Nine years ago today I closed on my apartment. It was a monumental event in my life, since I did it without an agent or help from anybody except Lucia who was a girl contractor then
Dan will be going tomorrow. I will be going on Tuesday. Have more guests lined up. Will be posting twice a week beginning next week with a guest blogger or two each week. Really like introducing people to other bloggers
Haven’t been doing this right since I have been half brain-dead for awhile now, but know that blogging shouldn’t be about competition with one another. If you want to guest blog, leave a comment or shoot me an email
Snarky can be good; vile is vile. Bone is neither. He wrote the following post not me
Think that I only had been reading Bone for awhile when I read Miss Nona. It was a wow, he’s talented, moment. I’m a sucker for Southern writing, so…
If you haven’t read weekend at Pia’s, don’t wait. Bone and I will contnue our argumentdiscussion about his screenname when I come home. There were somethings in WP that I didn’t understand. Bone taught himself WP so that he could teach me. Really he wants to change from Blogger, right Pia….And WP rules except for the image thing.
Oh will have some new guest writers next week, a couple recyled writers–not material. And I will be an incredibly refreshed wonderful blogger–thanks to my blogger friends–more about them another time.
In the town where I was raised, a quiet two-lane road leads away from the town square on the west side. Within two blocks, what few businesses there are give way to houses. The asphalt is faded now so that its much nearer to white than its original black.
Small houses dot each side of the road all the way out to the four-lane. About the only exception is the local park, whose ball fields come to life in the springtime with t-ball, baseball, softball, and soccer games and practices.
Almost unnoticed now, if not forgotten, is an old abandoned white concrete building which sits on the left side of the road just before you reach the park entrance. For the first two-thirds of my life, that was Miss Nona’s store.
Miss Nona was a rather short older lady who, best I can remember, always had a tall bouffant-like hairdo, and almost always had a smile on her face. There were two gas pumps in front of the store, and as long as she was able, she’d come out and offer to pump your gas.
The inside featured an old-fashioned top-opening drink cooler. You’d slide the door open, reach down inside and pull out your favorite soft drink in a glass bottle. There was a bottle opener built into the side of the cooler.
Some of my earliest memories of the little country store are of running across the field after baseball practice and buying a Gatorade. Or before practice to buy some Big League Chew.
Miss Nona lived in a house right next to the store, and would open up for business before daylight. She ran the store all by herself the majority of the time. She was there open to close. For many years, she sold biscuits in the mornings. And around lunch, she would slice up stick bologna and hoop cheese and make sandwiches.
It seems like she was always busy doing something around the store. If there were no customers to tend to, she might be sweeping up, inside or out. Or stocking the shelves. I asked her for a job once when I turned 16, but she said she couldn’t afford to hire any help.
I recall my Dad telling me about the time some man tried to rob her. I don’t remember all of the details now. I remember it happened early one morning when no other customers were there. Short story shorter. She kept a shotgun under the counter. Fired a warning shot or two. And no one ever tried to rob the store again. I love that story.
Seems like my parents had always known Miss Nona. Although, looking back, I guess they only knew her from the store. More than once, during somewhat hard times, I remember Miss Nona would let my Dad buy bread, milk, and anything else we needed on credit. Just to get thru until payday, when he would pay her back.
Maybe because she knew my parents, I always felt safe when I was there. I liked to think she’d treat me like one of her own grandkids. Although she probably would’ve treated any young person that well.
As I got older, I’d stop by on my way to work for a snack. My usual was a honey bun and a little Coca-Cola. I remember one day not long after I started driving, I stopped by to get gas. I would never let her pump my gas. So when I was done, I went inside to pay, and came back out to discover that I had locked my keys in the car.
First time that had ever happened to me, and I was a bit distressed. She, undoubtedly, had seen this situation many times. Brought a straightened wire hanger out and had my door unlocked in seconds. I don’t remember if I ever thanked her for that. I hope I did.
Time gets thin. And as Miss Nona got older, she started closing the store a little earlier in the evenings. And then she stopped opening at all on Saturdays. And eventually, although I can’t remember when, she closed the store for good.
Miss Nona had always looked exactly the same to me, for all the years I had known her. Except for the one time that I saw her after the store closed. I had heard that she was having some health problems. And she looked twenty years older than I remembered her.
No one ever reopened the little country store. Someone put a fish market in the building for a short while. But even that’s been gone for years now. When the town grew, it did so on the east side. All the new fast food restaurants, and convenience stores, the Wal-Mart Supercenter, and other businesses, opened there. The west side of town has just kind of been forgotten.
Today, little stores like that one have become scarce. Big money and chain stores eventually put the little man, and woman, out of business. They call it progress. Feels more like we lost something to me.
Miss Nona is no longer here. Although I can’t remember when she passed. The memories of that little country store, like the highway that runs past it, fade a little more each day.
Most of us will never achieve widespread fame. If you consider that an achievement. But to be remembered fondly by those whose paths we crossed years after we are gone. To have touched someone’s life, even in a small way. That’s something.
I suppose there have been thousands of little country stores in the world. Thousands of Miss Nona’s.
But to me, there will only ever be one.
Stumble it!
I first met Shayna through a Eugene story. Couldn’t help but fall in love with her. When you meet Eugene, you will understand. Please follow the links. In Shayna’s latest post she talks about her musical beginnings. Loved it.
It will be a year in November since I met him. The man who changed my life for the better. Our friendship is a friendship I have never experienced before and I have a feeling I will never experience anything like it again in my lifetime.
His name is Eugene, an American Marine Vet who has captured my heart. Some days he has no clue who I am, other days he thinks I am Sue and some days he actually knows my name…
A clip of when we first met…
I walked by him with my son in my arms. I noticed his eyes were following me. For some reason I stopped and turned and looked at him. Our eyes met. The once filled hollow eyes were now glistening.
To my surprise the soft-spoken ’scary’ man whispered, “I had me a son once.”
Startled, I smiled “Ya did? There is nothin like ‘em.”
While stealing a glance of my son his voice quivered “Yeah, nothin like ‘em. It’s been 62 years since I seen him.”
My heart dropped and I didn’t know what to say. Before I could really think I sat down beside him and blurted out “Would ya like to hold my son?”
He looked at me with deep desire and then slumped down and hung his head. “No, mam.”
I sat with him for a few more minutes in silence. I finally stood up to walk away. While in the mist of standing I dropped my keys. Eugene bent over and picked them up.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“No, miss, thank you for talkin’ to me,” he stated while handing me my keys.
He leaned back on the bench and his brief glistening eyes turned back to hollow.
Our friendship has grown since that faithful day in November…
That very day changed my life and the way I view people. This man was a man I was very scared of as a child… when I would see him I would turn and run the other way. To think… if I had only opened my mind and heart up many years ago, Eugene could have been a great friend to me back then.
As a human race our assumptions most often prevent us from seeing the actual person(s) standing before us.
We judge one by skin color, one by gender, one by sexual preference, one by occupation, one by social status, one by class, one by beauty, one by education, one by religion and the list goes on….
If we could all open our eyes to the good around us… instead of sinking down into the bad that is pounded into our heads… the world would be a better place. Don’t you think?
When was the last time you stepped outside of your “shell” and opened your arms and heart to someone who needed you as much as you needed them? It doesn’t take much to say a simple “hello”, now does it? It’s amazing what the words “hello” can do. It might even bring you a friendship that beats any other friendship.
The fact of the matter is… I needed Eugene as much as he needed me…
Just a simple “hello”… can change your life for the better.
Stumble it!
Here’s Doug, unleashed. This explains a lot about the dawg Also provides a counterpoint to my Jewish theme, and I’m interested in all of Doug’s schooling, for reasons I will explain another time
I’m really in Montauk. Just stopped at an Internet cafe of sorts. Tara, of When Tara Meets Blog, who was probably the first blogger I met, is in today’s New York Times. She even gets to blog on her employer’s time. And a new blog is begun every second according to this article.
When my family first moved to California, we lived in east Los Angeles, down the hill from a school run in semi-secret for the benefit of the Church of Scientology. Apple School was the primary academic center for Dianetical thought, research and scholarship and I am a proud product of it’s sixth-grade program where I took my only IQ test.
Already popular among Hollywood celebrities, the Church then claimed such luminaries as John Boy from The Waltons and Clint Eastwood’s best friend from the “Every Which Way but Loose” movies. Not Clyde, the other one. In point of fact, my first celebrity encounter was with his daughter, Juliette Lewis in soiled diapers after her older brother had led her to run away from home and they landed on our lawn. She seemed sweet but signed no autographs that night.
This was the golden age of Scientology, as seen by this outsider, before the pharmaceutical industry began it’s campaign to poison the eternal thetans implanted so many years ago by aliens in our proto-human bodies. Before Tom Cruise went clear. Before John Travolta made “Battleship Earth” from the inspiration of Scientology’s founder. It was a time of humble reverence when the Priests could spend their time focused on contemplation of our interstellar forebears and redecorated the Hollywood Manor. When chef was just a chef. It was a time when “your needle is floating” meant something.
So much has happened since then and I fear the church may have lost its way. Tax liens and kidnappings. The rise of South Park, the fall of Esperanto and the disappearance of Birkenstock sandals. But I, as a believer in the resurrection, look forward to the day the fixed stare of little Suri will bring to Earth a new Heaven and a new Hollywood.
Stumble it!
I’m back for one day only this week. First I must thank all the bloggers who have stepped in for me, and will continue stepping in for me through at least next week.
I can not thank them enough but will figure out someway
Have a post underneath this. Meant to turn off the coments. It’s rather self indulgent, but I’m in that kind of mood. Will write about my Mom, and how truly wonderful she was on her birthday
Going to Montauk today, without reservations which is very unlike me. Might stay a third night. Don’t know if the motel has high speed Internet connections or any, at all. Forget. Living dangerously. WP has self timing, so the posts will go on.
While Courting officially began in August, 2004, its real birth was November, 2004 when I discovered that people actually read blogs. I can be very slow.
I never meant for Courting to be a political and/or issue oriented blog. That just happened.
The only products that I push are bloggers because i believe that this amazing new medium should include all voices.
I am a First Amendment absolutist. And absolutist means that I stop at inflammatory statements that urge hate, racism, and spur people to action which is the difficult part to always reconcile in my mind.
The easiest example is a document that calls for a lynching and/or killing, and says it in specific language.
Is Mein Kampf inflammatory? Or did a series of events happen in Germany that allowed it to be taken seriously? Does it matter? Yes.
In post 9/11 America our liberties have to be guarded more seriously than ever. And we have to understand that distinction, though at times it can be unknowable.
Have spent much time since I began Courting trying to understand the maybes and the subtleties.
I have decided for my own peace of mind and efficacy to give that all a break, and focus on what I know best, me. I’m self-absorbed, so? America is a country of self-absorbed people who are making much money off their self-absorption.
I have been defensive for so long that it feels great to say that I care about myself. The only person that I make fun of is me, and I will continue to, because I see the humor in my own actions and thoughts.
My parents taught me that people who laugh at themselves do have the last laugh. They looked so normal and were so eccentric. I know that I’m lucky to have great memories. I want my niece to truly know her grandparents, warts and all. It’s easiest to do through stories, and I have enough for three memoirs.
In fiction I can explore motives, place–yes, Dan I will endlessly explore place, characters. It also lets my imagination take over and that is such a guilty pleasure.
Courting has allowed me to see that there is an audience for my work. If I have obsessed over blogging and its components in these pages, I have used my blog to think out loud.
These past few weeks have shown me that I can usually think in silence. Though my desktop, Savannah Three is angry at me and is demanding more memory so she can spew my words back to me.
I am using guest bloggers for many reasons. I needed to live a blogcentric life, once I realized that people do read blogs and comment. As everybody who reads Courting knows I underwent six or seven oral surgeries in the past two years. Did that make me a better more beautiful person? Have no idea.
Did it make me poorer? Uh, yes, as I didn’t want to explain this to any employer including the paper that was employing me. Didn’t tell them about Courting for a long time. As I actually had to leave my house to do parts of my reporter job, I didn’t want to have to make special arrangements, or cause anybody to be inconvenienced.
I so thank everybody who has left a positive comment, and/or email, as I had lost much faith in my ability to effectively communicate. Normally I would say “write,” but I mean those two words.
Courting has shown me that I can. It has even helped me repair bonds with my old real life friends.
I have had many professional accomplishments but Courting, though the word “professional” might be subject to debate, is my proudest. Nobody knew who I was when I began it.
But I never cared about the amount of comments that I got. It was the quality that I cared about. When I found myself obsessing about comments, I knew that I was truly blogger burned.
Courting has always been about the writing and will be so again.
I am writing this on the second day of Rosh Hashanah, and this year the days of awe, or the period between The New Year and Yom Kippur, means so much to me that I began my annual high holy day closet cleaning early and have given much away, with much more to go.
Bloggers have done so much for me this past year, that my faith in many things has been affirmed.
And for the first time in many years I can honor my parents properly on Yom Kippur by remembering both their lives.
When I think of my Mom now, I smile.
Thank you.
Stumble it!
Thank you to every blogger who has kept Courting in better condition than I do, and will continue to for the next week and a half. I owe you much, and you all have my heart and gratitude.
Here is a link to a page that I wrote about Courting. It’s probably a lot better than this post. Just had to write it
And back to a guest tomorrow.
I don’t mean for this post to be depressing. But let me be real. Ten years ago few people wanted to hear about the problems of old age, if they didn’t fit into an exact box. Even fewer people wanted to hear about the problems between a parent and an adult child.
Not every parent is “compliant” and will use the services of a geriatric care manager or an aide—and if you force one or the other on a competent person you can be construed as abusive because you are. But not every adult child is perfect and able to be there for her parent at all or most times.
This isn’t my problem anymore. I tried for years, even years after my Mom’s death to talk about it. My parents were older than the average baby boomers. Now people want to talk about it. Now people want my expertise.
For my own sanity, I want a respite from it. Most of the time my Mom felt incredibly guilty about being so needy. I had access to many of the best resources in New York. But my mother didn’t fit into any box. Too competent, too feisty, too able to take care of herself.
She mostly needed people to shop for her, go over her very extensive wardrobe for spots and stains, and take her to activities in her NORC–naturally occurring retirement community. She didn’t want the stigma of an aide. To her that was giving up. To be an adult child and not to be able properly help hurt.
While I am over it, I am angry, at all the experts who were so busy categorizing older people that they couldn’t see individuals.
Had my mother been Medicaid eligible she would have received more services, and yes even more empathy. Apparently many so called experts think poverty in old age makes an older person more worthy. Or at least they could fall into the Medicaid pigeon holes. Had she been very rich, well it didn’t help Brook Astor….
She could have afforded an assisted living facility. She didn’t want to live in one. There were people who thought that I wanted her money. Wanted her to spend every cent of it. Other people thought my sister and I were crazy for not making her have trusts. We couldn’t and wouldn’t make her do anything.
I hope that people take these problems seriously. I’m not looking for sympathy or pity. There is nothing cute or noble about old age. To my mother it was dehumanizing. Too me it was guilt and horror inducing.
I felt like I was entering my old age at 45–worked in a nursing home, lived in a building with many old people, and visited my mother.
I was single. Though I lived several hours away by public transport and worked long hours, it was assumed by many that I would want to give up my life for my mother. She didn’t want me to.
We all want to feel that we are living up to our responsibilities but how far do they go? Because I was single was I supposed to give up my social life for decades maybe? This sounds trite and selfish. It’s not. It’s reality. And I had nobody that I could discuss this all with though I was surrounded by national experts on aging.
My mother was more baby boomer in her attitudes than “greatest generation.” Get ready children of baby boomers. There are going to be many people with debilatating conditions that are going to refuse the old “rules.”
My Mom had a great sense of humor. Much of the time so did I. We could laugh through the distress. Not really true on my part. Had I the blogger support that I have now, it would have been. Things would have been very different.
Blogging is wonderful for that. There is always somebody who can see things just a bit differently. There is always somebody to cry to. There is always somebody to laugh with.
Back to thinking that blogging is a miracle of the millenium. Feel truly blessed.
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It was during the Days of Awe, or the period between the Jewish New Year and Yom Kippur, the day of repentance, that I first spoke to my birth mother eighteen years ago.
It felt like a sign. Oh how foolish we can be when we want something so badly. While I had never had a burning desire to meet her, I so wanted to like and respect her. And I respect her very much.
We just didn’t like each other. It was the 80’s. I had big hair, big make up, designer clothes.
I looked like uptown bohemian with Marcasite on everything including my hair. My best power suit was fuchsia and sexy. It opened every door.
Women were impressed because I wasn’t afraid to be myself. I didn’t know how not to be. I was finally beginning to come to terms with the affect that I had on people.
At work, and I worked for a paralegal recruitment agency for the “best paralegal school” where we had to look great, my boss called me “the movie star.” Others really thought that I was a soap star
I was all about appearance. This week I have confronted my inner Paris Hilton. While I focused on my life rather than my blog, I have confronted much.
Eighteen years ago, I had two healthy though eccentric parents who loved me more than there are stars in the sky. Not that they would have said things like that.
Eighteen years ago, I was sure that I was going to meet somebody super special and get married. Yes I had read the infamous Time Magazine study about having more of a chance of being blown up in a terrorist attack. As I had near encounters I found that in horrible taste. I also didn’t believe it.
I had been married. I had lived with other men. I probably passed many true princes in search of the baddest most vile toad.
My friends were just beginning to have kids. I thought it a distinct possibility, and it’s a good thing that blogs didn’t exist then as I spent too much time at the gyn, and would have treated you…to be short and discrete, I attempted to ensure my fertility.
Then everything changed. I was planning to go to law school, but took a federal government test on a whim. Was besieged with offers. Went to work for SSI in its first external, not from within, Claims Rep class in eight years. Reagan had tried to dismantle Social Security. The first Bush understood that it was needed. My Dad, of course wanted me to work for the SSA side. So much more civilized.
I wasn’t used to poverty. Oh, I had lived in tenements but I was young. I had worked on a block off an Avenue filled with welfare hotels, and will never forget the kids running around, unsupervised at night. They would try to climb onto the top of cars and not always succeed.
I worked long hours. I was engaged to a co-worker who made his own hours, had private clients who paid a lot and he loved to spend his money on me. It didn’t occur to me to do something.
We would stay at work late, smoke a joint, sit on the fire escape and watch The Avenue and the city. We worked for a computer company, and the computers bright lights filled the room almost as if they were neon.
Our other life was spent at good restaurants and clubs. My fiance had a special love for Windows on the World. When we didn’t eat there, we hung at the jazz bar. Couldn’t get him to go to the new trendy restaurants in Soho. Reserved that for my friends.
The 80’s were like that. It was a very self-indulgent decade. I could afford to spend money on me and I did. I traveled a lot. It was the perfect decade despite so many friends deaths from AIDS, and forgive me for saying that. I miss them every day.
Then came the 90’s. The Gay friends who had survived the 80’s didn’t survive past 93.
My Dad suddenly died, during Passover in 1991, his favorite holiday. My Mom had Macular Degeneration. Little was known about it then. She had always been ahead of her time. Nobody knew that a treatment wouldn’t be available. Nobody knew that you could lose all your sight.
My Mom had always been one of the most popular people I knew. She was funny, bright, and self assured on the outside. She would lose all self assurance. She was sure people thought that she was demented, and too many did. No person her age or ten years younger as most people thought that she was as blind as she was. If you knew my mother, you knew that she would downplay terminal cancer. She did when I was a teenager and it was thought that she was dying.
My Mom had a condition we knew nothing about. No other animal gets it. None live long enough.
People began to avoid her. She began to avoid other people. It was very difficult for me. Yes it was very difficult for her. She complained to me constantly, and I complained back. It wasn’t my finest time. I was scared. I felt alone and as if nobody understood. I became needy, and I had always been the easy friend, the go to friend in an emergency. Now I was begging. But people were going through divorces, child custody suits, hard times at work. There was always another reason, and I tried to understand.
I had been planning to leave New York. Was going to take a job transfer to San Diego. It was drive by shooting/crack days and I worked in the Bronx.
Back in the East 60’s I was the only legitimate tenant on the first floor. My landlord filled the apartment next to me with girls that were called “models” but were either the quickest whores in an actual apartment, drug dealers or both.
People would let homeless people stay in the lobby. I was the first to leave in the morning and would wake them up. It dawned on me this might not be a good thing. New York had been hit hard by the 87 recession and hadn’t begun to recover.
I moved to Riverdale, a place that I didn’t belong in. I couldn’t help my mom though I went to grad school so that I could learn about aging.
My Mom was still independent and vain. She went from being the perfect mother to somebody that I had a hard time seeing and speaking to though I spoke to her five times a day. Was an early cell adapter.
I was selfish. I wanted my life back. My therapist told me that I deserved it, but what did she know? She was ten years older than me, her mother was my mother’s age and healthy.
I felt much internal and external pressure. I knew how to deal with older people with other problems, I didn’t know what to do with somebody who wasn’t demented, had Parkinson’s, Pulmonary Disease, cancer, and much else.
I turned inward and away from my friends who didn’t understand anyway. At the nursing home I was told that I was crazy to let my mother live alone. Didn’t have a choice. She was capable, could tell all her meds apart, and wouldn’t move to an assisted living facility.
Five horrible years ago, the High Holy Days, were the last time I was too see my real mother. I could tell something was off since The Trade Center.
I chose to look the other way. I have written before that I was complicit in my Mom’s death and of the guilt I felt. Really weren’t we all a bit off?
I haven’t written about the times that I hated her during the last five or seven years of her life. I haven’t written about how I felt like a fraud writing about my earlier life, when the 90’s which ended in 2003, for me, when war was declared, was so horrible.
How could I be that person I was writing about when I was a wreck?
Because I was never the wreck that I was in my imagination, I am myself again, and does it really matter?
Life happens. Maybe being a different person in different decades is a sign of an active and healthy life. I have no idea.
I know that we don’t live in the best of times. But damn, I’m beginning to enjoy myself again. I feel personal success and happiness coming my way. I don’t define success as most people do, but being at peace and content with my life.
Once more I must thank bloggers.
When I talk about my Mom and Dad, I mean my adoptive parents, of course. The word adoption doesn’t mean much to me other than as an understanding of my genetic background. If I sound harsh, I don’t mean to be, but this is my truth.
If this is disjointed, fragmented, or redundant, I’m sorry sort of. When I blog, I get to reframe experiences so that I can see them through all lights.
Stumble it!
It’s going into the third week of my blogging break, and wow, I am relaxed Bloggers helped me put 9/11/my mom’s death into perspective, and bloggers are helping me put blogging in its rightful place. It’s been two years, and every time I attempted to stop blogging something happened.
Thanks to all the bloggers who are helping me learn moderation.
One of the purposes of the Courting Zine, and I should have done a button but that just occurred to me, is to introduce bloggers to each other
I don’t remember exactly when I first met Dawn but I remember liking her sense of humor and take on life. She and her hubster live in New Hampshire, but are moving to Upstate New York and plan to build a farm house. As I’m obsessed with anything home, and moving I love reading about about Dawn’s present home and her pending move.
But Dawn talks about a lot more than houses, the hubster, the boy wonder-her son, the pets and mulches. Though when she talks about those subjects her intelligence and zest shines through. This post is about something else entirely. So read it!
While I am the first person to yell, “Blonde!” in self-defense, (yes, even I have my dirty little secrets) I have to claim mass, (MA) confusion on what follows.
The good news – the Senate actually rejected Bush’s proposal of a constitutional amendment to ban same sex marriages.
The bad news – they voted it down by a final tally of 49-48.
Not all that comforting is it? If you want to see how they voted, click here.
More good news – the Boston Macy’s store located at Downtown crossing dedicated a window display in support of the Boston’s Pride chapter and Boston Pride 2006. It was designed in collaboration with the Boston Pride Committee.
More bad news – After much harassment from the anti-gay organization, Article 8, Macy’s decided to pull the mannequins from the display.
Not good enough and on Article 8’s website the group says, “Your voices are starting to be heard loud and clear,” the group’s website states, “and Macy’s is starting to back down. But they still don’t get it on their public support of a week of rather raunchy homosexual activity.”
Where are the gay groups rising up against the raunchy heterosexual activity that happens daily at organized sports events, construction sites and in every bar, restaurant, pub where heterosexual, (not to mention homophobic) males have consumed more than 2.5 alcoholic beverages?
I can only speak from my own experience, but I have been fair game for wolf cries and obscenities veiled as come on lines since I was 14.
Where were/are the activists rushing to save me from depravity?
Mind you, I have NEVER had a, or a group of, lesbians cat call at me or try recruiting me on a public or private level.
If I find myself in the unthinkable position of testifying against a man who raped me, I will actually find myself defending myself. Yes, the rape victim must first prove her own innocence before the predator is put in a position to be held accountable.
Back to that window display, depraved isn’t it? Just look at those two male mannequins just standing there, not touching, not in any sexually orientated activity of ANY kind.
Back to the activists, where are they in our malls? Why are they not protecting us from the likes of Fredrick’s of Hollywood and Victoria’s not so Secret?
Seriously though, why are they not protecting us from the likes of, Jerry Buck Inman, the confessed, Bikini Killer, of Tiffany Marie Sours?
Inman is one of 563,000 registered sex offenders living in the United States. Do not even try to tell me that every single one of them is not a repeat offender, (Not to mention we don’t have numbers for the un-registered offenders.) for example; I’m no angel and dabbled in shoplifting in my early teens.
Did I stop at my first dibble? Uhh, no. Did I stop at my second, third, forth? Uhh, no. Because. I. Was. Not. Caught.
So yeah, I shoplifted. No one caught me, no one inquired where these things were coming from at home and eventually the guilt got to be too much and it just wasn’t fun any more, so I stopped.
The only reason I started in the first place was because a friend dared me to. I didn’t have the now famous, “Winona Ryder”, syndrome of taking things and mass denial when caught. Wouldn’t you have more respect for her if she had just stood up and admitted she had some psychological flaw that she just couldn’t help herself, but she’s sorry and is seeking help? I would have.
Here’s the thing though. Without help or incarceration she will be out there still unable to stop herself from doing it. However, no young girls will be missing and turn up dead and buried in Winona’s back garden.
Which brings us to Marc Dutroux, a 47-year-old Belgian pedophile. I’m using him only so we don’t forget that this is a problem that is ours alone here in the States.
In 1989 Dutoux was convicted of raping and abusing five young girls and was sentenced to 13 years but was released in 1992 on good behavior.
Um, well yeah, because there are NO young girls to abuse in prison for him to pray on. Oy. Who makes these decisions?
Shortly after his release, young girls began to disappear from nearby neighborhoods where Dutroux owned houses.
In August of 1996 two girls, ages 12 and 14 were found alive in the basement dungeun of on of Dutroux’s houses. They had both been raped repeatedly. One of the girls had been held for 80 days while the other had been there for 6 days and they were the lucky ones.
They found the bodies of two eight year olds buried in the back garden of one house and the bodies of two more girls ages, 17 and 19, buried in the back garden of another house.
The older girls were repeatedly raped and beaten before they were drugged and buried alive.
Vanity Fair published an interview with actress Teri Hatcher in their April 2006 issue. She had recently published her first book, Burnt Toast, and in it revealed that she had been repeatedly molested by a trusted uncle from the age of five, until she was around eight or nine. She never told anyone until she heard about a 14 year old who put a gun to her head in 2002 and left behind a note identifying the same man as her molester.
If not for Teri’s testimony the man would still be free and moved on to his next young victim.
Recently, Mark Hayward published an article about the studies that have been done to assess the risk of sex offenders repeating their crimes. He found that the studies that have been done often contradict each other in their findings.
In the article, New Hampshire State Representative, David Welch, is quoted as saying,
“… about one in 30 sex offenders are predators that society has to be very concerned about.”
Well, if we do the math with the previously cited 563,000 registered sex offenders, that works out to be 18,767 highly dangerous known sex offenders out on our streets. Divided by 50 states, that’s 375 per state in the union. In our towns. Your neighborhoods.
Are you scared for your children yet?
Well then, did you know that a judge in Lincoln, Nebraska, just last month, chose to sentence a convicted sex offender to probation instead of jail time because the man was 5-foot-one?
10 years probation instead of 10 years behind bars because the man is short and the judge thought he’d be at risk from the larger inmates.
Hold up. Didn’t this man use his size to dominate his young victims?
So that judge decided that this man’s welfare and risk of bodily harm in prison was more important that the risk of the young girls he preys on and their bodily harm and – tad da — he is on the streets, free.
Are you more than pissed off yet?
I am. So forgive me if I think we have better things to be fighting for in this country other than banning gay marriage and petitioning for the removal of harmless Macy’s window displays that are supporting the tolerance of gays in our society.
Gay couples who are working for a living and paying taxes just like you and me. Gay couples who are willing to adopt and raise the cast off children of our society and raise them in loving, safe, albeit differing environments than you may know as, “normal”.
©2006 Dawn Marie Kelly, all rights reserved.
Stumble it!
I didn’t realize that tonight is Eruv (night of) Rosh Hashanah when I assigned MizBohemiatoday.
It is fitting as she is one of the most ecumenical, least prejudiced, though with strong opinions about everything, people that I know
I first got to know MizB around the time the in-laws came for a visit. And stayed, and stayed…I couldn’t help loving this Danish/Iranian San Franciscan who is currently living in Spain with her husband, the kids, a girl and boy, and a never ending assortment of relatives who either stay with her or live nearby.
I was thinking of doing a Venn diagram, as it used in therapy, to show the different relationships, but hey read three posts and you will be hooked also. I actually have to change browsers to read her posts, but they’re like reading a Freudian soap. So it is more than fitting that she writes about Dynasty.
And to everybody who is Jewish, L’ Shana Tova. Doesn’t translate well literally but means “a sweet year.”
When I was 8 years old I used to watch Dynasty with my grandmother. She really loved it… the affairs, the backstabbing, the sheer drama was all very exciting for her… and even more so for me. I did not enjoy watching it in my grandmother’s company, however. She felt morally responsible to denounce all said affairs, backstabbing and drama and I was more likely to hear her lectures rather than any actual dialogue.
Oh my god BoheMia! That woman is a whore… A WHORE! She should never sleep with other men when she is already married! And that other one is a dirty, slut of a bitch! My god! You should know that friends should never speak to each other so, least of all beat each other like that! And as for him, he is an evil son-of-a-bitch! Men like that must be AVOIDED! *GASP* What happened? Did she just kiss him? Oh my…. *Momentarily is drawn into the drama but regains her composure shortly after* See? I told you she was A WHORE!!! What she did was wrong! Try never to be a whore!
Um… OK?
I think a little intro is in order.
Grandma BoheMia was married off when she was 16. She had a son soon after. She never speaks of her past but from what I have been able to gather she left her husband because he beat her. She earned a living by doing odd jobs, I assume… it is all too murky… and though she says she taught foreigners Farsi I later learned from my mother… (who was once disowned by Grandma BoheMia for supposedly revealing her deepest, darkest secret which, it turns out, she never did because she never knew it as Grandma BoheMia had told a family friend instead of my mother and said family friend eventually told my mom in order to confirm that my mother in fact did not know the secret which now, well, she did, and even though my mother was sworn to secrecy she told me and well, I never promised to keep it and so here I am)… that she was a housekeeper… yes, the deep, dark secret revealed… back then referred to as maid, and met my Danish/Icelandic grandfather on the job, fell in love and married him…
But it doesn’t end there… oh no!
She had many affairs, or at least one very raunchy one with her cousin, and so my Uncle O, who kinda reminds me of Bill Cosby, came to be. It is said that we have a black ancestor somewhere down the line, which would explain why said Uncle O reminds me of Bill Cosby and why I have an afro, which really adds to the comedy of it all as said dark uncle speaks English with a Danish accent and considers himself a Dane though he has not one drop of Danish blood in him… and no, it is not acknowledged that my grandfather, who adopted my grandmother’s first born from her abusive marriage, is not his father.
Grandpa BoheMia does have two biological children with my grandmother, those being my Uncle V and my mother and so yes, at least I am as full a mongrel as I claim to be.
It is evident from pictures of days of yore, that my grandmother has had a nose job. She claims she fell down the stairs and broke her nose and had surgery because of it but the truth of the matter is that my grandfather caught her fucking around and punched her and hence, the broken nose… My mother remembers my grandmother bringing her cousin-turned-lover-home as they kissed, flirted and fondled away in front of my mother who was then a child…
My mother has been married five times.
Her first marriage yielded a son… my now deceased brother who would have been 40 this year but died when he was 21 instead. She then married a very old man and planned to use that marriage to escape my grandmother’s household but it did not pan out… her third marriage brought yours truly into the world as well as my younger, and very jittery, brother who went from living in my mother’s skirt to living in his pregnant American wife’s, who-actually-does-love-him-very-much, skirt… her fourth marriage to a Swedish man I thought was my father (until I found out an Iranian man who was coming down from Iran one of the many times my mother left the Swedish husband was in actual fact my real father) yielded my younger sister who got raped at 12 but is now shacked up with a sweet loser whom she has a child with… and last, but not least, her fifth marriage… this one was to a geriatric American whom she informed me, when I was merely 14 years old, she was marrying for money and a greencard and when she got as much of both as she could he divorced her, but to their credit they remained friends until he died years later in Hawaii…
No one in my family, other than us offspring, has been married only once.
My eldest uncle has been married three times. His first wife beat my cousin D, his only child, with clothes hangers and was good at abusing her until she was eventually abandoned by both parents and delivered into the hands of my mysoginistic Grandma BoheMia who made sure to raise her with all the emotional abuse that is traditionally bestowed on all female offspring in the family though she was kind enough to spare her the physical abuse she had grown accustomed to. Uncle P remarried a woman with no personality and many lovers later… lovers whose pictures my Grandma BoheMia would knowingly store for her first born… divorced Wife #2 and married Wife #3 who is a keeper, even though she once beat up my grandmother, because she stood by her man and visited him every day when he spent two years in a German jail for being, allegedly (HAH!), involved in a drug deal and yes, lucky him for never being caught with plans to deliver weapons to Iran back in the days of Khomeini because god knows what jail that would have landed him in. Now he is free and is always way too relaxed and methinks I smell the sweet smell (if it is sweet, because if it is or no I would not know but it sure sounds nice to say it is so and I will do just that) of opium in the air…
Uncle O… yes the Bill Cosby lookalike and bastard child of the cousin-turned-lover… has a child, cousin M, with Wife #1 who no longer speaks to him nor anyone else in the family for that matter. I ran into her last year, much to her chagrin, and though she looked great her prunish mother, my ex aunt, looked quite like a wrinkled duck with her injected lips and badly botoxed face… Wife #2 gave Uncle O two children, my beloved cousin A (who was the only one other than my siblings to witness my own emotional abuse and unlike my siblings actually stood up to my mother and cared enough to defend me) and ex-drug-addict Cousin S who is now most likely a Hare Krishna… but Wife #2 was not good enough so Uncle O cheated on her with current money-grubbing Wife #3 for 14 years before divorcing Wife #2 and that only happened because Wife #2 found out about the affair and sold everything she had under her name, got herself some humongous tits with Uncle O’s money as well as a lover… whom she is married to now… to make use of said humongous tits with. Oh and yes, Uncle O has yet another daughter, cousin R, with money-grubbing Wife #3.
Uncle V is a simple man and his story is a normal one in the land o’ BoheMia. He fell in love with an awkward and slightly antisocial Danish woman whom he had a child with, cousin A, whom we recently found out has Asperger’s. He became Mayor of Copenhagen and served two full terms becoming one of Denmark’s most beloved and popular Socialist mayors. They eventually married, which is very unusual in Denmark, only to divorce shortly thereafter. He later met the love of his life whom he is not married to and with whom he has two amazing and sweet sons, cousins S and M, who carry their mother’s last name because a) Uncle V is a feminist and b) his lover and mother of his boys has no brothers to carry on her family name and so the honor has been bestowed upon their sons… and MY GOD could it be? Technically he has only been married once!
Much to my grandmother’s chagrin, I did not grow up to be a whore. My decisive and bohemian ways irk this colorful family as well as the fact that my husband loves me, treats me well and is not planning on leaving me… but that is not to say we have not had our share of problems or that talk of breaking up has been nonexistent…
The first time Loverboy vowed to leave me I was very pregnant with Lil’ BoheMia… overwhelmed by life and by the new me… who was no longer anorexic and so then who the hell was I… I fixated my OCD on my beloved Fiestaware set which somehow kindled an argument that soon became a vicious fight in which I belittled Loverboy and spewed forth horrible and cruel lies aimed at hurting him… which they did… and hence his vow to leave me.
We have always known that we will never in actual fact break up though, back then, we were very good at crying wolf which is why the second time Loverboy vowed to leave me I did not take him too seriously though my tearstained face and shrieks told a very different story… overwhelmed, fresh off the boat from San Francisco here in Spain, we fought in the car only to arrive at our temporary lodging to race each other, each with a kid in tow, to see who got their grips on Loverboy’s passport first. Loverboy won, and passport in hand, vowed to abandon me and the kids as he ran towards the door which I slammed shut and locked, Lil’ Mischief in my arms…
The third time Loverboy vowed to leave me I found him in our bedroom, hitting himself on the head as he screamed How the fuck was I so stupid to marry the likes of you? What was I thinking? What the FUCK was I thinking? repeatedly… when told of my soon-to-be divorced status I wrestled him unto the bed and told him that he could not live, let alone breathe, without me and that I wasn’t buying his bullshit anymore… my cockiness must have been attractive because here he is still and here we are, with new survival tactics for those overwhelming days, of which there are plenty of in life, especially if it takes place in inefficient Spain… and no, he no longer vows to leave me although in our darkest moments he may declare that he is doomed to a miserable existence and an early death because of me…
… but I can live with that… well, not really but it sure makes for a great sounding ending and so, there you go.
Stumble it!
I first met Sage last winter, and was struck by both the beauty of his writing, and his subjects.
Sage travels a lot, and writes about his travels, his jobs–but not his present one, and his life.
I have discovered that we have much in common.
We both have allergies.
I’m adopted; Sage has an adopted daughter.
Sage volunteered in New Orleans; I have visited New Orleans.
Sage has hiked the entire Appalachian Trail. I have thought about doing that, have read books on it, studied maps and driven near it, but….We both love trains, and I have actually taken them in California.
Somehow Sage’s train ride is much, much more interesting. This is a wonderful story.
I’m seated in the dining car with a bubbly couple from Los Angeles. They’re coming back from a vacation to Seattle. I’m not much for talking and mostly stare out the window at the wet fields of garlic that surround Gilroy. Afterwards, as the tracks climb over Pajaro Gap, taking us through the grasslands of the Santa Cruz Mountains, we’re given a short reprieve from farmland. But soon we crest and with our descent come more fields of vegetables and fruit trees. We’re entering the Salinas Valley, the nation’s salad bowl. For the next couple hours, the train runs along the Salinas River. I finish up my sandwich, excuse myself and return to my seat. I don’t feel like reading or writing. I lay my head up against the window and watch beads of water run up the window on the outside. The weather looks as bleak as I feel and deepens my depression. I know I’ll never see her again.
It’d been over two years since I’d dumped her. At the time I couldn’t see us making it. But she had been so sure. She had moved across the country to be closer to me even though I was only planning on staying in Nevada for a year. Once it was up, I moved back East to finish grad school. But we were over by then and we didn’t talk for two years. I’d occasionally catch up on what she was doing from mutual friends. When I finished school, she learned through the same friends and dropped me a note. Maybe that was the reason a year later, on a whim, I called and told her my plans to travel west on the train. She said she’d like to see me again and pretty much invited herself along on my planned trip through the southern gold field of the Sierras.
It had been a magical trip. We explored old towns and museums and drank beer in western saloons. We hiked at night, through the sage along the Walker River. We camped another night at Markleeville Hot Springs, spending hours soaking in the pools before laying on the top of a picnic table watching the Perseid Meteor showers. I woke in the early morning hours shivering. She had nuzzled her body close to mine for warmth, but she too was shivering. I was our most intimate moment, broken only when I woke her up and we quickly scampered off to separate sleeping bags. The next day, I dropped her off at her house. She invited me in and fixed dinner as we talked. She confessed she was getting serious with a guy. Although we’d traveled as friends, and had not talk about getting back together, I had once again become enchanted with her. And now, right before I had to drive down to Oakland in order to be there in time to catch the morning southbound, she dropped the news. This time, I felt like I was the one being dumped.
It was a long drive back across the Sierras, and an even longer night spent in a non-descript motel. It was raining the next morning when I dropped the rental car off and caught a cab to the train station. Union Station in Oakland is grand, built in an era when train travel was more common and Oakland one of the busiest station on the West Coast. But the station was still boarded up after having been damaged two years earlier in the ’89 earthquake. No one was sure what was going to happen to the old building. Railroad personal operated out of trailers and the waiting room was crowded and musty. And the train was late. I couldn’t stand the makeshift waiting room, so I took refuge outside under the awning by the tracks, being sprayed whenever the wind blew. The train was two hours late. I scampered on board and as soon as the conductor punched my ticket, headed to the dining car. Having not eaten since breakfast, I was hungry.
By mid-afternoon, the train leaves the Salinas Valley. The engine pulls us up the grass covered San Lucia Mountains and over the Cuesta Pass. Afterwards, the wheels squeal against the rail as the engineer brakes as we descend the Cuesta grade and its famous horseshoe curve. The train turns so tightly that from my window I’m able to see both the engine and the last car. A few minutes later, we’re in San Luis Obispo. This is a short stop. I get off with the smokers, who now that Amtrak has gone smoke free clamber out at every stop long enough to puff on a cigarette. We loiter around the platform for a few minutes until the conductor shouts, “All Aboard.” I step back on the train and spend the next hour or so standing on the downstairs landing by the door and between the bathrooms and handicap seating. The rain lets up a bit, but the dark clouds remain. The countryside is now shrouded with fog. Not long after we pull out of San Luis Obispo, I spot the ocean through tall stately Eucalyptus trees. Although can barely make out the surf, there is something hopeful in the knowing the expansiveness of the water. The fog also makes the rock and grass and trees more interesting.
I’m joined by the car attendant. Not to be stereotyping, but he’s what I expect in a railroad man. His uniform is crisp, his skin dark, and his laugh deep. He’s ridden these rails for many years, having started out with the Southern Pacific. He’s been with Amtrak for nearly twenty years and in all has gotten nearly forty years in total. He’ll retire soon. The rails now parallel the ocean, giving us great views of the surf and wet beach below. As I look out in awe, I proclaim the beauty to the attendant. He listens and nods and then speaks. “Man, he says, “you think this is beautiful? You ain’t seen nothin’.” Pointing to the beach below, he continues, “You should see these beaches on a sunny day. That beach down there, its just one of many along here that attracts nude bathers. On a sunny day everyone is looking at the beaches so that the train leans to the west. Some days it so bad that we have to make people take turns peeping, keeping part of the passengers on the other side of the car to help balance the train and keep us on the track.”
We both laugh. A little later I head down to the lounge car and spend the afternoon talking to fellow passengers and reading. The more miles of rail we cover, the more I forget about her. In LA, I board another train for a short run to Oceanside where I’m meeting a friend. In another day, I’ll be back in LA, boarding the Sunset Limited that’ll take me through the southwest desert to San Antonio, and then I’ll ride the Texas Eagle up through Dallas and St. Louis and on to Chicago where I’ll connect to a train that’ll take me back to my New York home. I should have enough days to forget her. But I won’t.
Stumble it!
I have a dawg. I have a bone. And I have a Wombat. You had to know that was coming if you read Courting, or Cooper actually.
How did the Wombat and I become friendly?
He was nineteen and I wasn’t. Don’t look at age in friendships. Intelligence, wit, sense of decency, and manners matter, and being esoteric gets extra points.
Usually I forget how young the Wombat is. Other times….
He brings me back to that time when everything was open for debate, in a civilized yet witty discourse. Or so it seemed after two Black Beauty’s. Kidding. Maybe.
The Wombat has the benefit of looking back, fresh. There’s no generation gap, as there was in the 60’s and 70’s. So he actually listens to us, older people, takes what he wants, discards the rest, and adds his own unique insights. Agree with him on Clapton’s best song, but have a personal favorite for each decade.
The Wombat’s an actor and very much looks at life in the tradition of some of my favorites.
We both love music. My first crush on a person who wasn’t Fidel Castro was on Eric Clapton, and it’s a life long thing. The Fidel thing happened when I was eight, and I never told my friends.
He wasn’t a pop star. Won’t say who I pretended to have a crush on. I liked different music than my friends did, Murray the K, taught me the history of rock & roll every Saturday night. He taught me that there was a tradition to rock & roll, and it was a hell of a lot better than Fabian.
The Wombat takes it a few steps further. Murray the K would be proud.
One of the things I’m most fond of where my childhood is concerned is my early music literacy. Good taste takes hold best if learned early, and at 7 I was already well schooled. I could distinguish between any number of the artists that got airplay on the classic rock stations that would always playing (when there wasn’t a Red Sox game) when I was in the car with my father. It was expected of me, in fact. To, for instance, mistake Bob Dylan for Neil Young was a striking failure. But I learned. It was my taste in music that first gave me my identity as a geek. I was the one kid who turned his nose up at whatever insipid sugar-enema pop song was getting radio play. It contributed to my status as an outcast, the lasting effects of which I’ve grown to relish. Parents, I implore you. Teach your children taste. You’ll thank me when they’ve skirted whichever insipid pop music fad is getting airplay.
My first CD was Timepieces, by Eric Clapton. If you’ve been hanging around here often you know how fond Pia is of the man, and for good reason. The sound of his guitar is such that were I blind I would find solace in it. Dave Marsh wrote that “there are few moments in the repertoire of recorded rock where a singer or writer has reached so deeply into himself that the effect of hearing them is akin to witnessing a murder, or a suicide… to me, ‘Layla’ is the greatest of them.” When I heard it for the first time it was rapturous. The idea that pain could be beautiful was introduced to me by Clapton’s cutting guitar and impassioned vocals. It whet my appetite for his music, which I thereafter and to this day devour. It was also through Clapton that I became acquainted with reggae and, more importantly, the blues. I’d likely have been introduced to the likes of BB King, Buddy Guy, and Howlin Wolf were it not for him, but after hearing Slowhand’s renditions of Key to the Highway and Nobody Knows You When You’re Down and Out I made it a point to listen to Sunday Morning Blues on WZLX.
Blues distills the essence of the human condition. If Sid Gautama were around to hear it he’d understand it instantly. In it’s purest form it speaks to every burden on the spirit of every man, woman, and child. Today we have people calling themselves emotional hardcore who it seems want this mantle but honestly if you have to say emotion when you define yourself chances are it’s going to be insipid. I find it hard to believe that any of those eyeliner wearing weepy fucks was able to hear “Crossroads” without taking a long hard look at themselves and realizing that their life’s work, combined with the work of every other person like them, would never be worthy to be a footnote in a page containing any reference to it.
Speaking of Crossroads, and I assure you I didn’t intend to center this around Clapton but without him many of us wouldn’t know who the author of the song was. If one were to mention the name Robert Johnson a few years after his death amongst the blues scene the reaction would likely be “Robert Who?” And yet if you haven’t heard Sweet Home Chicago I don’t know what rock you’re hiding under. The legend has it that he sold his soul to the devil in exchange for mastery of his instrument. In fact, that’s what “Crossroads” was about. As the myth goes, if one plays the guitar at the crossroads of Highway 61 and Highway 49 at midnight, the devil approaches you. If you hand your guitar to him he retunes it and hands it back. At this point your soul is his and mastery over six strings is yours. If one is to believe the myth. When I met the devil at the crossroads we just smoked a bowl and listened to some Dylan. If you don’t know which album I’m talking about then I don’t know what to say. I asked him about the whole soul thing and in his weakened state he said it was a magic feather thing, a cheap trick to keep Hell stocked with good music. The long and the short of it is we hit the bars afterwards and let me tell you that asshole vastly overestimated his abilities as a wingman.
But I digress
Why all this about something you could just as easily hear from any other dude with fingers and web access? It’s always been a part of our music. Rock was built on it’s foundation. Especially the contributions of Robert Johnson. Much of 60’s British Rock was catalyzed by musicians over there discovering the blues. The Rolling Stones? Pink Floyd? Both started out as blues bands. How about the psychedelic rock? You already know I’m going to mention Cream. But how about Jimi Hendrix? He was a protege of blues legend Buddy Guy. Pink Floyd? Began as a blues band, and in fact were named after bluesmen Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. Heavy Metal? Black Sabbath started out as the Polka Tulk Blues Band. And Led Zeppelin grew out of the Yardbirds, the guitarist to whom their success was owed having been Eric Clapton, at whose suggestion Jimmy Page took up the position. It should also be noted that the first power trio was Cream, and that Sabbath Bassist Geezer Butler cited Jack Bruce as a primary influence. And how about the Seattle grunge movement? It should be self-evident given that the genre was characterized as a fusion of punk and metal, the basis for which I have already established, but consider this. Kurt Cobain’s favorite performer? Leadbelly.
And now? Fucking emo bands. I’m not saying that there isn’t good music out now. There is, and in abundance if you’re willing to go digging, but I wants me my blues back. In at least some form. Blues Traveler is still touring but lets just say that they don’t have another album like Four coming I don’t think. At least they likely won’t ever have that kind of exposure again.
Stumble it!
Kayahgirl lives in Canada and I love reading about her life. Truthfully, I can’t understand what people loveabout Manhattan when they can watch any Law and Order. Yet I would pay any amount of money to see it for the first time.
I read about Kayahgirl’s first trip to Manhattan, and saw it through her eyes She’s exceptionally sweet. It’s fitting that she’s a Perfumista.
Kayahgirl you missed nothing by not seeing the tourist attractions. New York’s about the streets, the people, the mix of cultures.
I don’t know Yiddish and it was my Dad’s first language though he was born in the Lower East Side. Our parents thought that knowing Yiddish would make us less American. Now it’s hip.
Cellphones. Yes. When I came home from California, I realized that we use them on the street much more than people in LA do, but they use them in cars. Cells have been considered a basic life neccessity since that day, though I have had one much longer.
However we are friendly. Most of lost the New-York-superiority-thing. Seinfeld was embarrassing. It made us examine our inner Seinfeld/Larry David/Elaine. When it began I didn’t watch it because I could see myself in everybody.
I then became altruistic. I’m beginning to suspect that Seinfeld, the end of the opulent 80’s, and I loved every second of the 80’s and my Hedonistic lifestyle made me want to do pennance.
I have made peace with my inner Seinfeld/Larry David/Elaine. Though I always say that I’m all of them including Newman, would anybody want to be Newman? Or George? Part of me is Kramer, and proudly so. And see? I took Kayahgirl’s intro and made it all about me.
Sorry Kayahgirl. However, I love having company, and through the miracle of menupages.com have the virtual equivalant of the takeout drawer.
So come anytime. My Manhattan tours require much stamina. I have worn out people who were so sure that we really weren’t going to walk all those miles. How else to see it? And I love seeing Manhattan through the eyes of others.
Regular visitors to Courting Destiny are often treated to the kind of interesting stories about New York city that only a native can tell. Today, you’ll hear a different story about New York, from an Alberta girl who was drawn to NYC by her nose! Pia told you that she had lined up other writers to entertain you while she was on her blogging break. I can’t claim to be a writer, by any stretch, but I don’t mind telling a story if it helps a friend get a break. Unless you’re wild about fragrance, this story will probably be a bit much 
If you don’t know what a perfumista is, I defined the word in a guest post at Doug’s place, Waking Ambrose.
I arrived at the airport on a Thursday evening in April of 2005. I was filled with anticipation of the people I would meet, the things I would see and the beautiful scents I would smell. Up until I planned my trip, I knew little of New York. I had old impressions from years of watching movies and reading stories that were placed in the city all overlaid with new impressions of city torn apart by terrorism and continuing to thrive despite going through hell.. I was a kid who grew up in a small Canadian town, but I had lived in and around a few big cities in the course of my schooling. I had also briefly visited a few big European cities, but nothing held the mystery and allure of New York.
Before coming to NYC, I enjoyed the planning and preparing for the trip. If any of you is ever considering visiting another city, anywhere in the world, I strongly suggest you join up Tripadvisor. The online forums for NYC at Tripadvisor were a godsend. There are helpful people from the city you’re interested in that visit the forums and answer questions and give advice. Through them I found a grocery store to deliver food to our hotel suite the night we were to arrive, got advice on realistic itineraries for sightseeing, found a place for High Tea near the Museum of modern art, and even got advice on the risks of walking around in various parts of Manhattan. There were an amazing varieties of questions being asked by people planning to visit the city and a wealth of info and advice in the replies. My perfumista pal Robin, from Rhode Island, was going to stay with me at the San Carlos Hotel and we planned all kinds of activities in addition to our visits to the perfume stores. (We actually didn’t manage to squeeze much in besides the orgy of sniffing and endless blathering).
I was walking down a long hall in arrivals at La Guardia and noticed a short, chic, flame haired woman lounging against a railing, watching me. She started to walk toward me and broke into a grin. I knew it immediately it was Ilysa, one of my very dear cyber friends I had made through perfume swapping. We shared a hug and immediately started babbling in the way of old friends. Ilysa works in Manhattan. She finished work and took a limousine over to the airport to pick me and give me a friendly escort to my hotel. At the hotel I would be meeting Robin. It would be the first time any of us had seen each other in person, even though we had met online and talked on the phone numerous times. One of the most interesting revelations for me on this weekend would be how accurate my perceptions were of the people that I had only meet in cyberspace.
Robin and I, and another 50 or so perfumistas, were converging on NYC for the spring Sniffapalooza! One of the ladies from the Make up alley fragrance board Karen Dubin, had been quite successful at organizing perfume shopping outings for the ladies of the board and this was the biggest one yet. This one was to start Saturday morning with a private party at Bergdorf Goodman, attended by perfumers and reps from several major houses, followed by shopping there for a couple of hours. They were sending us on our way with elaborate and expensive gift bags, to our next stop, Barneys. Karen had arranged for Susanne Lang, Keiko Mecheri, and other fragrance celebrities to meet at us Barneys. We were to have lunch together, attended by the Castle Forbes company from Scotland who were launching their fragrance line in North America. A visit to to Bendel’s and a long stay at the Takashimaya fragrance floor completed the day. Since that first Sniffa, Karen has become more elaborate in her prepartions and I recently received invitation to workshops hosted by perfumers from Creed and Mandy Aftel. If anyone reading this want to learn more about what Karen does, here is a Wall Street Journal article which featured Karen and the Sniffapalooza. Karen and another Karen from the fragrance board have also started a website where Sniffapalooza related items are posted and discussed.
Our Saturday was fun but its not the most memorable thing from New York. I think the Friday, when Ilysa took the day off to shlep with us around Manhattan was the best. (Ilysa was also determined to add a few good Yiddish words to my vocabulary). Saks, The Village, the Torres chocolate factory, and Aedes de Venusta were memorable. Sak’s Fifth Ave. was just down the road from our hotel and they have a magnificent perfume department. While we were in there on Friday we were also trying to queue up with a couple other ladies we knew coming in from out of town. The funniest thing was when we were in Sak’s a cell phone rang….about 100 people all pulled their phones out at the same time. It was so crowded and loud in there you couldn’t tell who’s phone was ringing. Everyone in NYC walks around with a phone stuck to their face…its quite a sight. After Saks’ we dropped in at Sephora then took a cab down to the Village to meet Ilysa’s son for lunch. During the cab ride we got run into by a bicycle courier and I just about hurled due to my ever present problem with motion sickness! Oh well. We walked around and went to a few famous (to us) perfume boutiques, managed to meet up with Megan, and went out for a great salmon dinner. I didn’t have one meal in NYC that wasn’t delicious.
After the sniffa on Saturday, another friend Margaret stayed in our hotel with us, and a few friends from New Jersey stayed to visit and eat dinner and talk about perfume. (I know, its hard to believe we could even consider talking about perfume!).
Sunday afternoon I was return home to Canada. I’m embarrassed to say I didn’t do one thing on my sightseeing list. (God, I hope you weren’t expecting a story on the attractions of NYC!) Well, if was to get weasely I can say we did drive past the base of the Empire state building and I saw Ellis Island from the plane. Robin, Margaret and I went to the Museum of Modern art on Sunday morning but we spent so much time talking while getting ready that we only had time to spend in the gift shop. That was still fun. After two days of watching the natives I figured I was ready to try my hand a hailing a cab. Robin got a picture of me stepping out and snagging us some transportation. We got back to the hotel, picked up our things, and I headed to the airport while Robin and Margaret headed for the train. Strangely enough, I don’t feel like I missed out on seeing the city. In the months before my trip I read some really good books about New York, including history as well as a couple of good ones on the infrastructure of the city. For a geek like me, it was fascinating to learn how the water gets on the island to flush all those toilets!!!
I definitely plan to go back. But, the draw really won’t be the perfume. I know a lot of lovely perfumista pals in the area who I would like to see again and I have met an amazing number of great bloggers too. I think my trip to NYC cemented in my mind how much a person can develop real friendships on line and that its always worth the effort to see those people in real life. So, I’ll be seeing you!
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