Book clubs are all the rage. They’re everywhere. Oprah has one. Civic groups and country clubs have them. Chances are your church or synagogue has one. (Come to think of it, they’ve been reading the same book for years). Whether they’re formal and structured, or a free-for-all in someone’s home, book clubs just might be the new social order.
I belong to a book club. Unlike the majority of book clubs, which are populated by bibliophilic women, ours is a couples book club. And as congenial as it is, its very uniqueness creates a set of rather unique challenges. We’ve been meeting since 2008, which, in itself, is quite remarkable. But first, let me tell you how it all began. Blame it on geography. While there have been changes over the years, we started as seven couples, all friends, who happened to live in the same northeastern town. All of us like to read. Well, almost all of us. We did have a member who was a devout non-reader who was married to a dedicated reader. We allowed him to join us because of his witty comments having nothing to do with the story at hand, and his uncanny ability to entertain us with bird calls. Over the years, due to age, retirement, a decrease in tolerance for cold weather, and an increase in tolerance for canasta, each dyad eventually set forth along the east coast, and landed, for better or worse, in the sunny state of Florida. So, like the aforementioned birds, we migrate, twice a year, to where it’s warm, but not too hot. This movement pattern has dictated the frequency of our meetings, which are once a month for ten months of the year. The other two months, one on either side of summer, are spent preparing for the transition and recovering from the trauma of confronting all the “stuff” that travels with us. But back to the challenges. I am uniquely qualified to discuss these, because I am the book club leader-for-life. Which places me in the same category as the President of Sudan, the Ruler of Turkmenistan, Vladimir Putin and Xi Jinping. I did not ask for this dubious honor. I merely volunteered to lead our very first meeting. Which has taught me a valuable lesson. Keep your mouth shut, and your hands tucked safely beneath your butt. At each meeting, my first duty as Supreme Leader is settling down 13 enthusiastic people who may not have seen each other between meetings. What a lively bunch! Chatter and cross-conversation are the order of the day, as well as some very dedicated snacking. So one has a choice. Either develop vocal strain or hand out Ritalin. Fortunately, I’m very good at shouting. Have you ever tried to choose a meeting date that would accommodate 14 people? I don’t recommend it. But somehow we manage each time to find a date where no one has a doctor’s appointment, grandchildren visiting, tickets to a one-night only performance, or a Cousins Club meeting. Because we are a club of mixed gender, selection of the book-of-the-month also requires special consideration. This tends to rule out chick lit as well as more masculine topics such as an intricate description of the top ten military strategies employed during World War II. All of which are outdated by now anyway. But somehow, each time, we do manage a selection, mixing it up between fiction and non, with a page count that will not require speed-reading before the next gathering. As the Reluctant Leader, I do try to come prepared to lead at least a semi-intelligent discussion. This works pretty well, unless the snacks are exceptional, in which case passing the salami rolls can seriously interfere with an interpretation of the author’s true meaning. And I’m thinking another Ritalin pill may soon be in order. And so it goes until we conclude with the highlight of the evening – dinner! Despite the trials and tribulations described above, I’m truly blessed to be a part of the clan. Our gang has been together in this endeavor for a remarkable fourteen years. Clearly we are all very committed and have made this experience a priority in our lives. We are bound together by books, booze, snacks, and a meal. But best of all, intimacy and love. Long may we read! Do you ever think about your old flames? I mean, really old. Like the crushes you had in elementary school or junior high? Well, I don’t. At least I didn’t until the other day. I’m not quite sure what got the little engine in my brain on that track. Maybe it was the bagel I was picking at during breakfast. It was a rather doughy, disappointing version of a sesame bagel, not at all like the crisp tasty bagels of my youth. And remembering the bagels of my youth led me to thoughts of Marvin. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Assuming you occasionally think about your earliest romances, do you ever contemplate what life might have been like if you had married the dreamboat you met in the sixth grade? Well, I never did. Not until I started thinking about Marvin. But Marvin was not the first. So let me start at the beginning. And in the beginning, there was Robert. Robert Sunshine and I officially met in the fifth grade. It turned out that we lived on the same street in Brooklyn. It was a street that ran from one avenue to the next, and to my ten-year-old self seemed very long and daunting. After school I longed to see Robert, the best-looking boy at P.S. 48, but was too afraid to walk all the way down that scary street. So, instead, I would spend time in front of my house, hoping his mother would send him to my corner for a quart of milk. They apparently didn’t drink too much milk in their family, because I wasted a lot of time waiting for Robert. Our relationship was sealed in the sixth grade, when we were both cast in the leads for the school play. I was the princess, and he was my prince. Thus, my fantasy was realized with the unwitting help of Mrs. McQuillan, our teacher, who was directing the production. Until Robert screwed up and was discharged from his princely role for bad behavior. I was devastated, but the show must go on. Randy took his place, but I never fell in love with Randy, although in retrospect, he was actually much cuter than Robert. But you couldn’t have convinced me at that time. I lost touch with Robert after sixth grade. The street that separated us remained too long to travel, and we no longer went to the same school. I discovered much later in life that he was very successful. So, my future might have been bright had we stayed together. In retrospect, I think it’s best that we parted when we did. His dismissal as my prince no doubt saved me from a lifetime of being referred to as Mrs. Susie Sunshine. And then there was Marvin. I met Marvin during my middle school years. Marvin’s family owned a bagel bakery in our neighborhood. It was a time when bagel bakeries made only bagels. Really good bagels that were a reasonable size, crisp on the outside, and soft on the inside. I have to say that a good old-fashioned Brooklyn bagel of my youth has spoiled me for all others. But let’s get back to Marvin. Marvin had a crush on me. I was flattered and pretended to like him in return. But secretly, I had a crush on Marvin’s younger brother, Michael. Michael was friendly but didn’t seem particularly interested in pairing off in our little group of pre-teens. Nevertheless, I hung around Marvin to be near Michael. Not very honest of me, I will admit. I don’t quite remember how it all ended. I just know that it did, and we all moved on. It’s just as well that I didn’t marry Marvin. I might have continued my infatuation with his brother, been unfaithful, and caused a love triangle with a disastrous conclusion. On the other hand, I might have been queen of a bagel dynasty. And perhaps never again have to put up with a fat, doughy facsimile of my favorite nosh! I think every woman has had a “bad boy” in her life, and mine had the unlikely biblical name of Avram, or Av, as we called him back in the day. We met while I was in high school. He was a few years older than I and had quit school to join the army. We were introduced while he was on leave. I was seriously smitten. No one I knew had done that. He seemed so worldly and incredibly sexy. My parents were appalled by him, which made him even more desirable. He was stationed somewhere in Louisiana, and I would see him when he was on leave. So why didn’t I stay with Av? Well, he dumped me. Via a “Dear Jane” letter. He met someone in Baton Rouge, or wherever he was serving, and he was going to marry her. Marry her! And here I was, back in Brooklyn, sacrificing my senior prom because he wasn’t here to accompany me! I have no idea what happened to Avram. Maybe he wound up as an accountant. Or perhaps a card-carrying member of The Hell’s Angels. In any event, I believe he did me a big favor. I might have run off with him if he had asked. And my path in life might not have led to where and with whom I am today. Which is exactly where I want to be! Dear Readers: I’m pleased and excited to announce the release on Tuesday, October 4th, of my third book of essays: Laughing My Way Through the Third Stage: Selected Essays that Skewer the Golden Years. Unlike my first two books, whose essays addressed the random irritants of everyday life, I have devoted this volume to all of you who are sharing my journey through the decades. In other words, those of you old enough to still be using AOL as your email address and stubbornly refusing to give it up! And even if you’re not, I’m sure you know someone who is who could use a good laugh. The book will be immediately available at Amazon, and other on-line booksellers, in both soft-cover and Kindle editions. And with a little luck, you will also be able to find it on the shelf of your local bookstore. I’ll keep you posted about that. Borrowing from Amazon, who allows you to “Look Inside” before purchase, I’m offering a sneak peek between the covers. Below is the Introduction and the reason why I chose to write this book. And if enough of you decide to buy it, I’ll consider investing in a new sweater! Introduction “The older you get, I have to say, the funnier you find life. That’s the only way to go. If you get serious about yourself as you get old, you are pathetic.” The quote above is from Diana Rigg, the actress, born 1938, died 2020. I found it in The New York Times on Monday, December 28, 2020, on a page that was a tribute to culture notables who died that year. Diana, I couldn’t have said it better myself. I, like many other vintage Americans, was introduced to Diana Rigg when she played Mrs. Emma Peele in the 1960s TV spy import from Britain, The Avengers. She was twenty-seven at the time. Younger fans remember her as the sharp-tongued Olenna from Game of Thrones. She was then seventy-five. In between is a long list of her other roles, from Shakespeare to James Bond. If I’m correctly interpreting the intent of Dame Diana’s statement, I believe she’s saying that if one laments all the indignities of aging, there is a risk of seeing oneself as a sad and pitiable creature. In other words, pathetic! When I started my blog over ten years ago (that I have borrowed from for some of the essays in this book), the goal was to exercise my third stage privilege of commenting on life with a bit of cynicism and satire. So, it was inevitable that as I moved further along the aging spectrum, I would turn that irony upon myself. After reading the words of Diana Rigg, I took stock of the occasions when I had actually made fodder out of my own condition. I have questioned the wisdom of, at a certain age, paying a higher price for a product because it comes with a life-time warranty. I applied the same logic before I chose to undergo some very expensive dental work. Did it come with a guarantee that I would outlive my teeth? Skewering fashion and our changing body image is something that has brought me joy. The foolishness of trying to navigate a journey of a quarter mile wearing four-inch heels. The trauma of needing a new bathing suit. The question of whether going sleeveless was permissible after a certain age. Or creating a new publication, The AARP Fall Fashion Preview, after recognizing that, as an “older” woman, the glossy fashion magazines had nothing in them for me. And talk about losses! And who, at this age, doesn’t talk about losses? And losses come in many shapes and sizes. Unfortunately, there is the loss of friends, which is never funny. But what about the informal agenda of my husband’s annual high school reunions? First, there is the rundown of the condition of one’s body parts, then, who knows the best doctors, and finally, a drug update. All of which leads to the inevitable “alive or dead” game as they try to figure out if so-and-so, whom no one has heard from in quite a while, is simply ignoring the group or something worse. I’ve written about losing my fingerprints, my left shoulder, the ability to sleep through the night, and losing almost two inches of height. Losing my cataracts was a welcome loss, but not without its downside. Seeing my face after the gauzy fil was removed from my eyes made me want to consider cosmetic surgery as part of my aftercare. And, f course, who could resist taking stabs at a society that tends to devalue us as we age. I say rail at those who judge us as dinosaurs because we still use AOL. And fie on the media who insists on describing anyone over sixty as elderly.” Or those who say “she used to be very pretty” about a woman of a certain age because she doesn’t look like she did when she was sixteen. There are more essays I could mention, but I think I’ve made my point about a shared philosophy. And so, dear Diana, it’s too bad you never got to read my blog posts. You would have been very proud of me! And let me end this with some wisdom from another celebrity icon, Betty White, who loved to nearly 100. In an interview on Entertainment Tonight, she said that she planned to spend her 100th birthday in quarantine due to Covid. Unfortunately, she didn’t quite make it. And what did she say was the secret to a long life? Why, a sense of humor, of course. Forgive me if I indulge in a bit of nostalgia, but for this essay it seems appropriate. I’m referring to an old radio program called “Mr. Keen, Tracer of Lost Persons.” If you admit your age is hovering somewhere near four score, perhaps you can remember listening to the broadcast with your parents as you gathered around the radio in your cozy living room. (Picture a Norman Rockwell painting.) Typically, the program would begin with a rap on the door of the office of Mr. Keen, private detective. Responding to a gruff “Come in,” the distraught person would enter and tell Mr. Keen about so-and-so who had failed to show up for an important appointment day before yesterday, and hadn’t been seen or heard from since. Mr. Keen, who never did reveal his first name, would respond with the usual probing questions and of course, agree to take the case. The show, which first aired in 1937, ran until 1955, and was one of radio’s longest running broadcasts, spanning 18 year. Well, Mr. Keen, while I applaud your success, you ain’t got nothin’ on me! My run as tracer of the missing has lasted 42 years thus far, and I fear I am in it for life! Why, on a bright September day, did I suddenly remember Mr. Keen? Because yesterday found me on my hands and knees, brandishing not a Glock 44, but a flashlight, and running my fingers under the dark and dusty space beneath our convertible sofa. Why had I put myself in this dangerous situation where getting up off the floor could be hazardous to my health? Because my steady client, otherwise known as my husband, had presented me with my latest case. He had misplaced his keys somewhere within the confines of our home, and although he looked for them they were nowhere to be found. After a thorough interview of his whereabouts since he let himself into the house – with said keys – it was obvious to me that the focus of the investigation had to be the couch. Removing the cushions revealed only crumbs from the sandwich he had eaten for lunch. So it was imperative that I take the next step. And, voila! I emerged with the keys. All that remained was that I successfully lift myself to a standing position! Unlike Mr. Keen, my engagements do not begin with a rap on the door, but rather with a plaintiff cry: “Honey, can you help me find my………,” or, “Susan, have you seen my……..,” or, a more desperate “My credit card is missing!” I cannot attribute this to dotage. It’s been going on forever. Besides keys, I’ve repeatedly been called upon to locate cell phones, eye glasses, wallets, umbrellas, as well as a shirt or a pair of shoes that he swears someone took from his closet. Although the reason why a burglar would nab a pair of old Skechers eludes me. Over time, my role as “finder” has gradually been taken for granted. If I cannot find something, then it is truly lost. I’m reminded of the old “Domestic Goddess” comedy routine from Roseanne Barr when she was doing stand-up. “Husbands assume that wives know where everything is. They think the uterus is a tracking device!” Perhaps Roseanne hit on something and there really are gender related differences when it comes to searching. Not wanting to extrapolate too much from such a small study, but I am definitely more thorough than my husband when it comes to locating lost objects. He might lift a cushion and give up, while I’m the one with the miner’s cap shining light on dark places. In the spirit of “mansplaining,” perhaps we need a new verb to describe the male approach to finding things. For lack of something more creative at this time, I’m going to suggest “mearching” (man searching), and hope it captures the nature of man’s quest for the missing! If you come up with something better, Mrs. Keen would be happy to hear from you. On a completely different note, I’m thrilled to report that my latest book of essays is scheduled for release on October 2. Entitled Laughing My Way Through the Third Stage, the Kindle version is now available for pre-order on Amazon . Please check it out! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BFBW89Y5 The soft-cover version will be available at the beginning of October. Labor Day weekend is upon us, and despite the fact that we were just experiencing a heat wave, come Monday, summer is unofficially at an end. In truth, summer is not really over until the calendar says it is, on or about September 21. But then, the calendar completely ignores the real indications of the season’s conclusion, like shorter days, covers placed back atop swimming pools, and traffic at a standstill while the school buses unload their charges. And didn’t I just see Halloween candy being stacked on display at my local food store? (Why do retailers insist on compressing my life? At this age, I can’t afford to be rushed. But I digress.) But perhaps the strongest indicator that vacation time has come and gone is the long-lived fashion commandment that, as of tomorrow, all white attire and accessories are subject to banishment! So, Tuesday might also be considered a holiday, (White-Out Day?) celebrated by collecting all of the white items in your closet and exiling them to storage for the next two seasons. (Unless you spend the winter in Florida, in which case you’re allowed to ship them south.) Being a woman of a certain age, I cannot remember a time when my seasonal wardrobe was not governed by the Memorial Day\Labor Day rule — that all things white emerged from hiding during the Memorial Day weekend and went back into hiding immediately after Labor Day. To do otherwise was to put yourself at the mercy of the fashion police. Curious about its origins, I did a little checking into the mandate that for so long controlled the colors in my closet. I discovered that, in fact, its onset was born out of wealth and class, as well as a certain practicality. Labor Day became an official holiday in 1894. For the wealthy classes in large cities, particularly in the northeast, the summer season was bracketed by Memorial Day on one end, and Labor Day at the other. Those with money would leave the cities for the cooler shore, or cottages in the country. White clothing was worn because it was cool and came to signify leisure and vacation. Returning to the cities after Labor Day meant the end of vacation and back to work. In the cities, white clothing was no longer practical. Hence, light clothing was stored away, and darker colors emerged for city life. Apparently, this notion was reinforced during the 50’s by women’s magazines, which encouraged an ongoing fashion identity with the wealthy. I no doubt glanced through some of these issues while accompanying my mother to her weekly beauty parlor appointments. But here we are in 2022 and the right-to-wear-white-on-Tuesday question is still under discussion. Just ask Google. I did that, and the consensus, based on the endless number of vapid fashion blogs available on the internet, suggest that women, and their summer whites, have, in fact, been untethered. We have been granted permission to do as we wish. (Although why we needed permission in the first place is definitely a matter for another discussion.) So, ladies, and men, make your own choices. If you care to wear your crisp white linens at Thanksgiving, feel free. Just be careful and don’t mistake your pant leg for the dinner napkin. As for me, come next Tuesday, I shall probably stare at my own closet, and try to be mindful that, although I was a product of the 50s, I am now a thoroughly modern woman. While I no longer look over my shoulder for Serial Mom (see note below if you don’t remember Serial Mom) old habits do die hard. But whatever I decide to do clothing-wise, I shall draw comfort from the following. There is no rule about drinking white after Labor Day, is there? Serial Mom, a satire, is a John Waters film released in 1994. Kathleen Turner played a “sweet” suburban mom who killed people for committing social faux pas, like wearing white after Labor Day. Originally published August 31, 2018. The inevitable has happened. The insidious process has reached its conclusion. The final step has been taken, and the journey is over. I can deny it no longer. I have become my mother! Despite our self-righteous cries as young girls that we will never be like her, one day we look in the mirror, and there she is, peering back at us. This should not be shocking. Certainly, our own aging process was genetically designed to parallel hers. Mine started in my twenties with the appearance of the first prematurely gray hairs. Which, by the way, I used to pull out. But this only works for so long unless you prefer bald spots to gray patches. So, I stopped pulling and started dying. Familiar patterns of lines and wrinkles begin to emerge. The threat of a double chin avoided with just a touch of liposuction. Recognizable facial expressions and gestures. You catch yourself in mid-sentence and realize that you are about to say something that is exactly what she would have said. Something you swore you would never say. And the list of similarities goes on. But in my case, the ultimate surrender was The Beach! Two blogs ago I attempted to evoke your sympathy by revealing my deprived childhood and how I never went to summer camp. But there was compensation in the form of weekend family trips to the ocean. My father oversaw the food. He would cook roast beef and make potato salad and start the sandwich preparation early in the morning. Coolers and jugs and beach chairs, blankets, toys, and towels would be loaded into the trunk of his latest used car. This was accompanied by hats and shirts, and changes of clothing. Heaven forbid we should get a chill from wearing our wet bathing suits. (Weren’t bathing suits supposed to get wet?) We were embarking on a fifteen-minute drive to Coney Island with enough gear to travel the Alcan Highway! I was happy. My brother was happy. I think my father was happy. The only one who was miserable was my mother. My mother intensely disliked the beach! Her attitude was a complete enigma to me. And so contrary to my own. I was thrilled to be at the beach. I loved the sense of freedom. I loved the sun, the gentle waves, collecting shells. I loved playing in the sand and burying my brother, wishing I didn’t have to dig him out. My father seemed content. He swam, then relaxed and read the newspaper. And where was my mother while all of this was happening? Where she always was during these forays. Covered from head to toe and sitting under an umbrella. Occasionally she could be coaxed to wade up to her knees, but after five minutes, she would scurry back to her hiding place. There was nothing about the beach that pleased my mother. She hated the sun. She hated the feel of the sun lotion. She hated the sand. She had a special facial expression that she reserved for when some of it got in her food. Sort of a cross between seeing a dead animal with its guts hanging out and biting into a lemon. Her favorite part of the day was when it was time to go home. Then she could get into a shower and wash away all the gritty unpleasantness. Could this beach-hater be my real mother? I was convinced that I had been adopted. When I reached adolescence and could travel to the beach on my own with a group of friends, I think my mother ceremoniously burned her bathing suit. My own romance with beaches did not end in childhood. Any opportunity to spread a blanket, I was there! Domestic beaches, foreign beaches, man-made beaches on a lake, it didn’t matter. Beach vacations were the best. Despite being enveloped in total inertia, you could still feel like you were doing something. You were at the beach! When my children were young, I took them to the beach, and once again, the trunk of the car was packed to overflowing with stuff! It was always my dream to own a house at the beach, which we did for 10 happy years. My own children now grown, I lived my fantasy of walking with my dogs every morning and watching them joyfully take on the challenge of the crashing waves. It was back to being easy. Dogs don’t require a lot of stuff! Then my husband suggested moving to Florida. When I could finally speak again, I told him that one of my conditions was that we live near the beach. And so, we did. But gradually the universe began to shift. Now on the beach, you will see a woman, covered in protective clothing, with hat and sunglasses, sitting under an umbrella. She does not appreciate the sun and has slathered herself in sunscreen. She fears skin cancer and more brown spots. She might venture into the water for a quick swim but feels safer under the shelter. She hates how the sunscreen causes the sand to stick to her skin. She tries to open a bottle of water and is annoyed that there is sand all over the cap. But for the sake of her husband, she endures. Finally, he’s ready to leave, and she is once again happy. This woman could be my mother. But it’s not. It’s me. The transformation is now complete. Due to the overwhelming response to the prior essay, I felt strongly that a follow-up was in order. First, I’d like to thank all of you who came to my aid in my quest for The Perfect Dress. I had no idea that so many astute shoppers and fashion influencers of a certain age were signed on to my blog. And I was even more gratified to discover that you actually read what I write! Shortly after posting my last essay, my mailbox became filled with recommendations for shops I hadn’t yet tried or heard of, and on-line fashion sites I should explore. This was an eye-opener. For someone who had considered herself a savvy shopper, I realized that I still had a lot to learn. And second, kudos to the person who, despite my warning that the contents he was about to read would be unrelatable to his gender, proceeded anyway, and took the time to respond. Again, I was gratified. So, yes, Virginia, I do have male readers! In fact, his email to me was so full of truth and good humor, it would be selfish of me not to share it with you. So here it is. “While I may be one of the few males who enjoys your blog, I totally understand because B has exactly the same problems. So, I live with it. "She is also looking…for the PERFECT hat. The brim must be just right, not too big, a “small face” brim not covering her eyes. And just the correct fit when she looks to the right. Or the left. "At that time, I either go and sit down in the store or go out to the car. I do that because I know that we will have to stop at almost every rack to fondle the items on it. "Then I know she will come out with nothing and ask me to take her somewhere else to start all over again. This will continue until we have to go home and feed the dog. "I don’t understand why we bought her a car just to sit in the driveway. I’m sure her car would enjoy these shopping trips. "I DO NOT!” The male perspective made me smile for two reasons. One, because it was funny, and true, and two, because it reminded me of something I heard a long time ago from Joy Behar when she was doing stand-up. At the time she was between marriages and said her next perfect husband would be a man who would sit in a chair and hold her purse while she shopped at Loehmann’s. (Damn, I miss Loehmann’s!) So, thanks to your support and encouragement, I persevered. And I’m pleased to report that I found it. The Perfect Dress! Of course, it was at the last place I thought to look. A local fashion discount boutique whose clothes look great on French models, but not so terrific on those of us with Russian peasant ancestry. Yet there it hung, a Boho Chic dress, my size, in all its unconstructed glory! I rummaged in my purse for my list of requirements.
I whisked it into the dressing room, convinced that all this perfection was too good to be true, and when I tried it on I would look like a giant carrot. But no, if the mirror was accurate, I looked very much like a woman wearing The Perfect Dress! P.S. Want to know the best part? On sale – 50% off! My perfect dress and I will be taking off the month of August. So, watch this space for summer reruns. See you in September with some fresh thoughts, and a new book! I have been on a quest for the perfect dress. Perfect for me, that is. And I do have some very specific requirements. Requirements that I probably didn’t have when I was 30 years younger. But you know how that is. If you don’t know, you might be too young to relate to this essay. Or possibly the rare male who subscribes to my blog. In either case, there might not be anything in it for you, so continue at your own discretion. The dress I’m seeking is not a dress for any special occasion. Just a casual dress suitable for a warm summer weather, a dress I can wear to Stop and Shop, and then easily transition to an informal evening at the Shake Shack. It’s not that I have nothing to wear. My closet is far from empty. But I don’t own a dress. And I’d really like to have one. I’m not a fashionista, but I have noticed that dresses are very popular this summer. I see them everywhere. And the women who wear them seem so fashionably summery, even when they’re picking up poop in the dog park. Whereas my dog park attire, while functional, might also be appropriate for boot camp. I have glanced into the many clothing stores in my small town and noted that they are crammed with dresses. I took that as a hopeful sign. Surely there would be one that was just right for me. But, as noted above, I do have some very specific requirements. First, the dress must be collarless. I have a thing about collars. I don’t like them. On me. On some women, collars look fine. But on me, they look like the top half of a parochial school uniform. All that’s missing is the plaid, pleated skirt. Sleeves, or lack thereof, is another matter. Sleeves didn’t used to matter, but a few birthdays ago I decided that my ability to look attractive in sleeveless or stringy straps had reached its expiration date. So, my preference for sleeves these days is longish, even though it’s summer. And if not long, no less than precisely three inches above the elbow. (I’ve decided to ignore any issues surrounding my elbows. I can’t see them anyway.) The length of my perfect dress is definitely below the knee, but ideally, it should reach the ankle. Both of them. While my legs remain one or two of my more attractive features, I prefer to leave the display of knees to women whose ages do not exceed the speed limit on most U.S. highways. I am also particular about the shape of the dress. I require a loose, rather than fitted, silhouette. I believe in fashion jargon, that style is called “unconstructed.” And that’s the perfect look for me. My frame is no longer suitable as a construction site. Flounces, ruffles, and bows are definitely no-nos. I am drawn to a more tailored, grown-up look. I have in the past tried on garments with frilly, full skirts. While looking adorable on a certain type, what the mirror reflected back to me was reminiscent of a beautifully wrapped gift box of fine chocolates. But Godiva was not the look I was seeking. Obviously, she couldn’t find a suitable dress either! I know it’s summer, and florals are all the rage. But my preference is not to look like something ordered from 1-800-Flowers. Therefore, I require a dress in a summery, but solid color, or a pattern that doesn’t look like it’s trying to be heard in a noisy restaurant. I’m not fussy about the fabric. As long as it’s soft and cool. And not see-through. Or clingy. Or becomes wrinkled if you even look at it the wrong way. Sadly, I have not yet found the perfect dress. I’m not sure why. I don’t think my requirements are unreasonable. Surely, somewhere, there hangs the all-purpose, collarless, sleeved, below-the-knee, flowing (but not too much), no-frills, flowerless, wrinkle-free garment of my dreams. I may have to widen my search area, but I shall continue my quest at least until Labor Day. And if I’m not successful, there’s always next summer, when boot camp fashion just might be all the rage! Let’s hit the ground running and create the right synergy, so we can go after low-hanging fruit. If you don’t have the bandwidth, phone me. Let’s touch base and think outside the box. I did not create the paragraph above. I stole it from the internet to illustrate that this is an essay about the annoying overuse of buzz words by people in the media. I have long ago confessed to being a TV news junky, although recently I have been able to go on a bit of a diet. But I still engage sufficiently to become irritated by the expressions one hears repeatedly, metaphors that may have been clever the first 100 times they were used but are now downright irritating. I also resent the repeated use of these words and phrases because they can also be downright intimidating. Their use is supposed to send a signal that the person using them is an up-to-date expert. The user is “in,” and if you didn’t connect with the metaphor, you are so not. I have no idea how these words become popular, but I have my suspicions. Perhaps once a year, representatives from the business and news media hold their annual “Edgy Word Convention” at a large venue, maybe Madison Square Garden. After days of meeting in small groups they come together to vote on a fresh list of buzz words aimed at cleverness, which is then disseminated to all the talking heads with instructions to begin use immediately. I know my little fantasy is not plausible, but I’m at a loss to explain how these expressions permeate newsprint and TV with such widespread usage. If anyone has other ideas, please let me know. Their origins notwithstanding, below I present my personal list of current offenders. Words and phrases that I wish never to hear again! Low Hanging Fruit. Clearly a phrase that originated with gathering produce from a tree by someone with acrophobia, the phrase has become a metaphor for something that is easy to obtain, achieve, or take advantage of. In other words, picking off what’s easy, and maybe avoiding the harder work of explaining that the tougher stuff is being avoided? Wheelhouse. One of my personal favorites when it comes to words I never want to hear again. Originally, a wheelhouse described that part of a boat or ship serving as a shelter for the person at the wheel. Now, in trendy terms, it has come to mean outside of one’s area of interest or expertise. Surely there’s an explanation for the transition. But unfortunately, that explanation isn’t in my wheelhouse! Hyperbole. Another favorite. The word, which means exaggerated statements or claims not meant to be taken literally, has been so overused on TV and in speeches by our President, that I fear the word itself has become, you guessed it, hyperbole! Binary Please! Leave this word where it originated, in math and science. Meaning having two parts, its overuse extends to decision-making, ways of thinking, describing sexual identity, or lack thereof. Given the binary choice of yes or no when it comes to the word “binary,” my choice is definitely NO! Band Width The term, which originally refers to a range of frequencies used to transmit a signal, has been co-opted to mean the ability of a person or an audience to deal with a particular set of facts or circumstance. Personally, my band width for tolerating jargon has significantly narrowed! Take a Listen A ridiculous phrase that it very popular with TV reporters when they are about to present a video or a piece of audio. As often as I’ve heard it spoken, (and that would be very often) I still ponder how one actually “takes a listen,” as opposed to simply listening. Breaking News Give me a break! The same news I heard at 8:00 o’clock this morning is no longer breaking at 5 PM, Mr. Blitzer! X-Gate Enough already with the “gates!” It’s been 50 years since Watergate and surely all the clever media people can come up with a new expression to label a scandal! It’s Like Playing Whac-a-Mole Anyone out there actually play Whac-a-Mole? I doubt it. It’s an arcade game you play with a mallet and try to drive a little animal into the ground, and when you do, another little animal pops up. Sounds pretty violent to me. So, how did it become the overused metaphor to describe a situation where you solve one problem, and another crops up? My list is actually longer, but I’m woke to your band width, so I’ll stop now. But if you watch breaking news, take a listen. Let me know if you hear some hyperbole. I’m always eager for a good cliché! My husband likes opera. Me? Not so much. If I had to rate my feelings regarding opera on a scale with “Hate” being 0, and “Love” being 10, I’d probably hover somewhere about a two-and-a-half. That is, if one of my more cultured friends happened to be looking over my shoulder as I filled out the questionnaire. But if I were alone in a darkened room without even a fly on the wall, I would no doubt check the box next to zero. But in the interest of good sportswomanship, I agreed to accompany my darling to the majestic Metropolitan Opera at Lincoln Center to experience a performance of La Boheme. Even if I don’t appreciate opera, it sounds very urbane in the retelling if someone should inquire as to what I did last Thursday night. But La Boheme? How bad could it be? At least I was familiar with the libretto. I mean, everyone knows about poor consumptive Mimi. And it’s not as tragic as so many other operas (spoiler alert!) since she’s the only cast member who dies at the end. Be honest. Generally, opera is not all that much fun. For the most part, the stories involve treachery, tragic heroes, death, madness, love and loss, all related through song. I can’t help but think I could get equally depressed listening to a good old country western album. At much less the cost. Speaking of cost, opera tickets can be quite expensive. So, we forego the fifth-row center orchestra seats and ride the elevator to one of the upper tiers. We are far from the stage, but the view is good. I can still enjoy the beautiful stage sets and a somewhat diminutive version of the performers. La Boheme was composed by Puccini in 1893 and is historically one of the most frequently performed operas. So, opera lover or not, I’m sure you’re familiar with the story. But a brief recap never hurts. The male characters are a group of friends, artists, musicians and writers, living the Bohemian life in the Latin Quarter of Paris circa 1830. In the opening scene the friends are about to depart from their garret apartment to join other friends at a local pub. Rodolfo, the writer and poet, stays behind to put the finishing touches on a story. Shortly, there is a gentle knock on the door. He opens it and beholds a young woman holding an unlit candle. She sings an apology for disturbing him and explains that her candle has blown out. Basically, she came to borrow a match! Rodolfo invites her in and proceeds to light her fire. She tells him that she’s a seamstress and her name is Lucia, but people call her Mimi, though she doesn’t know why. Neither do we and we never will. But two minutes later, gazing longingly into each other’s eyes, they are professing, in song, of course, their eternal love. Thank goodness for the required Covid mask, because despite myself I begin to giggle. Who knew that the Italians invented speed dating? Maybe things really did move more quickly back then. The life span was considerably shorter. Perhaps therein lies my problem with opera. I am too literal. I focus on the wrong things. Instead of enjoying the music, the scenery, the voices, I’m laughing at the absurdity (according to me) of what I just witnessed on the stage. Of course, the path of love, especially instant love, does not run smoothly. The lovers part, they reunite. They part again. The intervening acts are full of Latin anguish. Lucia, aka, Mimi gets sicker. In the end, she returns to Rodolfo, to die in his bed, and my literalness also makes a comeback. Mimi is ravished by tuberculosis. Her body is thin and frail. She is barely able to breath. Yet there is this Rubenesque diva belting out her final words of love for her Rodolfo. Tell me, from where is the oxygen coming? Am I really supposed to believe this very robust woman I see before me (at a distance) on the stage is dying? Once again, behind my mask, the giggles overtake me. And so, my more cultured friends, I hope you won’t think less of me. It took a bit of courage to come out of the closet and share my dirty little secret. But I take comfort in discovering I’m not alone. Through the years, opera has had its critics, far more noteworthy than I. So, I leave you with this quote from one of my heroes, Samuel Longhorn Clemens, better known, of course, as Mark Twain. Sam, I always knew we had something in common. I just didn’t know what it was. Until now. I have attended operas, whenever I could not help it, for 14 years now. I am sure I know of no agony comparable to the listening to an unfamiliar opera…that sort of intense but incoherent noise which always so reminds me of the time the orphan asylum burned down. |
About the AuthorSusan is the author of two award-winning collections of humorous personal essays: “How Old Am I in Dog Years?” and “How to Complain When There’s Nothing to Complain About.” Check out her Author Page HERE. Archives
April 2024
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