Christmas Secret

     It was 40 years ago tonight, Christmas Eve 1972. I was 17 years old and a few weeks pregnant with Maria. Other than Sydney, a girlfriend from nursing school, no one else knew. I was afraid. Afraid of the pain of  childbirth. At that point in my training I had attended or assisted with about 30 deliveries, and I saw the agony of  laboring mothers. I knew things could go wrong. I had seen newborns with horrific birth defects. I was frightened of what I would have to endure, but never frightened of being a mother. While I was very aware of the responsibility I would have for another person for the first time in my life, I knew I could handle it.
     I was filled with a sense of awe. My tiny body was making a baby. My little 98 pound frame, which would soon be down to a pitiful 89 pounds would be developing, housing and protecting a baby! I already felt minute changes. Although the timing could have been better, I was happy. A month before, I saw a new mom reject her infant. She didn't want to hold or feed him. She asked me to dress him for the trip home from the hospital. She seemed to have no interest in him. I knew later that she was probably suffering a particularly bad postpartum depression, but then I found her cold and hard hearted and impossible to understand. I actually prayed that God would send me my own baby that I would love from the second of conception, and sure enough, He did.
So, that Christmas Eve, I sat on the floor by the Christmas tree. The feast of the seven fishes was about to start in the kitchen. The lights were glowing on the tree in the darkened room, and I was alone. I had a secret, a beautiful secret. Being pretty Catholic back then, I wondered what the Blessed Mother felt like when she was "with child" as they so delicately put it. I wondered if she was scared and happy at the same time, like I was. I wondered if she knew about me, if she would help and protect me. Did she spend hours imagining what her baby would look like, I wondered, or was she too busy living hand to mouth, traveling on a donkey and visiting with angels?
Mary, I whispered in the darkness, please help and guide me. You know my secret, you know what's in my heart. I know I'm only 17, but you were a young girl too. Please protect my baby, my body, my life.

An Orchid From Mr. Schley

Holiday memories are tricky. They can hit you  like a ton of bricks when it's your first Christmas without someone you love. They can sneak up on you and delight you, like when you see a scrap of fabric reminiscent of a long ago Christmas dress, or you get a whiff of a certain type of cookie only Aunt Rose made. 

       I have dress memories, cookie memories, and memories of a candle my mother lit once a year on Christmas Eve. I have fun memories of toys and jewelry, teapots, cameras,  wrong size blouses and wrong scent perfumes.  Maria's first Christmas,  her squealing joy over Poppin Fresh and Poppie dolls. Treasured memories of gifts from  Maria from her toddlerhood to her teens and beyond. The emerald cut amethyst earrings Michael gave me for our first Christmas together. 

Music memories.  Singing in my school Holiday concerts which were the highlight of my year. Memories of Midnight Mass. Memories of sharing the pretty pink or blue greeting card sized wafer of holy communion at the dinner table on Christmas Eve. We each took a piece, and everyone broke off a bit of everyone else's piece, which was not sacred  to me, it was fun! 

       When Mr. Schley and I were first in love, he was in the Navy in Florida. We were apart for a year, a long painful year. This was the very early eighties. No Internet, no cell phones, Skype, texting. It was Ma Bell and letter writing. When you are newly in love, a day is an eternity to be separated from your beloved. We saw each other twice in that year. As Christmas neared, the Carpenters song "Merry Christmas Darling" was my constant companion. I loved it so much that Maria bought me the record. A 45. Those lyrics were meant for us. "I can dream, and in my dreams I'm Christmasing with you". He called me on Christmas, it was short and happy and I was on cloud nine. Then New Year's Eve came. I was so blue, so sorry for myself.  Spending a quiet night at home with my little girl, watching tv, making special snacks. I felt alone on a night when the rest of the world was wrapped up in someone's arms.  I was missing Mr. Schley terribly. Then the delivery came. He had sent me an orchid. A beautiful, pale purple Cattelaya orchid. Not the plant, a cut orchid. The card read " Happy New Year, I Love You ". At midnight, he called. I cried and laughed and cried some more, and told him how much I loved him, loved the orchid, loved him. Although I thought I was so alone that holiday season, I wasn't. I was loved, cherished, I was in someone's heart, no matter how far apart we were. 

Maria is grown and making holiday memories with her own little girl. Mr Schley died in 1993. I still cry at Merry Christmas Darling, I adore orchids, and I still know that I am  loved and cherished. 

Thank you for the beautiful orchid, Mr. Schley.

Sean

Today was a bad day at work. Understaffed, overworked, unappreciated. Huge, troublesome changes at work over the past months have left everyone's nerves frayed. Working in a fast paced specialty physician's office may not be as hard as hospital work, but it is a tough job, and only the strong survive. Troubles at home, troubles at work, no place to really be happy except perhaps in my car these days. 

A new project I volunteered to head up, involving pages and pages of scheduled doctors appointments, over a hundred phone calls. Messages left, calls returned, phone tag. I was so irritated by 9a.m.  I was grinding my teeth. All of this, while still doing my regular job, my hardworking  coworker and I, the two of us at a three person desk where four would be even better.

When I got to Sean's name on the list, I left a message on his mother's cell phone, apologizing and explaining that we had to reschedule his checkup. Then I tried the home number. As I was leaving the same message, his mother picked up the phone. Carrie! I chimed, I just left a message on your cell, I'm so sorry to bother you but we need to reschedule Sean's appointment. Dead silence, then I heard her breathing hard. Then, quietly, she said "Sean died on the 11th". 

I felt my throat constrict, for a few seconds I had no words, nor the lung power to push them out. Finally, I said I was so sorry, so very sorry. Then I asked what happened. I didn't really know them, just saw them a few times a year, but I felt it was ok to ask. She told me he had croup, which turned into what was called para- influenza, which went to his brain stem, and he died.  He was seven years old. Again and again I offered my sympathies, empty words but well intended.  She said she was sorry, she should have called to cancel, but with everything that happened...... and her words trailed off.

I was nauseous for the next hour. I'd like to say that my day got better because I was reminded of what was really important, like our health, our families. I'd like to say that this mother's grief, her unspeakable loss shook me out of my own workday misery. I can't say that. It wrecked me for the day, the day stayed rotten, and I couldn't wait to get home to cry. For her, for Sean, for myself.

They say if everyone put their troubles out on a table, and everyone saw each others troubles, each person would take their own back.

That much, I can say, is true for me.

                       ***Sean and Carrie are not their real names***

My Day As A Man

It was Halloween. I decided I had to dress around my super- short hair. Although it's been very short for months, it's still a novelty. So, I decided on Buddy Holly. I've always been a fan, love his look, what could be more fun than trying to look like a six foot tall rock and roll pioneer who happens to be A MAN? Got the sport jacket, wanted a wild print. I got pale green. Got the geek glasses. White dress shirt, tie, skinny jeans with cuffs, tiny man shoes (Docs). Did my hair, no makeup or jewelry, went off to work. We usually dress for Halloween, and I was tickled to show off my look. My husband was both amused and distressed at my male drag, kindly said I looked just like Buddy Holly, sure I did! My friends were also amused, but as the day went on I realized I looked nothing at all like Buddy. I looked like a very little business man. A miniature insurance salesman. A tiny accountant.

It was great fun until I realized I had to stop at the supermarket after work. I worried aloud to my friends, what will people think, in this conservative town, of me in male drag? A drag king! But it's Halloween! they said. People will know it's a costume. So, to the store I went. And I got plenty of looks. I really think some of the people who gave me the stinkeye were unaware that it was Halloween. Double-takes, triple-takes, oh, they were looking, all right, and I just smiled and shopped. I kept wondering if the people who were obviously gawking at me thought I was a crossdressing lesbian making a statement, and an unfortunate one in my pale green sport jacket. Had I really been crossdressing, I would have looked much cooler for sure. 

I felt stared at, uncomfortable, and a little sad. I realized that this is how some of my friends have felt as they try to live their lives the way they are entitled to. My dear friend J, who always dresses, in her words, like a dude. My Facebook friend and professional drag queen V, who applies his makeup better than I do, but walks around just as comfortably as a man with a shaved head. I would never want to think of them feeling hurt, feeling the judgement, the unkind staring eyes, but they must. Every day. I realized how brave you have to be to be true to yourself. I wish I were that courageous.

The next morning, in my pretty skirt and sweater, my black tights and boots, my lipstick, earrings, my lace scarf, I presented myself to my husband. He smiled from ear to ear, said he was happy to have his girl back. I was happy too. 

Every Day is a Special Occasion

Today I am wearing a beautiful ring that I save for special occasions. I saw it this morning and decided that I should start really enjoying my stuff and stop "saving it for good". When my dad died and I went through his dresser drawers, I was amazed to find package after package of new underwear and socks. Gorgeous cuff links that were never worn, brand new dress shirts with the tags on them. None of his everyday stuff was ratty, it was all in good shape, but I wondered why he didn't use some of the brand new things which he'd had for a year or two. I have been trying, just lately, to use and enjoy my stuff. I'm not going to wear a $200 dress to the office, but I will try to wear some special occasion things more, and enjoy them more. If life is as short as I think it is, why are my amazing emerald cut amethyst earrings sitting in a velvet box? They were the first jewelry gift my husband gave me. Pietro the jeweler showed him the huge amethyst stone they were cut from. They're so special to me, but they're reserved for weddings and formal affairs. Why not wear them to Macaroni Grill?
Tomorrow belongs to no one. Wear your pearls and most expensive perfume today!

Aging and Beauty: DON'T GIVE UP!

Now that I've turned 57, I am grateful that I look younger. Most people guess me to be around the 45 - 47 range. At 45 I looked 30, at 30 I looked 20, and at 20 I looked 12. I must have looked like an embryo at 12. I don't know if I'm holding up because of genetics, or my devotion to skin care. I do know that it's an ongoing battle, as time marches on, all over my face! I also know that I won't give up. I want to be a pretty old lady, wearing makeup and fashionable clothes. I find it so sad that some women seem to give up by their mid 50's or early 60's. I see women who automatically let their hair go grey and have it cut into a unisex style. I recently sat behind a row of seventy-something couples, and you couldn't tell the men from the women from the back. Going grey can be a beautiful option, but you need color elsewhere to warm and liven your face. Amazing what a little lipstick or a bright colored top can do, or even an interesting piece of jewelry. A scarf adds color and interest, so even if you aren't the makeup type, you brighten yourself. My gorgeous friend Bobbi is sterling grey and beautiful. When we met for lunch this week, she wore a soft grey sweater, her trademark eyeshadow and eyeliner, neutral lipstick, and she looked amazing.
Last month I met two women. The first was 65, and between her steel wool hair color, her colorless sweatshirt, and her makeup-free face, she was almost invisible. Her entire appearance was greyer than a tomb. Then I met a vibrant 79 year old lady with pretty soft brown hair
(salon maintained), tastefully applied makeup, a lovely sweater in a soft red shade, and black slacks. She was obviously blessed with good genes and good health, but the biggest difference between her and the first woman was that she cared!
I adore makeup. It is never a chore for me, it's a delight, a hobby, a love. I know not every woman feels this way, and plenty of women look great without wearing makeup, but they know to add some color in another way. A color need not be a huge splash of brightness. A white, ivory or pale pink blouse or scarf brings light to your face. Black can be stunning, and earrings or a necklace stir things up. There are so many options, and they're fun!
I will not give up. And if I start to, it's my daughter's sworn responsibility to fix me or see that I get fixed. I began applying my mother's minimal makeup at 13, before I was allowed to wear it myself. She didn't know how to do her eyes, so I did it for her. If you're not a practiced hand and want to learn the basics, a Sephora sales associate will help you. He or she will do a simple makeup application on you, tell you what they're using, and you will not have to buy anything. You can even request a few samples so you can practice at home. If you don't want such up close and personal help, YouTube makeup instruction videos are an invaluable source. Not computer savvy? Books by Bobbi Brown, Kevin Aucoin, and other world famous makeup artists are available. Or ask other women shopping in the cosmetics aisle in the drugstore. Believe me, most women in that aisle will be more than happy to give an opinion! Or two!
Don't give up! Age like a fine wine, not like a flat soda!

Goodbye Davy

These days most celebrity deaths don't upset me too much. I may be sad to hear of their passing, or feel like they were stolen from me, in the case of Amy Winehouse. I may never again feel the inconsolable grief I felt when John Lennon died. When a celebrity dies from their own excesses, after the momentary shock no one is really surprised. But when a celebrity dies of natural causes it jolts us, because they're just like everyone else. Cancer, heart attack and stroke don't respect fame or fortune. The velvet voice of Luther Vandross was silenced by stroke. George Harrison had lung cancer. Both culpable because of their human weaknesses, Luther's a genetic predisposition to high blood pressure and diabetes, George's metastatic lung cancer from years of smoking.
And now Davy Jones. Still "boyish" at 66, a fit and active vegetarian, dead of a massive coronary. This one particularly stings, because he was one of my childhood crushes. His small stature and baby face made him endearing and non-threatening to young girls. He was a child actor long before he was a Monkee, known back then as a "song and dance man". He was simply adorable. Still performing, devoted to his family, his horses and farms, one here in Pennsylvania, he seemed to have either avoided or overcome the perils of celebrity. He did not surround himself with sycophants and enablers. I've heard he was a womanizer, which used to be called, more elegantly a "ladies man". How could someone so eternally youthful, charming and vibrant die of a heart attack alone in hs car like he were anyone else? Because he was human, with frailties like the rest of us. And when it was time for him to shove off this mortal coil, he was gone. Goodbye, Davy, from the seventh grade girl who wrote you all those letters. I always wondered what it would be like if you were a "real boy" instead of a tv star. Now I guess I know.

Parisienne Beauty

Françoise Sagan once wrote, “There is a certain age when a woman must be beautiful to be loved, and then there comes a time when she must be loved to be beautiful.”
Well, Francoise, French women are beautiful, even the ones that aren't. They make skin care and grooming a priority. The bestseller French Women Don't Get Fat is wrong, they WON'T get fat because they won't allow it. If they gain a few pounds, they immediately do what it takes to lose them. They eat and enjoy everything im moderation. Tiny servings. They do not, as a rule, go to gyms. They walk. They invest in good quality skin creams, they are not opposed to injectable or even surgical help as they age. French women take time for themselves, and their beauty routines may be simple, but they are committed to them. A common belief, and a worthy one is that too much foundation settles in the fine lines of the face. They use it sparingly, favoring a little blush instead. Lipstick, mascara, and maybe a neutral eyeshadow finishes the look. They work at maintaining perfect looking skin, so there's less to camouflage.
French women do not give up on beauty as they age as some American women do. Which leads me to the subject of my next blog: beauty and aging.

Night.

Night unfolds it's silky wings. There's a gentle rustling in the woods as the leaves whisper their secrets. Colors fade to shades of grey, the quiet settles . All may not be well with the world, but all is well with me tonight, and now is all I have. Night unfolds it's silky wings, and slowly I step in.

Bright lights, big city I love.

Last night, my son in law Chris and his band played a gig at a cool club in Philadelphia. We arrived at 8, got back to the house in the woods at 2 am. I guess I've been a country mouse too long, because coming into Philadelphia at night gave me a New York style jolt of excitement. The lights, the buildings, the people!!! The gig was in an upstairs room at the venue, there were lots of windows from which to enjoy the sights below before the band started. The hustle and bustle of 10 pm was even better by midnight. Where I live, if we had any pavements they'd be rolled up by 7 at night. A man playing the trumpet, people riding bikes, more cabs than cars, groups of dolled up girls walking fast with arms linked, onward to their next destination. Jefferson Hospital across the narrow street, lots of comings and goings. The rattle and hum of the traffic below, which would now keep me awake although it used to be my lullabye.
After the gig, we drove into South Philly to a favorite place of ours, still open and hopping at 11:30. The traffic was still crazy and so were the drivers. As a tiny sportscar buzzed around us when we were stopped at a light, I told my husband we weren't in Kansas anymore. It was good to come home to the country, so quiet you can hear a deer snap a twig outside, but boy oh boy, what a fun night in our beautiful hometown.

To Mine Own Self Be True

Having made no 2012 resolutions, I have decided on one thing. I will be truer to myself. I will conform less, ignore the dictates of fashion more, I will worry less about what people think of my clothes, my hair, my style. I have long been known for my shoes. Unconventional, adorable, little shoes for my little feet. Most of my shoes and boots come from the kid's department, especially my sneakers. Now, I'm not saying I'll start dressing like a child, although I do own several pair of white ruffled ankle socks. I'm saying I will stop limiting my "style" to footwear and designer handbags and start incorporating more of the pieces I love into a signature look. Layers, patterns, prints, ruffles, scarves. Pink, lavender, more pink. Vintage pieces, flowing pieces, maybe some lace. Vintage gloves!
Last year, when I started to tie a fancy handkerchief or small scarf around the strap of my handbag, people asked me why. Because I can, and because it's pretty! I'd like a tiny nose piercing, but can't have one at work. I want a streak of a crazy color in my hair, just a little touch of it in the front. I recently started wearing red lipsticks more, true reds and orange reds. I was never quite sure I could carry off the boldness of it, but suddenly now it seems right. I'm going to have more fun with fashion, jewelry and accessories. The only one I have to "dress to impress" is me.

I am not the answer to everything.

This will be a rant. Short and purposeful. I do not have all the answers. I barely have any. Today, for the third time in a week, my husband asked me where HIS alarm clock was. I don't know, I sez for the third time. I have two alarm clocks, I don't use yours, it's wherever you left it. No, he insists, you did something with it. I always leave it in the same place, it's not there. I DON'T KNOW I snap. He leaves the room, I go to his side of the bed, look under it, and lo and behold, there it is. He asks where his ties are, where his blue suspenders are. Gee, last time I wore your tie......
The uterus is not a tracking device. I don't know, I don't have to know, and I like not knowing. I don't know anything, I am just as helpless and dumb as you. Dumber, even. I am not, and have not the answer to everything. And whoever told you I do is wrong. Insert Samuel L Jackson voice here: I don't know a goddamned thing.
The End.