Lanaindiana, my hero.

I have been friends with Lanaindiana on YouTube and Twitter for two years. I subscribed to her blog on blogspot a while ago, and that blog gave me the courage to start my own. She writes mostly about beauty, and lately has written about her husband's battle with stage 4 cancer. I knew she spent time in an orphanage and in foster care, but for the past month or two she has been blogging about it, shaping what will become a book about surviving child abuse. It is strong stuff, troublesome reading that will tear your heart out, but Lana survived it. She just posted chapter 8, but 20 minutes of reading will catch you up with her story if you care to read it. If you want to see who Lana has become, and the success she's made of her life, her YouTube videos are not only a great resource for beauty tips and reviews, they are often hilarious. She is living, beautiful, powerful, proof that it's not what happens to you in life, it's what you do with it. Shine on, Lana, you're the best.

Harvest Home

A favorite book of mine is Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon. It was also a made for tv movie, called The Dark Secret of Harvest Home, starring Bette Davis. The idea of city mice turned country mice has always been alluring to me. As a child, I often felt displaced after coming home from a stay at my Aunt's dairy farm. After a few weeks of getting up before dawn to help milk and feed cows, then doing it all again later in the afternoon, returning to my easy, pampered, concrete South Philadelphia life was weird. In my early twenties, I seriously considered buying a few acres of that land, building a small house on it and living there. It never panned out, but then in my forties, I found myself deep in Lancaster County Amish Country, and deep into culture shock.
Harvest Home is the story of a New York couple and their daughter. Seeking out a more peaceful, natural way of life, they move to Cornwall Coombe, an untouched by time village in a rural area of New England. The villagers are mostly farmers, and life is lived according to "The Ways". Not unlike my Amish neighbors, they attend school up to eighth grade, they use horse and buggy transportation, they shun modern civilization and worldly things. They do not seek the outside world, and newcomers are treated with an odd mixture of wariness and bemused friendliness.
Where I live, although I have been here 12 years, since I am not "from here" I am not "of here" and will never be fully accepted. Someone moving here from a closer, urban area like Harrisburg would be greeted with skepticism. Coming from South Philadelphia makes me the equivalent of a Martian. But back to Harvest Home, and this is where my personal experience bows out- something is not quite right in this heavenly, bucolic little hamlet. "The Ways" go further, deeper and darker than quilting bees, bonnets and sheep grazing on the hill. This idyllic setting turns chilling, with places like Soake's Lonesome, the deep woods where you should never venture to at night. The Widow Fortune, the village wise woman/ midwife/ veterinarian/ herbalist has more up her black homespun sleeves than her knitting needles. A lot more.

Disconnect

I am learning the fine art of disconnect. I am learning that you can do it with the workplace, the holidays, even people. You "show up", you do your best, but you know your heart is not in it. Less hurt, less disillusionment, less vulnerability. You honor your commitment, but in your head you're already gone.

Nesting in November

I love November. The colder air, the darker-early evenings, the leaves, then the barren trees. There's something so nice about cooking, baking, even cleaning in the house as the wind whips through the woods outside. When Maria was little, our lives were filled with fun projects in November and December. While she is making her own memories with Grace now, I still do the same things. Baking, needlework, cooking, while a happy musical or heartwarming old movie keeps me company. When we are together, we cook, we eat, we linger over hot tea and sweet treats. On Wednesday I'll spend the night at Maria's, and have Thanksgiving there. The fire will be blazing, we'll cook and laugh and outside the wind will blow, but we won't mind. We'll have November to keep us warm.

Deep dark truthful mirror.

Today I read a Maya Angelou quote that struck me like lightning. "When people show you who they are, believe them". That's so profound it's scary. Scary because we all make excuses for the people in our lives. We refuse to see what's right in front of us, because it hurts too much, it's too real, it's too awful. If we see it, we must do something about it. Better to hide our heads in the sand. Self preservation? Denial? A means of survival?
One of my favorite Elvis Costello songs is Deep Dark Truthful Mirror.
"One day you're gonna have to face that deep dark truthful mirror, and it's gonna tell you things I still love you too much to say".
Shakespeare said love looks not with the eyes but with the mind, therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Until today, I believed that meant love is blind, blind to race, looks, gender, class. But maybe Cupid was pretending to be blind, pretending not to see. When someone, even for just a moment, showed Cupid who they really were, he had to look the other way.

Was radio always this good?

I passed music lover a long while back. I am a music freak. Ask my Sony Walkman (can't bear to throw it out) my first generation IPod, my IPod shuffle, my IPad. When my IPod crashed, I nearly gave myself a ministroke with my grief and anger. So to find myself with two old cars, one with a radio and a CASSETTE player and the other with just a radio is beyond mortification. Beyond irony. It stinks on ice. I half expect to find an 8 Track player in my car tomorrow, and by next week a victrola. By December, a rock and a cowbell that happen to clang together when I make a left turn. Yet, I am not bitter. After years of CDs and the IPod in the car, I have rediscovered radio. And there is no better time for radio than now.
If I station hop, I can hear both Gaga songs in the top 40, both Adele songs, and both Bruno Mars songs. Pepper this with the superfun, hypnotic Pumped Up Kicks, a little Pink thrown in for pure pink pleasure, and Moves Like Jagger, and what more do you need? Missed Adele's Someone Like You? No worries, it's on two stations over, you only missed the first verse. It's the same 10 songs all day, my dears, and that's okay 'cause all of 'em are good!

I Killed Vincent Gardenia

I don't mean to say I murdered him, I didn't kill him on purpose. I didn't kill him accidentally, either. But it's still my fault he's dead.
Let's go back to 1992 in Philadelphia. My brilliant friend who shall heretofore be referred to as, uuhhhh, Milton, knew how much I adored Vincent Gardenia. For the painfully young or ignorant, Vincent Gardenia was a beloved Italian actor, born in Naples and raised in Brooklyn, BROOK-A-LEEN according to the old school Italians I grew up with. He was Frank Lorenzo, Archie Bunker's neighbor. He was in Little Shop of Horrors, Bang The Drum Slowly, and best yet, Cher's father Cosmo in Moonstruck. Something about him really tickled me. He was in previews for a play, Breaking Legs, in Philadelphia. Milton called him at the theater, told him about me and my fondness for him, and my appreciation of his work. I knew every line of Moonstruck, and so did my teenage daughter. We spent hours taking turns being Cosmo and Loretta, Rose, Johnny, Ronnie, Uncle Raymond and Aunt Rita. So, when Vincent Gardenia, (and yes, I will be typing out Vincent Gardenia every time I mention his name) agreed to meet Milton and me for drinks one night after the show, I was thrilled! I thought I was it! Having rubbed elbows with some very famous rock stars, I wasn't starstruck at all, and I looked forward to a wonderful evening full of theater talk since Milton was a playwright and I a patron of the arts!
A day or two before our planned meeting, Vincent Gardenia died of a heart attack. I was sad, selfishly disappointed, heartsick. Then it occurred to me that he died to get out of having drinks with me. That it was all my fault, and the poor man, having a sharp sense of humor and great comedic timing, died to avoid me. To show Miss Fancypants Look at ME having Drinks with Vincent Gardenia, star of stage and screen, a thing or two. So, in my own, greedy, obsessive little way, I killed Vincent Gardenia. May he rest in peace.

No Chanel Nail Polish For Me!

You wouldn't believe how much I want, covet, DESIRE two of the new Chanel nail colors. Peridot and Graphite! Even saying the names gives me a little thrill. But at $25 a bottle, they are just to spendy for me. I will pay $14 for the UK brand Butter, especially since they have to send it all the way to the states from across the pond. I may even treat myself to the luxury brand Deborah Lippman, now available at Nordstrom for about $18. But even I, with no practical sense at all can't plunk down TWENTY FIVE dollars for a nail polish. That equals two Limited Edition OPI's and an emory board. So, are there any cheap dupes for these brilliant shades? The answer is yes and no. The Sephora brand has released a close dupe to Peridot. Close enough for color tv with regard to the shade, but can the formula compare, and is it important? I'll find out.
There is no dupe for Graphite. It is made of slivers of sunbeams and moonbeams and promises and the lint from angel's wings and bits of pixie eyelashes. It's the nail polish they hand out at the gates of Heaven, in the reserved section, of course. And it is not for the likes of me. Sigh.

Three Cheers For Chaz

Like most people my age, I loved The Sonny and Cher Show. Sonny was the foil to Cher's wisecracks, and Cher was stunning. Love her or hate her, you couldn't take your eyes off her. It was a special treat when little Chastity would join them to close the show, usually in Sonny's arms. The perfect, happy family, Hollywood style. Fast forward to today, and Chastity is now Chaz, having undergone gender transition surgery. A writer and activist, and strangest of all to me, a contestant on Dancing With the Stars.
Let's back it up a little. After years of being outed by tabloids, Chastity came out in the cover story of The Advocate in 1995. Although she had already told her parents she was a lesbian, making it public didn't sit well with her father, now a Republican Congressman, nor her mother, who enjoyed her own status as a gay icon. Sonny and Chastity were said to still be estranged at the time of his death in 1998. Cher eventually rallied 'round her only daughter, becoming a proud mother in the Gay and Lesbian community.
Which brings us back to Chaz. To have the courage to undertake the long, arduous, painful process of gender reassignment is amazing to me. To be a public figure, and the child of such famous parents, it must have been twice as hard. To already be under public scrutiny and have the guts, or should I say it? the balls to become the person you know you were meant to be takes more strength and courage than I'll ever have. It angers me that "Christian Family" groups are protesting ABC and DWTS for having Chaz on the show. One spokesperson actually said the bible says transgender people shouldn't be on the show. I didn't know the bible even mentioned Dancing With the Stars! All this while hiding behind the name of Jesus. Did Jesus not make Chastity Bono? Did Jesus not make gay people? If you don't want to see him on DWTS then change the channel. Don't know what to tell your 5 year old about it? How about NOTHING! Or if you must, how about that Jesus ( or whomever ) made and loves us all? This bright, caring soul has written a book called Family Outing, which helps our children understand that they are not freaks and that they are not alone. He, and yes, he has earned the pronoun, wrote a new book about this journey. If it helps someone, great. If you don't care to read it, please don't! If he feels fulfilled, is finally comfortable in his own skin, if he's happy, good for him. It's his face he sees every morning in the mirror, no one else's. More power to him!

Another restaurant tale.

At dinner tonight, in a place that wasn't Italian but had lots of Italian entrees, my dear Italian husband ordered Eggplant Parm, which he enjoyed when we were there last. However, because he is half caveman, and MEAT is a part of every meal and most snacks, he ordered a side of meatballs and a side of sausage. Commonplace in Philadelphia, where we've done most of our dining, even common in the few real Italian places in Lancaster County. So, down the shore, as we call it, we assumed he'd get meatballs and sausage in gravy. For those out of the Gumbah loop, gravy is tomato sauce or red sauce.
Out comes the eggplant parm, drooling with melted mozzarella, looking like a million dollars. Out come two little meatballs, sitting in a little pool of gravy. And out comes four BREAKFAST SAUSAGES, dry, sitting on a plate. I looked at him, he looked at me, we both looked at the server. She told us she'd check on us in a bit and left us alone. Alone in the silence and horror of BREAKFAST SAUSAGES dry on a plate. She might as well have brought a turd to the table! We looked at each other, my big eyes bulging, his little "Chinky" eyes slits of disgust and disbelief. You could hear the crickets chirping. More silence. The server returned to see how we were doing. Please Dear God I moaned in my head, don't let him say anything! And the saints were with me because he said we were fine. Fine! as the bastardized sausages sat there in disgrace.

Do servers play favorites?

Whenever my husband and I go out for dinner, I always get the better meal. We can order the same exact thing, and the server always gives me the better of the two plates. At a steakhouse, although we may both order the same cut, both rare or medium rare, mine is bigger, prettier, more drool-worthy. At a seafood place, he will get five shrimp to my six. At breakfast, his homefries are okay, mine overflow the plate. He brought this to my attention a while back, and he's right. He always says "they gave you my plate" because he is the bigger person with the bigger appetite, I pick at everything and never finish anything.
I attribute this to my terminal cuteness, and to a lesser degree, my sweet nature. I can be having the worst day ever but my server would never know. If I told him or her I was having the worst day ever, there would be a little something extra for me. My husband, bless his little black heart, has no problem showing his discontent. When the server chirps "How are you today" he tells them "lousy" if he is indeed lousy.
Then there's his steely, narrow-eyed facial expression. He looks like he could eat nails. I look like Bambi's older sister, big eyed and baby faced. The servers just naturally give me the best stuff. I am a baby bird and it's their job to feed me. The hawk across from me can fend for himself, which he does, right off of my plate. Help yourself, I say, there's plenty.

Misleading Mascara Ads!

I am more annoyed than ever at mascara commercials. First of all, if aliens saw that most of our prime time commercials are for mascara, allergy meds and ween pills, they'd think we were a species of limp lashed, sneezing impotents. The mascara ads feature models wearing false eyelashes, sometimes two or three pair! If I were to wear all those eyelid awnings I wouldn't need mascara. Are we such lemmings that because LashyLash curls and lengthens twice as much we must run out and buy it? Yes! At least I am. And I know you can't get the same results using just mascara...but that nagging inner voice cries what if it's really good? Still, I am annoyed by the "false" advertising. Much like in the '80's, we were told "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't" but they never bothered to mention that if you felt like a nut you better also feel like milk chocolate, because Almond Joy was made with milk chocolate and Mounds were made with dark. So if you wanted dark chocolate, you damn well better not feel like a nut, and if you do, too damn bad.
So either spackle on the mascara so thick you can barely blink, or get yourself some falsies. Or do both. Guaranteed, you'll feel like a nut.

I think I have something to say.

I've been asked over the years why I don't blog, especially since the advent of Facebook. So, after very little consideration and no real planning, I become a blogger. While expecting almost no one to read these musings, I will write about whatever strikes my fancy. That could be books or music, beauty or food, or my little life in the woods. I am an animal/ nature geek, and even a possum fascinates me. Although not a people lover, I am in love with my family and friends, and the occasional stranger. And I may just have something to say!