“Nessun Dorma” - Let No One Sleep - Personal Essay

Cornish hens were his preference. Was never a fan of turkey, and we’d chuckle over the myth of tryptophan as the cause of exhaustion vs. the mass consumption of potatoes, stuffing, cranberries, and pie, with a side of denial, overwhelm, and fear dipped in avoiding eye contact with the newly introduced guest sitting across the table.

The cornucopia of life.

I’m staying home this year and will feast on a pre-made turkey in a bag of exhaustion. Easier to warm up and feast than actually conjure up, baste, bake, and eat. Holidays this year, feel more a haul -y- daze as we enter into the ninth month of pandemic land and strive to embrace the “most wonderful time of the year”, while repeatedly asking oneself “what day actually is it?”

As a person who celebrates holidays non traditionally, I do believe in giving, positivity, love, and of course food. And as I woke up this morning after consuming my third cup of coffee, and adrenaline skipping around the block with Luna, I came back to my computer, and…

Sobbed.

When I was young I used to be able to cry easily. These days, it seems more difficult. I guess it’s my own way of swallowing feelings, thinking the deeper down, the closer to productivity. And much like the relief from feeling constipated, amidst my face stained by salted tears, I unzipped and took an emotional dump. The pandemic, the unemployment running out, the momentum to keep hustling, how to keep classes going, getting enrollment filled, finding ways to be the “funny” advocate, which is not always easy, being that right now, I am sad. I am sad because of the pain in our world, I am sad by the loss in the world. I am sad because I can’t talk about the cornish hens to my father this year.

 Headphones were his portal to unzipping his feelings. 

Papa would not just listen to music, but speak music. He would hear the instruments communicate, anticipating a chord’s call and response, a violin’s beckoning, or a flute’s elegant flirtation. I sit with these god awful looking massive headphones on my ears right now,  and just keep typing and typing, while Spotify fills the compartment between my ears with classical music, to be closer to him. To enter into his chamber. His music, his intelligence, so profound, despite his seven languages spoken, today I listen, and type, to the language of yearning, sadness, and of love.  

As a kid, I’d practice my scales on the piano with the pendulum timer on the piano mantle. Over and over, crossing my hands over to the next scale while trying to keep my nails from clicking onto the keys.  And as I would listen to keep the tempo, I would hear  “Count, sweetie, count!” from my father atop the first tier of multi-leveled steps.  As much as it would instill fear in me, I wanted to make him proud. And now the word count seems to resonate by the days of him gone, days in a global pandemic, and by the numbers of loss escalating to terrifying degrees due to Covid. 

So by now, if you are reading this you may be thinking: Wow, this chick is a comedienne, who teaches comedy and is writing a book on the tools for finding the funny? Yes, I am. Have been for years. And will continue to. Because, although I live and breathe all things advocating humor, I don’t think it’s always about being funny. Finding the funny comes from feeling life. Knowing that funny comes from tragedy, from loss, from fear, from anxiety, and all things - not funny. And, I’ve been dealt a hand with that. It’s to advocate being human, and will continue to cheerlead the light from the dark, the lightness from the weight, the up from the down, and the glue to the broken. 

So my friends, this Thanksgiving, I send my deepest and most sincerest wishes of health, love, strength and compassion to all. Alone or together, despite all the challenges we face, within miles between cities, or onto other plains, we are one.  

And remember if you are alone this Thanksgiving… It’s a shorter distance to passing the potatoes, there’s no shortage of left overs, and life is the zestiest gravy of all.


*World flow accompanied by ugly earphones blasting volume 10 of : Turandot / Act 2: “Nessun Dorma, Puccini, Pavarotti and London Philharmonic ; Bach’s Suite o. 3 in D, MWV 1068; Liebestraum No. # in A-Flat Major, S.541/3; Samuel Barber Adagio for Strings, Berlin Philharmonic

Pacha the Emperor

“She just turned nine.” “108 months.” “Two years ago.”

These days it’s hard to know what day it is, let alone what month or year. But answering about age is one of the few occasions, when you want time to stand still.

I was a temporary step mom once, years ago. Two adorable ones lived under my roof, until there was one, and then there were none. I was quickly shown what fur babies can mean to us, and how dog really is man’s best friend. 

As a kid, we didn’t have dogs.  I had a guinea pig for many years named (wait for it)… Pachakootey. Typical that a 7 year old daughter of a genius father, would encourage the name of the ninth Sapa Inca of the Kingdom of Cusco. C’mon, pretty standard right?  Even more fitting was the translation: “He who remakes the world”.  Although a tall order for a short guinea pig, he certainly did remake my world. In between thumb suckings (my own), I managed more easily to call him Pacha, a simplified version and one I’d forever cherish. Yet bringing to Show and Tell at school? A whole other ballgame.

“Susanna, are you ready?”

“Yes, Mrs. Geary.” “Hi everyone,  m kay, um, today, I’m bring you, today I bring… the Spanish King of the Empire… he’s really nice and cuddly, has long hair, and loves to bite my finger. Oh and he sings. His name is Patchakootey, but you can call him Pacha.”

That was the first time I could actually hear a record scratch behind bated breath in anticipation. Yet was quickly accompanied by a giant exhale within the reveal. And there he was. My long haired guinea pig. My emperor.

Pacha had the most wonderful voice. He’d sing when he drank from his spout. Every morning I’d go to the kitchen where his cage was kept on Meadowbrook Lane. One of my more fond memories, where the quiet family meals became interrupted by laughter and glee.

After Pacha died, we had a few pet rabbits along the way: Balizeebub and Peter. Peter rabbit we kept in a cage in the back yard. During the summer, we would often make carrot trails in the yard aligned by the woods, inchworms, and dandelions. It’s no wonder Jersey is The Garden State. There’s nothing quite like Jersey tomatoes, corn, and pizza: the greatest veggie of all.

Although I don’t remember when Pacha died, I remember when Peter died. I came home from school and went to go check on him in his cage in the back yard. It was the winter, and I went to go align the snow with carrots to have him hop along his orange brick road, only he didn’t move. Pure naiveté with regret on my parents end, thinking rabbits in the wild, somehow across the board could adjust to any climate.

40 years later.

“Your  dog’s so cute, what’s her name?”

“Luna.”

“How old is she?”

“She just turned nine.

“Two years ago.”

The depth of what we feel toward our pets in whatever form: guinea pig, rabbit, squirrel, snake, chicken, horse, cat, iguana, gerbil, or boyfriend graces us with such a gift. Luna has seen me through both my parents passing, my sister passing, moving from place to place, to staying in one. Day after day. Moment after moment. And the biggest upside during quarantine? Lockdown lick em ups.

Adopt a furry friend. Emperors of heart.

Here are 5 Commonalities Between Pet Owners:

  1. Having a minimum of 20 different nicknames for your pet.

  2. Talking in an octave at least three pitches higher than regular voice.

  3. Asking them questions, and knowing the answer.

  4. Relief when they poop.

  5. Showing tons of pictures to anyone who will listen.


What’s yours? Write in comment below!

Want to learn ways to find the funny with your pets? Send me a note in the contact me’ tab and let’s talk, bark, or meow, hold the neigh. Learn my How to the Ha tips! I look forward in hearing from you and be sure to subscribe to Humor Tool Tips and more on susannaspies.com

Lie Down

Him: “Eating while walking doesn’t count”.

Me: “So is fart walking any different”?

When you live alone during a pandemic there are no excuses. And sometimes there are benefits like dropping your shoes wherever you want, washing the dish pile whenever you want, (or not) and always getting the last word when talking to yourself. Covid-19 has left us all in a state of the unknown. Much despair, huge challenges, and life altering shifts. Re-do, start over, throw away. We seek comfort during such turmoil and ambiguity. Food provides a comfort, or evokes a break up. Folks either shred away the extra pounds, or are introduced to covid-15.

In the mornings, I’ve been really good at making fruit smoothies.

  • 1/4 cup fresh berries

  • 1 banana

  • 1/4 crushed ice

  • Splash of Almond Milk

  • Family size bag of Doritos

I get side tracked or distracted when I’m making something, and it’s usually because of my relationship. We’ve been together a long time, are very attracted to one another, and even just sitting together, bloated with desire. Cheers my California king of comfort. So glad I found you, that my family loves you, and no matter where I go you are with me. I can’t quit you.. my adoring salt.   Yet, it’s always been strange to me that what we call “comfort foods” are in the form of all things bad for us: cake, ice cream, chips.  Things to help us “feel better” ultimately  to make us sick. But what would it be like otherwise?

“Janice this break up is so awful, I just want to crawl up and cry for days.”

“I’m so sorry!” “How bout a good flick with some gluten free kale bark, under this plant based wool blanket made from recycled corn husks, brillo pads and hay?”

Comfort -IF-able?

During these uncertain times, do yourself a favor and allow yourself to indulge in comforts whatever they may be: carmel or cauliflower, carrots or crust, cucumbers or cake, no matter how it’s sliced. Now, please pass the doritos.

5 Tips to Find the Phat:

  1. Eat, walk, mask. (In reverse order!).

  2. Watch what you want. Yes Netflix, still there.

  3. Save the tick tok vids you made. F it. You tried.

  4. Zoom gloom? Boop boop (sound). Turn off computer.

  5. Laugh, Love, Lift - Always.

Bandaids

Linda: “Steve, you’re being a moron!”

Steve: “Huh?” 

Linda:  “Just kidding, you know what I mean. But, seriously honey I’ve given you directions a million times! ”

Translation: No, he didn’t know what she meant, and she wasn’t kidding. She was kidding covering.

Now, I’m a fan of funny, and as a comedian, we say what we want to say through basic fundamentals: authenticity and truth. As I always say to students, stand up is a platform to express who you are. And while we can’t control who laughs, you are the conductor and the one in control. So to me saying “just kidding” is a contraction to that authenticity. It’s a bandaid to placate, or dismiss what’s underneath. Stand up spills the truth behind the “just kidding” facade. It’s sugar in the raw. Which is much sweeter than Nutri-sweet, Sweet & Low , or the Just kidding artificial flavoring to cover up what’s really going on.

I have a family member who uses a different phrase, but similar in effect. That phrase is: “not like that.”  (FYI: “family member” is for fear he or she may read this, but then again she probably won’t).  Just kidding. Anyway, whenever he/she says  “Not like that.”  It means: Exactly “Like that”.

Pat: “Ran into Mickey, he looks really different. Barely recognized him. I mean, not like that.”

Me: “Like what?”

Pat “You know I mean, he looks good, just different.”

Me: “Oh, so you mean, not like that, but like that, and different meaning, not so good?”

Pat “Yes, he was always such a looker, you know? But what happened?.. Life wounds I guess- just kidding!”

Me: “No you’re not.”

Pat: “Not what?”

Me:   Kidding. I mean “Not like that.”

Look, I get it. Sometimes, it’s hard to say it how it is. In quarantine I’ve been experimenting with this. I used to not know how to say no without long windedness, and over explaining. But not anymore. If I don't feel like talking, I don’t. No longer ramble off the excuses to why I can’t attend the next zoom, or call, with overcompensating emails, emoij’s and voice memos, to be sure everyone is feeling ok. If I’m not feeling up to things, it’s just: “No, thanks”.  No kidding covering, or over explaining, just a simple “no thanks.”

(No, not like that).

If only 45 would say: “Just kidding!” after saying how terrific things are. Sadly, he can’t finish a sentence without a long winded deflection like a rat chasing his own tail, and our livlihoods are on the heels of relief from EDD, masks, booze, toilet paper, more booze, cake, with a dollop of hopes and prayers. Hard to keep things simple when there is so much unknown. And sadly “just kidding” doesn’t even work as an attempt to cushion or heal the gaping wounds of uncertainty. Guess the only direct answer would be: VOTE. (different blog- but YES YES VOTE!!! Biden/Harris - not kidding).

The other day I was at Trader Joe’s getting my weekly groceries. 

The check out clerk was incredibly friendly (as all are at Trader Joe’s, it’s like that is a given no matter which one you shop in, they are ALL gracious, and kind). The only disappointment was noticing the paper bags didn’t have handles.Luckily my mask covered up my curled lip of dismay - because all I could think of was how would I be able to maneuver all these bags, and a leash walking Luna back home? So, after items were bagged, the cashier attendant looked at me and asked “Is there anything else I can help you with?” And although my impulse was to say something long winded or and indirect like: “Where are those extra hands when ya’ need em to carry? - Just kidding!” “Sure be nice to walk with one of those carts a bit further than the exit sign-Just kidding!” Or “Highlights to single life - Just kidding!” I responded with: “I actually don’t need bags, I’ll put the items in my shoulder bag, and back pack. It’ll be easier to handle walking home.”

“Sure thing, no problem, thanks for letting me know!” 

No kidding covering. No crutches to catch the awkward fall, and no bandaid to cover the oozing awkwardness.

Just do it. Just say no. No, thank you even better.

Not kidding.

Stay safe, and keep laughing through. It’s the music of the soul.

3 Heron Islands

After the third shriek it started to blend amidst the waves in the background. Yet, if we were inside an enclosed room, then Mariah would have a contender in glass shattering. At the ocean’s edge, hearing kids scream with joy and play are the greatest backdrops to their smile lit faces.

Water has always been something I love. Even though every New Years one of my resolutions is to drink more of it, I’m never short of craving it’s vastness, and healing powers.  Could be because I’m a Scorpio, (although I’m not a huge zodiac follower), I do have claws (especially now with no manicures for months), I love to swim, and thankfully live in a state with a backbone made of it. 

There’s a special spot I always go to. A place close yet just far enough away, and a place where when everything overflows, it spills into calm serenity. I’ve gone to reflect, mourn, celebrate, ponder, and veg when my heart is thirsty, and soul needs a lube. These past years have not been easy, have lost both my parents among others that I love. Lost the chosen word as it always feels harder to say died. 

Growing up on the East Coast, summers were muggy as hell. We’d call it swimming in pea soup. Motioning our arms as if we were doing breast stroke in the mugginess, with salty mustaches of sweat and jersey curls growing out vs. down. I’d sometimes go with friends to the Jersey shore, but our family get away was a renovated barn in Smallpoint, Maine. A beautiful farmhouse and barn along a narrow rocky unpaved road through the woods, which eventually lead to the ocean. Much of the likes of a Norman Rockwell painting with east coast beauty in its most natural sense, family in its yearned connected sense, and a depicted tradition in its rarest sense.

As my brother recently mentioned, he remembered our father waking up very early to have everyone get dressed to walk through the woods, with the smell of “off” to dissuade the mosquitoes from having a breakfast feast on our legs and arms, all to see the sky meet the sea, and sun rise over the atlantic. I was too young to remember that particular time, but remembering those mosquitos make my hands switch, and thoughts of togetherness, heart swell.

It’s interesting how waves, tides, and the movement of water, parallel life. Tides rolling in and out, being born into life, and drifting away from it. The ocean is filled with duplicitous energies, and feelings. How it can feel so calming to sit to watch, reflect, and relax to. Yet, be so strong, unpredictable, and moody at the breath of wind, and mother nature’s mood. For the most part, I’ve never had conflict with the sea, and have only respected it’s boundaries while remaining in my own. There was just one time, those islands off shore known as 3 Heron Islands, and muscle rock where we’d pick muscles to eat, became synonymous.

It was a summer when Karin (my best and oldest childhood friend) was able to join us for our vacation in Maine. Like most eighth graders, we were obsessed with all things boys, rope bracelets, sun tanning, and adventure. 

Smallpoint beach could look like two completely different places pending the time of day. In the morning when it was high tide, the sand was met by the water’s edge with less room to take a running start into the waves. Yet, my mid to later day when it was low tide, sand had stretches long enough that a running start how to reach the water’s edge.The beach aligned with sea grass and patches of lavender, were miles of golden joy.

It was one of those hot days in Maine, where the sun was blazing but the breeze was just cool enough that tan lines were skin stamps within minutes, and time was soaked in glory.  We decided it was time to take a dip, and Karin and I thought it may be fun to borrow the Wilson’s inflatable canoe to soak up some rays. Just before popping our second foot inside, we threw in the two oars to paddle past the first wave break, and were off.

Looking out at 3 Heron Islands during low tide, you could cup them inside your hands. That was always my gage for knowing the direction of the tides. My mom was an incredible swimmer, and loved to swim during low tide. She’d swim so far into the distance shrinking to the size of my pinkie, often wondering if she ever reached 3 Heron Islands, or if anyone had.

Rowing into the sea getting past the first break of waves was easy, we each had an oar, and the tide was calm. We lay our heads down and closed our eyes while we rocked, back and forth. Pure bliss. It’s amazing how quiet can be so calming, and can provide warning.  The sound of the water shifted from calming, to eerie.  We opened our eyes to see the 3 Heron Islands were close enough to see seagull poop amidst the surface within an oars  reach.  My estimation thinking low tide, as safe tide, was way off. The tide was in fact going out, which meant the current was going into the sea, away from the coast line. The islands that I could  cup inside my 13 year old hands, became the size of the immense fear flooding through me. 37 years later remember so vividly the terror and my sinking gut praying that was the only thing sinking.

In sheer panic, Karin and I managed somehow to maneuver the boat/raft to point into the direction of the coast line. “ROW, ROW!” “LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT!” We yelled back and forth, coordinating our arms against the current back to the tiny ant figures waving amongst the shoreline. 

I never really heard the term frenzy, until we experienced  a blue fish feeding frenzy feeling  the nipping at the oars, while seeing little fins diving and flopping out in and out of the water around us. A school we had never imagined going into, especially during summer break.

“OMG, THEY ARE GOING TO EAT US!”

“ROW, ROW!” 

“LEFT, RIGHT, LEFT, RIGHT!”

Although we were both little, a strength overcame us that day. Karin and I were gymnasts as kids. We performed one of our talent shows to “Rocky”, and would leap and roll over piles of mats, friends, or leaves in the yard. From our very young years, we gained flexibility, and our adventure at sea was the greatest test taken, or dive roll over any hurdle. My physicality may have been a combination of Olive Oil meets Dorothy Hamill and our inner strength rocked much like the days of our idol- Billy Idol.

As we got closer to the shoreline, the ants waving doubled in size and in number. Concerns increased, and adrenaline motored us back to safety. The shriek of the seagulls lead the way, just as the shriek of happy children at play.

Cleaning in Oblivion

I avoid my oven. Not to cook. To clean.

As I open the oven door to cook the weekly za' from TJ’s, I’m reminded that the remnant burnt crumbs from last week, won’t just fry to nothing.  So, PB & J for dinner, it is.

I’ve become great at math. Received a home degree in Arithmomania with minor in OCD. After using the stove, I have checked the knobs to be sure it’s off, more than Trump says “terrific” in a sentence. Both to calm fear, only mine in truth and sincerity. I’ve always been afraid of fire so I make sure all knobs are pointing up.  As well as chins, hopes, and dreams.

Maybe you can relate. Ever make coffee at home, then go to work only to realize that you can’t stop obsessing on whether you left the coffee maker on?  Then drive home to be sure? Better to be safe, right? Or maybe it’s just best not to turn anything on. Except yes, Netflix “I’m still there” just not to become a contestant on Survivor - Home Edition.

I love cleaning the bathroom, and using the fragrant cleanser “Fantastico” to make the countertops shiny like my forehead. I tried something new after cleaning recently. I hadn’t done in months, and thought, it’s time. Let’s do it.

I blow dried my hair. I couldn’t believe it, and I used a straightening iron. Then napped for two hours. So from here on out, here’s my shortcut for Pandemic Pretties and using a flattening iron. Don’t plug it in.  I’ve been resembling “Lilith” quite a bit these days.  Have had my hair in a perpetual bun permanently molded that way. Not only is easier to maintain, but functional. I store my hand sanitizer in it. I’ve been getting really good at cleaning. It’s the ultimate avoider. My “deal later procrastination pile” is now shined up by Fantastico. My mom would be proud. She was a big believer that your surroundings are a direct reflection of your headspace. So after a full day of cleaning, I feel productive hitting the pillow and traveling to sleep land. Plus, I get the whole row to myself and no one behind me kicking my seat.

5 Quarantine Cleaning Tips:

  1. When you have dishes, keep them in the sink for a few days. Feels like you had a party.

  2. After returning from the grocery store disinfecting and unpacking bags, order take out for delivery.                   

  3. Make your bed everyday. It reminds you when getting back in it, it’s a different day.

  4. Clean your car. One day you’ll go somewhere.

  5. Purge and go through an old box. It avoids cleaning your oven.

The Volley

“Hi, how are you?”

“I’m good, how are you?”

“Good, good, you?”

“I’m good, yah, you know. Fine, good ..you?”

Your serve. You pick up the ball and hit it into the ping pong match of the how are you abyss. Often a long volley because the answer to the question, is the question to divert the answer. Or maybe the question is the answer all along.

These days the pause to ask, mirrors the pause to answer. And sometimes, it can feel that no matter how many times you try to serve that ball to volley, a task to be in conversation. Sometimes so much is said without any words at all. Like that incredibly beautiful scene in the movie Big Night with Stanley Tucci and Tony Shaloub . I always tell my students in stand up, the POV is what drives the joke, you could say the alphabet, but if you say it pissed off? It’s funny. When you are performing, it’s like you’re playing a game of catch with the audience. You hold the ball, throw a joke - the audience catches it, and throws it back by way of laughter. And that, is what makes for a great volley. 

I’m an outgoing isolator. Love a good party.  Netflix, my pup,  and a flavorful mix of sweet and salty. These days, the quiet in our direct surroundings is loud from the noise of the world. It’s like there is a constant “bzzzz”, like telephone poles with a short circuit, a constant low frequency of unrest sparked daily into the well abyss.

(Takes bite of ice cream).

So I try to change it up. I do the opposite. When I feel like napping? I go for a walk. When I feel like a chocolate wafer bar from Trader Joe’s? I make a fruit shake. When I feel like browsing on Amazon at more throw pillows to distract from working? I start writing. Yet while I’m getting good at “contrary actions”, the challenge I’m reminded of is , how will I learn to engage again with people? Be on stage? Perform? Teaching comes easy,and fortunately I’m active on line providing workshops and coaching, but how does an outgoing isolator adapt again?  As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed a few mumbles to myself, an occasional nod, and remember my mom doing that. I’d look at her while she was drinking coffee pondering, and could see her thoughts. Her brows would start to move, an occasional shrug of the shoulder, and then a final a blow on her coffee to sip. Maybe a trait I learned from her, but when I muster sound and actually talk full sentences to myself? One of the perks to living alone because you always get the last word.

What if more activities were done by contrary action? How bout an “opposite day?” in quarantine?

Five Tips to Opposite Day:

1.) Napping: Remember as kids, we didn’t want to go to bed? Go to bed before sundown if you’re tired, you’re tired!

2) Make up: It used to be put on a little lipstick, and cease the day! Now, it’s keep on the pajama’s and write down which day you took a shower. We used to wear makeup to look a little older, now I don’t wear any, to keep the lines from cracking!

3) Hiking hellos: Instead of smiling and waving to that person you may see along the path of your hike, do it on the freeway in bumper to bumper traffic.

4) Put your opposite shoe on your opposite foot, walk around the block, and see how each step is different and accomplishes a whole new task.

5) Read 3 things that make you smile vs reading the news which doesn’t.

For more ways we can find the funny in everyday life, reach out! 

We’re all in this together.

Keep serving the ball.

The Safari Maze

I used to live inside a Talbott’s catalogue. Youngest on my block by about 30 years. Was very good for the ego. Sidewalks jammed with traffic bustling to the local Ralph’s, where carts were always put back in place. Store windows hadn’t changed since 1979.  Mannequin’s  wearing Lans of Landsburg nightgowns, making those in Handmaid’s Tale seem risque. The local bar scene was a glass of Ernest and Gallo with a tuna melt for last call at 6:00pm and a big night out was then going to $2 Thursdays, at the discount theater down the street. For 3 years they played one movie: Back to the Future. Folks thought was a documentary.  

Even though it was a bit boring at times, there was never a shortage of comedy around me all the time. And finding the funny was abundant. There was something about living in a smaller area, that lessened my anxiety, so all in all, it was a good move. Walking Luna for blocks without stepping over needless, bottles, or lost dreams, felt safer.

A trip to the local Rite Aid was sometimes a treat. Going in for my prescription and walking out with lawn furniture, new slippers, hoop earrings, 3 issues of Home and Gardens, a cross word puzzle, mounds bar, flip flops, and a Thrifty cone of strawberry. But my favorite part, was looking in the card section. I used to dread it, finding that right card.  Is it funny enough? Or serious enough? Or sentimental enough? Depending on the occasion and who you were buying it for, was hard enough. But to then find the correct slot to put them all back?  Nearly impossible.

I’ve always thought blank cards were the best. That way you could write what you wanted inside. But the outside image had to be just right or else Angie Anxiety (the worry wort in my head) would chime in: “Oh god, does this seem too impersonal”? “Wow, a blank card, that says alot!”  Did it seem like I just grabbed a blank one like that extra wrapped candle kept in the lazy drawer? After many Angie chats, here’s what I concluded. If you are getting your ex a birthday card, stay away from the nature cards. It’s too obvious you are missing them, and trying too hard. If you choose the card with a picture of a rainbow over a wheat field? Pathetic, and obvious you’ve been doing nothing but binging Netflix gorging on a party size bag of Doritos and washing it down with Rose. If you choose the card with a picture of a rainfall in Hawaii? He knows you’ve stalked his Insta page to know he went there three years ago. If you choose the picture with the tree frog outside in the dewey rain? Stop now. You’re the frog, and the rain your tears. But if you pick the puppy and kitty with fire department helmets on? You need an in person coaching, immediately.

My father had a real knack for finding the perfect card. And on birthdays, there was never one but three. Each to discover a maze with his inscribed riddle, or sentiment in his beautiful penmanship.  Every year, I looked forward to his cards often pictures of beautiful animals: The panda bear, ducks, koala bears, penguins, turtles, giraffes, and although I’d never gone on a safari, herds came by way of post.

In the recent years, cards became less easy to read. The flow of my father’s beautiful cursive, seemed to read with potholes and rougher conditions than the flawless, smooth, turn of each stroke. It was clear to me, the challenge to write superseded the messages inside, and the lack of receiving them, his years growing older.  I used to want to find the perfect card for him. And because he was so intelligent, would chuckle wondering  if I’d get it back with red ink marks and a grade. He wasn’t a fan of the marshmallow land of Hallmark holidays. This was the first since he’s been gone. The blank section during holidays, can feel just that. But remember to find the funny along the way, and memories will always fill each one.

To Mask or Not to Mask? That is Not The Question.

“Where are my keys?”

Blank stare.

“I just had them, did you move them?”

Blank stare.

“Ok, I’m running late so please let me know where they are ok?”

Blank stare.

After twenty minutes of tornado cycling through every room, skimming every surface, inhaling exhaling, and remembering to count to 10 before totally imploding, little did I know that an itch would present the reveal. That annoying, desperate mosquito that had been continuously gnawing my thigh during a midnight snack feast fest, would later become the catalyst, and saving grace. Thanks little buzzing sleep stealing muncher. Scratching that itch? Lead me to my keys.

In. My. Left. Hand. The. Whole.Time.

Tip: No matter how many times you ask your house mate, husband, kids, or dog, check your own hands first. Because ladies we all know our purses are the never ending abyss. Last week it took me three hours to find my wallet. Inside my purse.

I’ve become a list maker. I make lists to make the list, listing the list of lists to list.

And as I’ve gotten older a stranger will respond to me with “Yes, maa’m”. Not “miss, or “honey”, or “young lady”. And the pure joy I get when I cross an item off my list? I’m definitely a “Ma’am”, or maybe even a “Dear”. The icing? When it’s the perfect bic pen to do the job. Millennials, a bic pen is a type of ballpoint pen. A pen, is what you can write with. On paper. Old fashioned stuff.

List Item number 1. Trader Joe’s: Soap, garbage bags, coffee, filters.

Easy peezy. Now that I had my keys, I leashed up Luna (still laughing at me for having the keys in my hand the whole time) and by the way, have you ever seen your dog laugh? It’s pretty great. Even if at you. And not with you.

Luckily I live right up the street from Trader Joe’s, so grabbing something quick, is very convenient.

It’s a beautiful evening, not a cloud in the sky and the air like a sheet on a warm summer night. We walk out my door and around the corner when I realize AAACK I left my mask on the dining room table! By now I’m convinced that mosquito muncher and Luna or both are in cahoots with me losing or forgetting things left or right.

Without a moment’s pause and with the birds chirping to cheer me on, I pull one more perforated pink little bag from the spool attached to my key ring. A special little bag, that serves purpose and liked by all: the poopie bag. Improvisation came in handy. As I made my way to Trader Joe’s, stepped in line on “x “marks the spot for social distancing, even though I couldn’t see the smiles behind the masks, I definitely heard the laughs. And even a few gasps. Thank god I remembered to wear it when it was empty.

The Object Box

My mom was an incredible teacher. For decades, she taught children with dyslexia. She received a degree from Chile with a background in fashion design, and not long after immigrating to the US, she helped to develop a school. With English as a second language, among her enormous amount of grace and talents, was her ability to sew language together by the visual conceptualization of objects. This was done through her beautiful creation: “The Object Box”.

Inside this magical box, were objects representing the sounds of the alphabet: A-Z: Apple for A, Banana for B, Cat for C, all the way up to Z. She would pull one object at a time, and have her students formulate words with the sound of each object. Hence, her students had something to hold, something to see, something to say, with loving guidance and support along the way. And while she was profoundly successful teaching hundreds upon hundreds, the general public may have remembered reading and writing visual techniques through tv shows such as Zoom and The Electric Company. Vignettes with two silhouette profiles whispering a letter toward one another, merging to formulate a word. Yet there was something far more powerful and beautiful hearing sounds represented by beautiful objects to formulate words, housed together safely inside one cardboard box.

We all may remember the lyric from school days: “A, E, I, O, U and sometimes Y” to distinguish vowels from consonants. And today, more than ever letters are metaphors to the world we live in. Without one letter a word can’t exist. And with all letters, a narrative toward change.

Letters are our history. We are the objects. And our nation is The Box.

In Improvisation, to develop a scene a golden rule is to apply the 3 W’s:

Who. What. Where.

And today the emphasis is about the WHY.

So the next time you have a bowl of Alphabet soup, remember, it’s not the vowels: A,E,I,O, U, and sometimes Y. It is the Y and WHY to respect and uphold.

In the past weeks with the devastation of George Floyd’s horrific murder and the profound systemic racism in this nation, our actions and voices must unite for change. Human beings must live as consonances and vowels together, to make up a word. That words together make that sentence. That adjectives and nouns co-exist, that comma’s may pause, but no longer a dot dot dot, because exclamation is uniting towards justice.

As we reflect on the past centuries to the world we live in today, remember these words:

BLACK LIVES MATTER. Three words to act on and live by.

ENOUGH. One word on systemic racism.

We must rise toward change, peace and justice.

And the object for that? US.

Molars and Bridges

I’ve had a chipped tooth for god only knows, a while. Thankfully Covered California insurance allows my ability to carry my dentist in my pocket. Dr. Toothpick. And, I feel kinda cool having it hang out of the corner of my lip. Makes me remember how as a kid if we had a scar it looked kinda cool, or a cast to sign, extra cool. I always wanted braces, and hear that’s a common odd wish we had as youngsters. (Oh my god, I just typed “youngsters..” ) I’d pull back the ends of a paperclip to make a kind of retainer, and gained some cuts along the way.

As an adult, not the same picture. We don’t want braces, or any kind of dental work. A chipped tooth, means, $$ and $$=eh, doesn’t hurt that much, it’s not so bad. To me the “eh it’s not so bad” has been okay, except that it doesn’t go away just because you can’t afford to fix it. Mid life is sort of that way. You can’t rewind the aging process, and you have to figure out while you’re in the “eh it’s not so bad” phase to soak it up, because each day is a new one to a deeper, older and more used way of life less new. Anybody else drive with the gas light on? Same concept. It doesn’t fix itself and I think I’ve learned by now, after many trial and errors. More so the errors. So now I drive with an emergency gas can in the trunk of my car. 

While we enter into this next layer of quarantine, where’s your gas gage? Is it on empty and how does one re-fill it? Are there ways we can all tap into resources to ignite, refresh, refill, and fix?

I’ve always said, “we’ll see”. People that know me, know that. And while “we’ll see” may seem like a pause button, it’s actually a green light. It means propel forward however you can, releasing expectation. It’s the yes to the should, the filler to the empty, and filler to the chip.

New perspectives:

“Alexa, will there be a prince on a horse galloping into the picture?” 

Alexa: “We’ll see.”

“Alexa, if I ask my boss for a raise, is that a good move?

Alexa: “We’ll see.”

“Alexa, is “we’ll see” supposed to be a comfort or not?”

Alexa: “We’ll see.”

So you see, we’ll see’s, are hopeful insights.

Be where you are. Because not knowing sometimes is okay too.

You’ll see.

Wednesdays, Windows, and Windex

Someone just posted “Happy Wednesday, we’re 1/2 there!” Um..to where? Weekends now have a whole new meaning. Maybe a hope for weak-ends? It is however a great time to gain a new perspective, and develop some laughs along the way. C’mon ..don’t YOU laugh out loud by yourself in your house? Try it, dance and laugh like no one’s watching. And even if they are, it’s the good kind of contagious.

10 Pandemic Perspectives for Lockdown Laughs:

  1. Teaching on line is way more fulfilling than dating on line

  2. Morning breath under my mask, singes my eyebrows only.

  3. No longer running out of gas two times a week.

  4. Zooms done by noon, then get ready for cocktails and tunes!

  5. Talking to yourself in solitude is great - you always get the last word.

  6. Washing dishes has never felt so good.

  7. Cleaning is a preferred choice, not a chore.

  8. Toenails have become an endangered species.

  9. Plenty of time to google yourself. And every ex you’ve had. Since puberty.

  10. Games of solitaire have become the new Game of Thrones.

What are your top ten perspective  shifters? Please share in comments!

Eye Brow Promises & So Be It's.

Eyebrow Promises & So Be It’s.

My father always said his brains were in his eyebrows. Long, full, alert markers distinguishing his wise, strong, gentle face. It’s funny how significantly eyebrows can alter one’s look , while at the same time express emotions so clearly. An old boyfriend of mine used to always know when I was pondering something. He’d take his index finger and rub the the bridge of my nose and say:“Penny?” For penny for your thoughts. “Your 11’s are showing.” And although my 11’s were really just a sugar coating to deep wrinkles, they make me proud. In my family eyebrows symbolize features of pride, and a promise with my father.

I’ve always known, that a little pluck to my brow could turn a frown upside down, as long as you accent the arch. A way to ease and lift on a budget. While living in LA, there are so many methods to wax on, wax off, pluck, tweeze or trim, but during this pandemic? Let’s face it there is not a whole lot of grooming happening. People are in their natural state, while the world is in a chaotic state. And as I look over and stare at my beloved dog Luna, (who is resembling more of a lamb meets Ewok these days), I smile thinking of that promise I made with my father. Never, ever let a groomer trim her ear hairs, out of mutual respect to his long, robust brain brows. These days that promise resonates more deeply.

My father passed away three weeks ago, April 2. Not from Covid-19, and am grateful he lived a long life to the ripe age of 95, and passed peacefully at his home after continual hospital visits and years of dialysis. Saying goodbye to your parent unconscious over a phone is surreal, disorienting, and heart aching. No matter the age of our parents, or ourselves, when one loses a parent it’s like an electrical socket pulled from the wall splitting in aimless directions.

Each day I have been trying to sort through a box in the garage. My siblings are sending belongings of my mom who passed two years ago, and now my dad who passed 3 weeks ago. I save everything, so letting go of receipts from 2002, and finally admitting to myself that I’ll never wear that old soiled coat, or inspiration mini skirt from 1999 three sizes too small, feels a release to finally get rid of. To try and keep making the Goodwill pile. If it feels good, keep going. If not - then stop.

So, while we are all on isolation island and feeling waves of anxiety, here are some go to’s for rafting along the way.

The Five So Be It’s.

  1. If I’m feeling overwhelmed or frozen and wanna just numb out in front of Netflix, or at the computer scrolling, with wine, more wine, and a side of wine -if that helps? So be it.

  2. If cleaning the dishes makes me feel productive, and keeps your mind busy for a few moments, while also keeping your hands clean? So be it.

  3. If going to the grocery store, and writing a list to cross off items feels like you’ve accomplished something? So be it.

  4. If you cry to the depths of your toes during Bridges of Madison County, thinking everything reminds you of your parents? So be it.

  5. If you try to step it up, and wash the grays with a boxed color dye, but ends up with roots that like like rainbow sorbet? So be it.

Papa, Luna’s ear hair is longer than ever. She is starting to look a bit more like a rabbit than a dog, which as we know is fine either way as we hop from one day to the next, letting time do it’s job, with moments that feel eternal.

So be it.

Miss you to the end of time.