Happy Holidays

happy new year 1It’s a crazy wonderful whirlwind a winter wonderland of love glitter and sugar, bubble highs, family gatherings around the sound of the Grinch Julie Andrews Ebenezer Jimmy Stewart Charlie Brown – it’s a Christmas Story in front of fires in living rooms across the country while friends clink-a-tink glasses and over look there red velvet bows with whiskers on kittens and bells that jingle and candles lit with magic as we go dashing through the snow rain and sleet and store after store planning parties, writing lists and checking them off twice or even thrice, chocolate trees, silver bells, big gold balls, blue satin sashes, green, silver, red bows and tinsel and lights that flash on and off and on and off and twinkle candy cane’s, popcorn strung trees, reindeer and the modes Christmas penguin, caroling elves, snowflakes and rain drops and I forgot my umbrella, secret Santa’s ring-a-ding-dong on every corner, miracles burn bright for eight crazy nights   as we wrap and tie and decorate and figure and choose which little black dress, red sequin gown, three piece tux black tie affair to attend. You better watch out, you better not blink or that guy will cut you off in traffic and you’ll miss the light and the sale and someone will buy Oprah’s favorite things right out from under you.

 
It’s crazy
It’s wonderful
It’s the season

we circle around and around and around and our feet just might not even touch the ground.
 
It’s okay. It’s all good.

If I get harried and nutscelebration crop
I drop into my body
I take a moment
take a breath
take another
I want to stay whole during these holy days
stay centered
stay with myself
because
It is a magical time
lights twinkle on dark nights
we see friends and family we haven’t seen for a while
we celebrate love and family and life and miracles 

I dive into my journal

It’s not the only way to get centered, but it sure does work for me. I like to spin.
I like to take a walk at the beach.
I like to visit my yoga mat, a little downward facing dog and cat-cow, peaceful warrior one, two and three.
I’ll turn on a carol in the car and I’ll sing-sing-a-ling.
I like to unwind with Bill, cook a meal, sit down and eat it with cloth napkins and conversation. (And then there’s always a bit of bubbly, a little love’n and chocolate! )

 
It’s the time to dive into it all–the hustle and flow and the magic and miracles and all the wishes and desires.

Just as long as I don’t forget to dive into myself!
 
I’m taking this moment to make a wish.
Here’s to a wonderful and wild and colorful and bright bushy-tailed winter wonderland
here’s to magic and miracles
to peace on Earth
to true good will toward human kind.

Here’s to loving kindness
Here’s to loving each other
Here’s to love

Here’s to giving presents
and staying present as we give!

Here’s to you!

Cheers!
 
Write on,
Happy Holidays.

Write on,

carolyn first only sig

 

 

Journal Entry: August 31, 2014

Journal Entry:  August 31, 2014

 

I had a good childhood.

me and dad Maui, maybe 79 or 80

Me and Dad Maui Circa 79 or 80

I grew up on movie sets. My Dad was a Production Manager back when you broke down a script using colored cardboard strips. Wemoved from New York to Beverly Hills. “Stepford Wives” was in the can but I still got to brush Katherine Ross’ strawberry blonde hair and help her bake cookies in her Malibu kitchen. I loved how her bathing suit bottoms never matched her tops.  When my Dad was working on “Murder by Death” he arranged for me to meet Angie Dickenson and Earl Holliman. “Police Woman” was my favorite show and it was a way bigger deal than meeting David Niven, Truman Capote or Maggie Smith. Although it was pretty neat to watch Colombo rehearse the same line over and over and over again.

It wasn’t just me. My Dad brought lots of people up in the movie business. He got them jobs, got them training, got them in the union.

Then the script took a dark turn. An unexpected diagnosis. A first surgical procedure doesn’t go as planned. Lake Arrowhead-chemo-recovery-weekends and my Dad’s healthy vital glow mask the executioner. A Second surgery and still Cancer drills deep and takes root.

All scenes led to that final diagnosis.
Seven days left to say goodbye.

“Did you get the shot?” He asked. From his bedside at Cedars, I could see the Hollywood sign, white against the Indian summer hillside.  I held his hand. It felt heavy.

“We did.” I replied.

Cut. Print. That’s a wrap.

That was 1988.

Man of Destiny

Roger M. Rothstein

It took a bit of time, but now I can feel into the gift that is my father. Not just my gift–I still get emails, letters and Facebook posts: I miss him every day; I found a picture of him; There was no one quite like Roger.

I can look in the mirror and see him in the round of my face, the beauty mark on my cheek and my dark hair and eyes. His energy courses through my veins as I negotiate with a tough client.

If my father weren’t where he is, somewhere out there, I wouldn’t be where I am now.  Who knows, maybe he is here, hovering over my right shoulder as I type.

This is my life.

Happy Birthday Dad.

Hello Moon**

Journal Entry:  August 11, 2014

 

full moon morning

Full Moon Morning

I stepped out onto the back porch this morning and looked up to see the moon, still full, setting in the sky. I don’t recall a full moon ever on an August 11th, but that doesn’t mean that it hasn’t ever happened.

Today is my birthday.

“What a nice surprise.” I tell the moon.

“Sure thing!” He says.  “Happy Birthday!”

“Thank you.” I say

That moon-man smiling down on me, greeting me on my special day, makes me think about how long I have been here. I couldn’t count the number of times I’ve looked up and smiled at him in my five decades and one year.

I had my coffee, my vanilla protein shake with an organic peach and I wrote in my journal.  I left the house happy.  I drove through emptier-than-normal-for-a-Monday streets and parked in the almost vacant lot by my spinning studio.  I was greeted upstairs with smiles and birthday wishes.

During class, our instructor Mandy said, “Grab your water and grab your breath.” I don’t know if she meant to say grab, but that’s what I heard.

I looked over the parking lot, to the palm trees and couldn’t help but think about the word.  Grab.

What have I grabbed for in my life? What else will I reach for and grab? I grab a ripe Meyer lemon from our tree in the back yard — twist and pull.  I pluck opportunities as they ripen on their vines. What will I reach for next?

At 51, I am still like a child that picks and chooses what to discover and explore next.  Although, I haven’t had to grab for that much; the important, life-changing things come to me.

I get clear.
I ask.
I let go.
I receive.

It seems easy and in a way it is, but there is the work of getting clear and letting go, sometimes it can be a challenge. Although, at this place it isn’t as much work as it was when I was in another place.

That’s what happened with Bill.  It’s not that we didn’t reach for each other.  We did.  It’s how we came to be within each other’s reach, in that particular instant, that I find interesting.

I’ve written about it many times, it was as simple as that.

Why does the moon smile down on me?
Why did Bill and I get swaddled together in that moment?
Why am I blessed with this life?

I don’t know that I have answers for these questions.  I may never.  I’m good with that.  I’ll unwrap full moon birthday wishes, and magic instead of answers.

Happy Birthday to Me!

 

** Excerpt from the book that I am currently writing.

 

 

I’m Keeping on Keeping on…

I’ve been feeling a bit stuck lately, in my writing, in my work, in general—stuck.  I hold my breath and hold myself back. There is something I’m not seeing, something I’m missing, some door that isn’t opening.  On the outside, I appear cool and confident and on the inside I’m a bundle of nerves.

It’s funny, people will tell me I’m courageous and that I’m a risk taker and I’ll be quaking in my boots or wondering if I’m making the ‘right’ life choices.

When I was waiting tables at Old Venice in Manhattan Beach back in the 90’s a gal that I knew from high school came in and I had to wait on her.  I wasn’t exactly embarrassed, even though it was Halloween weekend and I was in cat makeup. I was more uncomfortable, worried about what she would think.

After I brought them their drinks, while taking their order, we caught up a bit.  She went to college, law school and got married. “What about you?” She asked.

My cat ears were twitching. I’d rather chase a rat than tell the story of my life up to that point to someone that together.

“After UCLA I worked on some features, then, after my Dad died, I worked for Camden Artists, then Triad.” I said.  She was leaning toward me, looking up; she seemed interested in what I had to say. “Then I went to Europe for 6 months and I found a job at a patisserie…” I said.

It went on from there.  How could I tell her every detail? I didn’t. I didn’t tell her about my move back home, the garage sale where I sold all just about all my stuff—including that fabulous orange flowered print skirt and matching shoes and ribbed mid-drift pullover I bought in some crazy expensive store in Santa Monica.

I didn’t tell her the details of how I found my first apartment and my first job and all the other jobs when I moved to Santa Barbara where I worked as a waitress – at The Jolly Tiger coffee shop, at the San Yisidro Ranch, at a bowling alley, at Pascual’s Mexican restaurant, then there was the Turkish company, Telanav, they were doing something shady and they wouldn’t let us leave for lunch, then there was Market Place Media—that’s where I learned how to use PageMaker.

I didn’t tell her that after Santa Barbara there was Venice and Value Health Sciences, Inc.(VHS) and that the reason I left Venice and moved to Redondo Beach was because my roommate was a psychopath who delivered a bag of garbage to my office with a note that said: ATTN: CAROLYN, because he was mad I was moving.

I didn’t tell her that only way for me to get promoted at VHS was to leave and move to Phoenix.  I didn’t tell her that I worked in the marketing department at  Eye Care Plan of America—they turned the storage closet into my office—ahhhh my first office.

I told her that I hated Phoenix because I tell everyone that mentions Phoenix that I hate Phoenix—when you’re wearing jeans and cowboy boots on a 90-degree day, side-stepping cockroaches the size of my dying Mustang convertible,  it’s time to head back to the beach.

“So, I moved back to Redondo Beach and I also work at Gold’s Gym in Redondo.” I said, summarizing best I could. “I want to be a personal trainer.”

“Wow.” Her smile seemed to go from ear to ear.  Her husband was smiling too.  “I envy you.” She said.

“Why?” I asked. She was the grown-up here.  She had a career, she had a husband, she had a house.  She was a real person.

“You’re so courageous,” She said. “You didn’t just do what you were supposed to do like I did.”

There have been quite a few more lefts and rights and even some U-turns since that conversation 20 years ago.

curvy path

twist and turns ahead

I am still zigzagging along on my path.

It seems these days that I’m not the only one, there are others. The world has changed and the straight and narrow isn’t as straight and narrow as it used to be–we are explorers all of us.

Still, at times, I find myself gasping for air.

I sometimes have to remind myself to breathe.  I have to remind myself that I have courage, that I am brave, that I am in the right place at the right time, and that if history does indeed repeat itself, well, I’ll be just fine…actually, I’ll be much better than fine.

Are We There Yet? ***

Journal Entry: June 29, 2014

It was early. I was watering the lawn. The sun was still hiding behind marine layer and our street was quiet. It had been hot the last few days.  Finally a bit of June gloom. The breeze cooled my sun-browned skin—you’re as brown as a berry, my Dad would say to me as August approached. I watched the grass drink.  Here’s what I realized in that moment: I was in a rush to be done.  In this gorgeous, perfect, feel-good moment in time, I was in a rush.

I rush. I rush a lot.  I rush  from one thing to the next. I’m not fickle. It’s not that. I’m loyal, sometimes to a fault. I’m loyal to my clients and I’m a loyal client. I’m loyal to my friends, my family and my husband.  When I rush from one moment to the next, I’m not loyal to myself.

Sometimes, the journey is a good thing.

I like cleaning. I like making something go from dull to polish. I love bleach and I love being clean and having cleaned.  Feet up on the coffee table, arms crossed, I survey the sparkle and shine of my clean wood floors, white whites and sparkling surfaces.  (Geez, I sound like a friggin’ commercial.)

I love writing and I really love having written!

I enjoy editing too, but I love the finished product even more.

At the end of a good book I’m sad that I won’t be visiting that world anymore. I miss the immersion into another person’s language.  I once had this friend  who could speed-read.  She made the biggest deal about it, she was proud that she could rush through a good book. Okay, if I could speed-read when I was at UCLA I would have maybe been ahead of the curve and caught up just once. Other than that I just don’t get it. I don’t want to speed read The Great Gatsby, The Poisonwood Bible, Memoirs of a Geisha or a poem by Richard Jones or Ellen Bass.

Sailing, now that’s all about the journey.  Sailing is something you do to get nowhere. We’ll take the boat out for a few hours and go back and forth, towards Marina Del Rey, back towards Palos Verdes, tacking and jibing in and out of the wind.  Still, after three, four, or six hours on the rough Pacific, (should have been named the Belligerent Ocean) I really want to get there already.

catalina thanksgiving 3rd annual 2004 009

Enjoy The Journey

The ride to the orgasm is amazing.  So is the orgasm.  I’d like the ride and the orgasm to last as long as possible.

I want time to slow down and I want to slow down with time. I want to lick it, feel it’s texture on my tongue, taste the sweet thick syrup slide down the back of my throat.  I want to savor each moment.  Ahhhh the irony of the human experience—being in such a rush to grow up and get there that when we finally do, we want to go back.

*** This is an excerpt of something I’m working on for my next book.

Has the Universe Left Me?

 

My note from the universe didn’t come this morning.

My note may be lost.  It might have slipped under the doormat with the other bills that the mailman drops through our door.  Maybe it was pushed or kicked or blown under the sofa, under my pillow, under the bed.  Maybe the cat got to it, crumpled and left in the corner with his favorite green mouse; the one that jingles as he carries it in his teeth, jingle jingle stomp stomp stomp jingle jingle jingle through the house.

My note wasn’t in any of those places.

My note didn’t appear.

I went to the site searching for my daily inspiration, and there was no note, no message.  No reason, no explanation.  Has the universe gone?  Am I alone?

IMG00259-20100711-1617_2

one of many hats

Am I alone? A question I used to ask myself a lot, especially when I was dating Brian.  He would disappear on the weekends, “Babe, just calling to say goodnight, so if you don’t hear from me, don’t worry, I’m turning my phone off.” By Sunday I’d have to speak out loud, ask myself, “Can I hear me?” Checking to see if the chords still plucked.  My girlfriends vanished too. Not fans of the Brian-Carolyn connection.  I went to movies alone, went to dinners alone, had a drink at the local bar alone. I walked many beach fairs alone.  I would buy a hat. “Am I alone?” I said to the girl in the mirror as I adjusted a new black and white hat with with a wide brim.

I own a lot of hats.

fullmoondance

no full moon ecstatic dance

Has the universe left me on the Winter Solstice? Is the internet down, connection fried? I know, maybe it’s because I won’t be shredding, burning, dancing under a full moon, Stonehenge chanting, crop circle tracing, meditation candlelight walking, praying through labyrinths. I won’t be saging, Ayahuasca trip sitting or tea journeying.  They say the universe likes ceremony.  They say the universe wants me to have more pomp, circumstance, leather fringe, drum circle, ecstatic dance, hot coal fire walking in my life. They say, the universe likes when you ritual with others not alone.  They say I don’t live up to the standards. Maybe that’s why, because the only thing I’ve planned is writing, reading, American Hustle love making and a bit of red wine.

I don’t go to parades. I eat gluten, dairy and meat. I leave before the fireworks. I don’t eat eggs or tofu and I will eat bacon. I don’t like women’s groups or meditation groups, or girls night out, I prefer the men join.   Sometimes I’ll skip the party all together. I believe in attraction, not The Secret. I’m not a fan of yes yes crocodile tearing gurus that oversell and over-tell.  I like the real deal. Someone once told me I was the spiritual anti-christ.  I get it, I said to her, I am contrary to popular belief.

I’m surprised when I find myself in the middle of the picture, the women grouping, forming, molding themselves around me, even though I choose a seat in the back closest to the aisle.   I’m happy on the fringe.  Don’t push, stop pulling, it’s time for me to go, I’m ready, I whisper to them to myself and slip out the emergency exit.

Boyfriends and girlfriends have come and gone.  I’ve moved through women’s gestalt wine goddess Tuesday’s relations.  I’ve felt the rope burn from untying knots. It leaves a mark, a tale to tell around the fire; full moon hanging low evening at the beach.  Feet dig in cold winter sand, toes wriggle for warmth.  Fire pits glow along the coast as cars whiz by above.

I am my own ritual.

Two hearts link themselves in a dark bar on a smoke filled night.  The smell of schnapps and beer, voices of drinkers and smokers scratch above the click of pool cues scratch and the scrape scrape scrape of  blue chalk on felt tip. Hazel eyes, black lash, a smile, some words.

History unfolds in a moment and the Universe might not work weekends.

 

 

Let It Be Me

 

September comes and the days go tight.  Tentacles grasp, snatch, twist themselves, vines rooted deep crawl through my toes, wrap around my ankles, up my legs.  I watch the greens and pinks slip away to browns.  Slow hurries into quick, rushes about, reaches for dreams, planted from the year before.

Time runs click tock.

All those things folded and tucked away for another day.  All those things that have to be pulled out from underneath the brush, all those things in rooted under beds rotting in corners of bed rooms and offices and kitchens.  All those things to be dug out from the back of junk drawers, unearthed in kitchens to be tilled and spread, seeded and separated.  Thank you’s, happy birthday’s, congratulation’s, good job’s, rsvp’s, broken promises to be studied, analyzed, organized, donated, tossed, remembered, burned, ritualized, scrubbed clean. Stapled, paper clipped, rubber banded, shredded. Candle burning sticks and stones may break my bones and what about the Elmer’s Glue from years and years and years and those years so long ago?

Time is winding down.

Leaves change and let go they fall fire red decompose yellow. Die transparent.  Crackle crisp under the boots of plaid skirted pony-tailed schoolgirls that carry pink and purple backpacks and text on their smart phones.  We wrote notes on lined loose leaf that we  folded into triangles and passed back and forth at recess.

In September my skin catches fire.leaves fire

It reminds me
I have been attached to grief.

Rattled. Shingled. Raw.

I remember.  I feel back into the pins and needles and numb of twenty-five Septembers ago.  I remember winding my 280 ZX through Laurel and Mulholland and Cold Water.  I remember swerving and skidding and the squealing breaks, let it be me, let it be me, let it be me, let it be me… slicing through thick canyon on heavy Autumn days.  I remember careening into Beverly Hills. Let it be me.   I remember white piles, powder dumped from brown glass onto dirty mirrors sniffed from pinkies and thumbs and tiny spoons and keys, the razor clicks divvy out lines to be snorted and sucked up and smoked and the rolled dollar bills, used and smelling acrid sweet. Absolute bloodied white light late night Marlboro Lights rock line shots and Hendrix till sun light .  Let it be me.

Hot fire harvest moon shines.
I remember
that dream.

Time brands.
I itch.
I scratch.
I pick
I irritate my scars.

Meanwhile, September speeds up, plows through October into November and burrows under the white winter blankets of drift for hibernation.

I am awake
I remember a dream.

Let it be me.

In Memoriam–Roger M. Rothstein

 

My Mother, Barbara Rothstein, is a brilliant writer.  She wrote this and I am sharing it here.

 

This year marks the 25th death anniversary of my husband Roger.

 August 31, 1935 – September 12, 1988.  He was 53.

Roger: Fun-loving, caring, down to earth. Generous, colorful, smart. Loaded with common sense, great instincts, a spontaneous sense of humor and an innate goodness. He loved his two daughters, good company, good food, good things…especially cars and watches!  He loved the business of making films and working on the production of a film and making it happen. He was the go-to guy for making things happen. You wanted a car wrapped in cellophane with a big red bow on top?  Done…that afternoon!  You wanted a birthday care package delivered to your kid at camp overnight? Done…before anyone ever heard of Fed Ex! That was Roger.

The first film he worked on was Act One (1963).  There were to be 27 more as he worked his way up from 2nd Assistant Director to  production manager/line producer. He ultimately became the head of production management at Paramount Studios, the job he loved best of all.

His own funny, creative writing was amazing, and to this day, friends tell us they still have all of the letters Roger sent them! He loved to write. I can only imagine how he would’ve loved Facebook and Twitter. I know he would’ve thanked and acknowledged all the wonderful people in his life who helped him along the way, people he was always grateful for, people he never forgot, people he never stopped loving.

We’ve pieced together the titles of the films he actually worked on into a little narrative as our way of recognizing some of his accomplishments.

In Memory of Roger Michael Rothstein                       

 

September 12, 2013

Act One opens in The World Of Henry Orient where You Play It As It Lays.  That’s what Roger and Harvey Middleman, Fireman used to say every time there was Panic In Needle Park.  Me, Natalie knew that Serpico would figure out the reason for The Return of Max Dugan, even though they had Nothing In Common, except maybe Summer Wishes, Winter Dreams…maybe.  But sometimes life is nothing more than a Puzzle Of A Downfall Child, like when the Paper Lion predicted The Effect Of Gamma Rays On Man-In-The-Moon Marigolds.  But no one, not even Roger, our Hero At Large, could’ve predicted what would happen to Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.  Sadly, the Gamma rays worked like Pretty Poison and they turned into Stepford Wives! But that was before Chapter Two, The Turning Point.  After that, he met Amazing Grace And Chuck and then of course, The Sunshine Boys. To this day It Only Hurts When I Laugh to think of those two old guys hurling crazy insults at each other like “Don’t even think You Oughta Be In Pictures”, and “Don’t worry…the only thing I think of when I think of you is Murder By Death, better yet, by Stiletto!” They were Two Of A Kind alright.

It Seems Like Old Times just thinking about all this. Yet even though it’s been 25 years since September 12, 1988, some things never change:

Roses are still red,

Violets Are Blue,

Your Goodbye Girls

Will always love you.

Still wishing we could  Play It Again, Roger,

   Love always,  Barbara,  Carolyn & Leslie.

Man of Destiny

“Man of Destiny”

Hard at work

Hard At Work

Military Acadamy

Peekskill Military Academy Days

Earth Crisis

 

“It wasn’t butter it was earth crisis we were eating last night,” says the tall work-study. The work-study philosophizes about life. “The circle of giving keeps giving” he says.

We’re all philosophers.  Breathing into the dusted sepia pages of books, stacked from floor to ceiling in rooms scented with musk and memory.  Sunlight streams from skylights and neglected windows.  Cars whiz by on Laurel Canyon and Magnolia and the Pioneer Chicken on the corner will outlast us all.

I want to be outside but the cigarette smoker exhales feathers of tar toward saltwater.   The ocean cries and the wall of voodoo forms on the horizon, waiting to hug the cliffs and paint everyone in mist.

There is always a choice.  Today it’s between the all-saltwater-roll-your-own and the voices of those that live among the trees.  Voices that echo in canyons, Love me, free me, color me blue, violet, blood orange yellow and pink; a kaleidoscope of light that winds its way up the trunks of trees.

The trees.  The trees plant themselves into hillsides.  The trees push themselves from rock and stone.  The trees, older than the birds thatwhat of the trees perch themselves, wings spread ready to hunt, older than the iron, stone and wood structures built around them, older than the smoking man. And what of the rocks?

The earth shook and a piece of cliff set itself free.  Tumble, bounce, crumble crash.  Particles disperse and morph into another time.

The wind is hollow. The blue jay hunts for food.  I wait.

I don’t move.  I can’t spread my wings until I know I am home.

I can’t find a home and so I pick up my cup of tea, my crumpled packet of Truvia, my bent spoon, my pen, my new red cap and my bottle of Fiji.  Ten years ago I walked along a beach in Fiji. The Fijians have flat feet. They climb the palm trees and drop-thud the coconuts to the ground.  I thought about moving to Fiji.

I’ve moved before. I was young and splintered. I tread water for a long time.

We all tread water, burn ourselves into a blue flame until we suffocate or stroke.  I butterflied my way to a south-facing beach, crawled up on shore, my home strapped to my back.  Sloshed through thick wet sand. Why not let the sea push me into a dream where the sun sets in the North?

Glue me together.

And what of the dirt that I can’t seem to clean from the bottom of my feet?  Is that from a stone that fell hundreds of skies into my South facing ocean?  Lightning striking sand, melted it into long, thin tubes that sucked themselves toward the beginning.  Volcanoes erupted melted rocks. I am stained by my earth.

Today I stepped on a shard of glass.  I didn’t see it, but I felt it.  I had to stop, sit down and pull it out of my toe.  I am ground fine like glass. A window to peer through, a crystal to fill, to drink from and then place under my husband’s foot.   I have left behind pieces of myself, on pillows and in sheets and wrapped in the souls of those I have loved.

That Was Then…This is Fabulous

 

It’s been a year since I started this blog.

My commitment was to put it out there
It, I mean Me…put me out there

I might write something I’m unsure of
Something that makes me feel uncomfortable
Vulnerable
Something that makes me think I’ll be judged
I post it
Float it out there

I’m surprised with the response I receive
positive
a post on Facebook
or an email
thanking me
‘me too, I’ve felt that way too’

with the letting go
I’ve create space
for new friends
new fun
new writing
new perspective
new adventure
new avenues
new ideas
rekindled relationships
exploration
even more love

Space enough for a huge party
Yes, that’s right
I’m planning my BIG birthday party.

FUN
Lists upon lists
Of friends
That grows
Lists upon lists of
menu ideas
Caterers to call
Lists upon lists of what to do next
a backyard barbeque
with Ruffles potato chips and
onion dip
has turned into
a catered event

we’ve planted new grass

A celebration
Fabulous at 50
Maybe that’s what the cake will read

The other day someone asked if Bill and I were going to have children
We smiled.
“We gave it the college try.” I said, my arms around Bill.

“That was a compliment”.  Bill said to me on the way home, “He thinks you’re 40.”

Some years ago, when I was still mourning miscarriages, my best friend from high school had called me.  I wrote about our conversation.

Naomi hadn’t changed.  She was judgmental, tight, nasty.  At her wedding, a weekend affair in La Quinta, she asked me which of her guests I thought was the prettiest.  It’s your wedding Naomi, do you really care? I said or I thought, I can’t remember which.  In high school she was the pretty one everyone wanted to date. She called me to catch up, she said.   She was complaining about her husband, how he wouldn’t let her talk on her cell phone when he was around her, he needed her undivided attention, he was like a kid; her friend had hung up on her during a political discussion, (Naomi loves Rush Limbaugh).  Her Laguna vacation house was under construction; she wouldn’t be able to spend weekends there with her three kids, husband and two of their four cars.  She asked me how much money Bill and I earned. She asked how large our home was and how much we bought it for.  She had a checklist.  She asked about our vacations, our boat, our cars and then “Well you guys can do whatever you want because you don’t have kids.” She said.  Spitting at me through the phone line..

In that piece I wrote about the assumptions people might make because Bill and I don’t have kids.  Like my Dad used to say to me, Assume makes and ass out of u and me.

I thought about getting a t-shirt.  The front would read, I DON’T HATE KIDS and on the back, JUST REPRODUCTIVELY CHALLENGED.

I choose to glide into this new chapter
with grace
why carry with me
the heaviness
that belongs to someone else?

It has nothing to do with me

That was then

Fabulous at 50

Fabulous at 50

And this is Fabulous