At least in New York. I haven't checked New Jersey yet, but given the way Jersey is going...oh don't get me started.
Anyway, apparently when they say everyone, they mean just that. The article was written by a 71 year old man who was required to show his driver's license at the ball stadium when purchasing a beer. He noted that the woman behind the counter insisted that he take the license out of it's plastic holder so she could make sure it had not expired.
This leads my old side-trip-taking mind to the glorious possibilities here.
The way I see it, even if they truck you up to that beer counter, 90 years old and in a wheelchair, clutching your "life alert" button in one hand and the ten bucks the beer is gonna cost you in the other...you're going to have to prove you're old enough to drink. I hardly think there would be a valid driver's license tucked in your elasticized stockings.
I personally know senior citizens who have not been given a renewal because the DMV decided they were no longer fit to drive safely, and those who gave it up at the behest of their children. It happens. I also know some who gave it up because they can ride all over town in that little shuttle bus with the sign that I love..."Caution ! Senior Citizens ! " Damn straight.
So now there's a whole lotta people of a certain age who won't be able to buy a beer or a bottle of Manischewitz without photo ID.
As I see it, most of those "over 55" communities will eventually come to have what they will refer to in lowered voices as "The Guy." This will be one of those small wiry men men who will somewhat resemble Jimmy Cagney in his later years. He will be running a little "cash only" operation next to the water heater in the utility room of his condo churning out fake ID's. No one will question how learned this skill, but he will be the same guy who could "fix you up" with anything you needed 45 or 50 years ago. He may even be the guy supplied you with your FIRST fake ID..when you thought you'd only ever need one in your lifetime.
His name will be whispered at Senior-cise, in doctor's offices, and at least once in every busload to and from Atlantic City. There will be some sort of code, "Tell him you're a friend of Margie, and Bernie said it's okay. When he asks how he can help you, just say that you're 'looking for some paper work that you lost'."
I think all could go quite well until some sweet faced little lady asks him to make her a bit younger and some sharp-eyed clerk puts 2 and 2 together and it doesn't equal 39. I have no doubt that she'll blurt his name out loud and clear on her way to the pokey without her little glass of sherry.

How Many Did You Say?

I really don't like reality TV. I find that I'm embarrassed for the participants, as well as thinking that kind of programming is a poor substitute for the good writing and creativity television offered in the past. It’s as if they figure the general public are routine voyeurs and marginally entertain-able, so why not just send a camera crew in to capture the lives of the most obnoxious people they can find to sign a hold harmless contract and call it a program. Maybe I don't give most of them a chance, but I can't help but "flipping" them off at the first sighting of a 16 year old spoiled brat ranting at her friends for some infraction at her birthday party, or a houseful of people who can't seem to pass an evening at home without degrading each other. There are swaps of wives and hairdressers, monster-bitch brides, and some programs that I have yet to figure out what they revolve around other than meanness and insults.
Somehow...and it was probably because I couldn't find the remote control and was too lazy to get up and change the channel (horrors) manually...I've caught a few episodes of the families with lots of kids. 18 kids, 12 kids, 8 kids. I find myself amazed. Lacking heavy medication or a lobotomy, they must just be perfectly suited to whatever calling having a very large family is. They smile at the kids. They say "please and thank you" when instructing a child to do some chore or another. They never run out of milk or toilet paper. They're organized. They cope without attending a support group. They even have a sense of humor.
How do they keep them all in clothing and shoes? School supplies? Booster shots? I want to know who does a constant head count and who washes the dishes. Last night I watched the 18 children family spend over $1,000.00 in the grocery store, use 11 shopping carts and haul it home in a box truck in a segment on how they save money. They took all 18 kids with them.
Taking two kids to the grocery store is a exercise every adult contemplating parenthood should be required to try. If you succeed in preventing them from diving out of the cart, grabbing all the crap displayed at the checkout counter, and can listen to "but why can't I have it?" 643 times without hurting anyone, you get to go to the next step. Taking 18 to the store is lunacy. But not for those smiling, calm folks. They had it all under control, AND the mom reported that she was pregnant and nauseous...with child number 19. I, on the other hand had my last child long ago, leisurely grocery shop alone, and then have to take a nap.
I watch these things from a reclining position, knocked out from mostly sitting on my rear end in front of a computer all day. By the time an episode runs its credits, I'm usually holding onto wakefulness by an eyelash wondering how any of them get through a day. I know full well that I'd be exhausted halfway through cooking all that breakfast. Not to mention finding everyone's shoes. I don't doubt that any of those families are real though. At some point in every episode I've caught...and I'm keeping a tally.... I see mom and dad yawn.

The Thermostat Wars

Since it has been abnormally hot recently, I dug this one out for a little
imaginary respite.


It is cold in my office. Not chilly, not a little brisk, but FREAKING cold. This is due to a curious quirk of human nature that prompts certain people to "adjust" the damn thermostat every time they walk past it.
I've come to the conclusion that the thermostat brings out a primal need to demonstrate control, and that the individuals who succumb to this urge have no control over anything else in their lives. It's either that, or controlling the temperature of their immediate surroundings makes them the Grand Masters of some tiny universe.
The way it works here is that there is a centrally located thermostat. It is illogically placed in a hallway that is half cold from the elevator shaft, and half very warm due to the proximity of a radiator. The thermostat gets a regular cold breeze simultaneously with the signal that it should shut itself off because the radiator close by is hot. Cold flash, hot flash. The unfortunate device probably thinks it’s in menopause. The thing is, if it is left on a constant higher temperature of about 78 degrees, it sufficiently heats all of our offices and we are able to work without coats, gloves and leg-warmers.
The "climate control" freaks here cannot grasp this concept, nor can they control their tendency to "touch and adjust." I will not divulge which sex they are. Suffice to say that they are the same ones who, beginning at a very tender age, cannot keep their hands off themselves either.
It has escalated into a true cold war between the trembling ladies and the rest...the ones who beat their chests and proclaim, " Why THIS is invigorating ! It's Good for you! It keeps you alert!" I suppose that real men don't publicly shiver. Not one of them will admit to adjusting the temperature down when it’s up, and up when it’s down. The setting changes almost hourly, but nobody in the Kingdom knows who toucheth.
My opinion is that the thermostat has given up and is just pretending to actually send any signals to the furnace. It now just blinks its numbers and fakes it. The unified shivering contingent among us can relate. It feels toyed with, taken advantage of, lied to, and left holding the bag. And no amount of sweet talk is going to make it any better.

Mad Money

When I was a kid, I remember women talking about their "mad money." Little bits of cash they stashed away from the family budget because they were mostly housewives with no income of their own.
I always wondered whether they meant it was money to be spent madly on some non-essential luxury, or money that they took with them when they stomped out of the house angry at their husbands. In my young imagination fueled by any trashy novel I could sneak into my bedroom, I envisioned women like my soft voiced aunt and my smiling grandmother in her flower-print house dress sitting on bar stools in some dark, beer-smelling tavern knocking back shots, buying rounds, and slinging their mad money at the startled bartender. "Oh, he makes me so mad!" they would say...one in English and one in Italian...and later they would help each other stagger home, glaring at their respective husbands and not one bit repentant.
Most likely, mad money was a combination to those women. And it is even more likely that it was used for emergencies when finances got tough. I think they talked about it more than they ever spent it on themselves or in a fit of anger.
I had my own mad money method, left over from the years after my divorce when I saved anything I could, any extra dollar here or there. That was literally it...a couple of dollars saved in a drawer, a book, a pocket, always worried that I might be a few dollars short of something we desperately needed. Once stashed, I never touched most of it because as things usually do, everything worked out. Nobody needed an emergency appendectomy, root canal, or bail money. The wolf, although he sniffed around a few times, never actually got to my door. I never lost the habit though, because there was something about knowing there is money earmarked for nothing-in-particular-but-just-in-case.
The whole financial crisis reminded me again about my mad money. I considered that if I had taken those ones, fives, tens and handfuls of change from the old purses and pockets, drawers and unused teacups, and invested it in....oh, lets just say the stock market...today I would have mostly zip. True, I could have put it in the bank and collected interest...at 2%....and I would have made mostly zippo interest and would have paid taxes on the zippo. Not to mention that seeing a lump sum in a bank account might have persuaded me to use it more readily.
So, I'm thinking that what I finally did with my mad money was probably a good thing. A couple of summers ago I gathered it all up...found it truly amazing what you can save in little bits over 20 years...and went to Italy. I had a mad-ly good time.