Crazed Lady Catchup

If it wasn't for two sets of calendar entries, social media time lines, photos, and receipts, I really wouldn't be able to remember everything that happened this past month. It was a blur, and everything was blown hither, thither, and yon due to the winds of Sandy and change.

It was so lovely to spend some time at the Connecticut house with Dad, even if the trip was curtailed due to the storm. In addition to running to see people, stockpile supplies, and take photos of the house, I did manage to squeeze in a major haircut. This was the first chop since March, thanks to the trusted sheers of Pat, who had been doing my hair since I was about 10. We both agreed it was best not to actually think about how many years that was.

This shot was for Mom. It's already a month old -- and still presenting new and exciting challenges. At 1 cut every 5-6 months, I may be ready for another one by ... spring.

Then there was the hurricane and Halloween.

Since I had so much time at home in the studio, I had time to go through all the accumulated the Auntie Nettie's Attic merchandise to see what could be put together for those who were impacted by the storm. I knew there had to be some cosmic reason why I had been making and stockpiling scarves, hats, and warm blankets for a year or two. On Election Day, when lots of four-letter words were being bandied about, I trekked down from the office to the site of the Lion Brand Studio to make a large drop-off of about 10 scarves and two dozen hats. I like these four-letter words much better.

 

These were just some of the donations already in for Hats for the Homeless, though I believe that some of the contributions were also being earmarked for Sandy Relief.

To make matters even more ridiculous - a day after the Election, when much of New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut were still dealing with no power, other utilities, or roofs over their heads --  there was a freaking nor'easter!










Commuting home the evening of the storm, I got my seasonal re-baptism by Mother Nature's grumpy brother Jack Frost, in the form of a head to toe brown slush wave kicked up by the spinning tires of traffic. Welcome to Winter -- On NOVEMBER 7th. THAT IS TOO EARLY!

Luckily it melted in a day or two - but frankly, I was more concerned about the impending arrival of the Stork out West. I had hoped he hadn't been blown off-course. And he wasn't. YAY!!!! Babies. Cute tiny babies.

One of the other ways that I felt that I could contribute to Sandy Relief was to make sure I donated blood. The blood drive I was originally scheduled to attend in Grand Central got cancelled in the immediate aftermath. Fortunately, some other Lincoln Center constituents made sure that a drive made it to campus. On Tuesday the 13th, I trekked over to the David Rubin Atrium and was first in line.

Even though Caramoor got some of my blood, sweat, and tears, and my proverbial youth, the Big J has been taking bits of my sanity, and commuting costs and arm and a leg, I was pleased to do my part.

I don't know why there were still empty cots. After the donation, I inhaled pop-chips and cranberry juice at the free snack bar, but I'm still craving a rib-eye. I also discovered there is a difference between commuting back to your desk from a blood drive one floor down from your office versus one three New York blocks away. I seriously had to sit down for a while. I sat down for a long time that day. I ended up working super late (past 9 p.m.) because I got a call from a neighbor that the building didn't have water due to a meter replacement. (Utility issue no. 1)

(Now that I'm finally writing this all up, I'm beginning to pinpoint why I spent much of my sick-day extended Thanksgiving break being grateful for days off, DayQuil, the comfort of comforters, and technology that let me change channels and also read my newspapers and keep up with people while snuggling in bed.)

In addition to being a donor of the product of my own hands and um, fluids, I am also a grateful supporter of my local PBS station. As a non-profit professional, I know that getting the swag from those various fund-raising drives costs the non-profit money AND cuts into the tax-deductible portion of my contribution - so I always decline those perks of membership. Sometimes however, free ticket offers come through your e-mail in-box and you have to jump on them.

WNET Channel 13 is celebrating their 50th Anniversary and Great Performances is celebrating its 40th Anniversary this year, and they combined both events with a taping of a Gala performance concert at Lincoln Center for future broadcast on many PBS channels. I joined a list to see if I could get a ticket, and ended up finding a pair in the mail box on the day of the event.

This was a wonderful 90 minutes of flashbacks of 40 years of Great Performances, with songs by PBS favorites, including Itzak Perlman, Audra McDonald, and appearances by Dame Julie Andrews and David Hyde Pierce. The final performer, Michael Buble, pulled an unexpected "stunt" for the final piece which will probably NOT make the final edit as there was NO way that the production team would have been able to track down and get waivers from the 50-75 people that swarmed the stage to participate in the songfest. (See above  - I did NOT swarm the stage.) Only in New York folks. Only in New York. (quote thanks to Cindy Adams)

Now, due to my "connections" (Remember the OMH STING! incident?) I got to go backstage after the performance, where I saw Julie Andrews down the hall, and once again had to dodge Mr. Perlman's scooter aiming for my, and everyone else's, toes. I also got to see the greenroom (r), the production rooms, and some of the warrens under the Lincoln Center complex that some people never get to see.

To completely round out my crazy New Yorker/Lincoln Center week, the very next night I attended a Juilliard Orchestra concert at Alice Tully Hall. The first half was composed of lovely Barber and Britten pieces, but I was really there for the second half, Beethoven's famous Symphony No. 5.

Here's the view at intermission, when this impatient New Yorker was wondering where the heck the musicians were. Come on, come on. Flash the lights. Da da da dum needs to come.

Intermission was kicked off by me eavesdropping on my future self - a cultured Upper West Side woman of a "mature" age very gently, yet firmly putting some of the uncultured 20-somethings in their place by saying: "I found your texting during the concert very distracting." I had to agree, though my seatmates were all perfectly lovely and had proper concert etiquette. Bonus -- no one applauded between movements. SCORE!

The Beethoven? The Beethoven was sublime. There is something about that piece played live, with young, energetic musicians that almost have to be throttled back. There were a few moments in the final movement where I literally was moved to tears. (Pay no attention to the crying woman .. Oh wait, it's New York. No one cares.)

One of the most lovely moments was during one of the many conductor-call-backs at the end of the work. A very young African-American string player and his mother had secured front row seats and he was pretty engaged through most of the concert. During the applause for the Beethoven, he was up there in the front row giving the BIGGEST sitting O that you've ever seen. On one of his exits back to the wings, the Maestro basically gave this kid his own standing O from the stage, which was absolutely magical. What a wonderful way to keep a young underrepresented musician's imagination engaged and provide a link from the past to the future.

Other notes from the month:

Between running around, inclement weather, and blood drives, I had been trying to fight the various bugs going around. However, when my boss came down with something, I knew it was only a matter of time. I can always tell -- when I lose my motivation and concentration and can only manage to do arts and crafts aimlessly in front of the television -- that's usually a clue. On the plus side, my holiday decor is done and snowflakes were sent out to the nephew and missionary living in desert climes. On the negative side, I tried to do a few days of work, but the gritting of the teeth and muscle tension from one particularly painful tutoring session was the tipping point to the holiday cold/flu.

The juggling of job responsibilities is supposedly coming to an end - eventually. I was home in my p.j.s due to Sandy when the e-mail went out announcing my new singular title. My official title and salary went into effect mid-month, but since my replacement hasn't been hired or trained yet, the juggling goes on. I suspect by January at this rate. WHOOO-HOOO?

The Thanksgiving break has been quiet, thankfully, with most of the time spent hunkered in bed, or beginning the Holiday Checklist of projects aka the Holiday cards. I used to mock my mother for the size of her list, but I totally get it now. I have gone through about 3 books of stamps, and I'm afraid I forgot someone.

I say quiet -- but it's been tempered with potential for explosive excitement. (Utility issue no. 2) I had to run out briefly on Black Friday. As I came and went from the lobby I could have sworn I smelled natural gas. I propped open some doors and it seemed to clear out. I also tried to get ahold of the super, but with it being the break people are gone or out shopping and he was MIA. The hours went on and I forgot. Until my neighbors got home and I could hear them talking in the hall. Turns out, that many hours later, they still smelled gas. They also repropped the doors open and still couldn't get ahold of the super.. Other neighbors came and went and said they actually smelled the gas the night before. FINALLY someone called the Fire Department, thus answering the question:

How many hours does it take how many tenants in a 7-story low rise to realize that they're all smelling gas fumes and contact the super or emergency services? TOO MANY!

Two engines pulled up, out came many yummy firemen of all ages and types, with lots of monitoring equipment to assess the situation. Problem was, we had propped open the doors and the fumes dispersed, and since the super didn't show up until an hour after they left, they couldn't get into the empty apartments on the lobby level or the office under renovation where we all though the gas was coming from. They weren't concerned enough to evacuate us and no one has really smelled it since the next morning.

However, I can now say that I've had more men in this apartment than I've ever anticipated. (Yay Me!)

I now know what a hot flash feels like. (Not Fun!)

I realized that all the friends I thought I could call in an emergency were out of town or also sick. (NOT GOOD!)

And BOY am I glad I showered, made up, properly underclothed, and cleaned up the apartment before the men were in here. (Oh boy I am glad !... And that all the 'unmentionables' weren't visible.)

Of course, looking around at the Holiday card workshop, the Toys for Tots bag, the quilt rack full of afghans, the shelves full of yarn/stuffed animals, the dress form, and the foam head, the unfinished/unassembled stuffed birds and blankets, not to mention the care packages for missionaries ... I don't think I need to worry about 'unmentionables' - I have other men-repellent issues.

Hell. I'm Auntie Nettie and I'm a Crazy Crafting Lady.

It's been a month -- and then some!

I (Don't Necessarily) Got Rhythm!

Once upon a time, I was a tiny dancer.

A tiny TAP dancer.

Yes. You may laugh.

I understand the impulse. Go ahead. Get it out of your system.

I still can't quite believe it either.

I give my mother credit for making sure that we were exposed to various activities when we were kids. Library story time, church, pre-school, swim lessons, etc. Growing up where I did, there weren't that many options, but there was a dance studio not far from our house, close enough that Mom could walk us downtown, with the stroller for little brother(s), and get us out of the house in the afternoon. It was a milestone to be able to walk there on my own when I got older. But only rarely, even then.

I thought I was hot stuff. I had lessons. My church classmates did not. I had tap shoes. Tutus. Tights. It was big time stuff.

It was a right of passage to be in the dance recitals and to have class pictures taken with your group, down at the local photo studio on the Main Street strip. (Of course, at some point, my mother is going to chime in and correct me about dates and locations -- and she's welcome to.)

Some of those photos and programs were preserved by my archivist mother. And, for my sins, I am going to share them.

On the Internet. For others to see.

As part of recording my legacy for the descendants.

(And - since this is a milestone year of sharing photos, I've already crossed into murky waters about photo sharing anyway, so why stop now?)

To get through this trying entry, I'm going to default to the family practice of SHS: Sarcasm. Humor. Snark. (This is different from SHD: Sarcasm. Humor. Denial, which some still suffer from in the family. A LOT!) {Editors' note: There's also a bit of SA aka self-actualization thrown in to boot.}

Besides, there are so many things hysterically right and wrong with these photos, I have to snark.

In chronological order, mid-1970s to 1980

Me: Hey - check out this guy to my left. He thinks he's a star or something.
Him: Get me out of here.
Some of the other girls: Don't look at us. We're shy. Look how we've already perfected the tucking our chins into our shoulders to peer up coyly at the camera.
Him: Seriously. Get me out of here.
Me again - but from the future: I actually love this tutu and the polka dots, but I think I'm missing the matching ribbons for my tap shoes. *Shuffle kick down to detention!*
Next year or so...

That boy's father has surely put him on a peewee football team, having yanked him out of dance class. It was the 1970s. In Utah for cripes sake! It's fine for a year or two, but beyond that? [Oh No Sirreebob (who was Sir Ree Bob anyway?) Not my son!]

Look carefully. If this wasn't the '70s and in Utah, some of those tiny dancers would be suitable candidates for Toddlers and Tiaras. Look at the HAIR! See the sass!

Me: We're all No. 1. But my mama told me it wasn't polite to point. So why are we doing this? Also, that girl next to me? Isn't wearing the right colored tights. *Tsk-tsk*
Next year or so ... c. 1979

Uh oh. The class size is down by a third. But that's okay. Our hair volume makes up for the missing people. Blame Ms. Farrah Fawcett. We lived for the Aquanet.

Me, from the future: Why are we posing like this? This is not a pose that relates to any of our steps. Also, why is that girl on the end choking herself? (Look closely, she is!)
Seriously. It's very hard to not think some disturbing thoughts about this studio photographer. I mean --- look at the next photo.... There are so many.things.wrong.with.these.poses! Why are little girls being asked to pose like this at all?

Deep breath

Some snarking aside. Here's a serious bit folks.

I've had this last photo in my possession the longest. It's been in a frame in my parents' possession or mine, since it was taken. In recent years, it's been up on a shelf in my studio, beckoning me to gaze into the past and into how my childhood has shaped me. I've used it as an internal measure for how old I was when I started to realize things about body perception, body issues, body shapes, etc. Ages 6-8 - if actually not younger than that.

I was only 8 here.
It's my recollections -- however true or false -- that I was always first on, last out, and/or the apex of formations, because I was the "biggest." Looking back, it was more because I was one of the taller, if not tallest girls, in my classes, but I internalized this to mean fattest. Let's examine the picture. I'm not really any bigger than some of my classmates. It was just unfortunately that height and width started to phase me out of standard costumes and certain words ("biggest") started to trigger something realizations in me. Add to the fact that I wasn't as coordinated or nimble as the instructors and I thought I should be, and I started to get body conscious.

I think you can tell I'm not happy in this photo. I'm not grinning as freely as in previous pictures, nor certainly as unconsciously as I am at Audrey's house later that summer. (Check out her birthday photo on the 11th!)
Now that I think about it, it's also pretty telling that in all the 1980 summer journal entries have I not once mentioned that I missed dance lessons. I started taking piano a couple years before this time, so the activities overlapped, but I only ever mentioned piano.

We moved to CT later in the summer of 1980 and things were much more expensive on the East Coast, not to mention, not so geographically easy for me or the family to get to for lessons. Piano and new friends took over whatever hole might have been in my social and artistic calendar. But I can truthfully say, I was once a dancer! I've got the programs and photos as proof.

According to the programs saved by Mom from this period, I went from a Pink Duckling in 1975 (at 3, almost 4ish); to dancing in pieces called "Boy Oh Boy Oh Boy! It's Christmas" and "A Present for Mommy" in for the Christmas program in 1977. The Jubilation in 1978 featured me in two selections "Dancing is my Bag" and "Dynomite;" while "Time for a Happy Dance" and "Time for a Hoedown" were my ensemble contributions to the 1979 production. What turned out to be my dancing swan song, (pun intended) included the "Disco Queens," "Pom Pom Girls," and "Cane Cuties" -- works that were not part of the original Coppelia, which was what this production was based around.

Notably, my brother Jed was in two works in this 1980 production: "W.O.W.E.E." and "Ducks" and I SO would have included those pictures if I had them in my possession. I can't remember if this was the recital where he wore the sequined gold vest and gold lamé (wow, what a difference an accent will make for that word) dance pants, but I think it was. He was so cute - especially with the large rouged circles on his cheeks.

More serious stuff ahead

Now that I'm supposedly more "mature," and my nieces and nephews are out in the world, I am so conscious about how I interact with them - especially when it comes to photographs, adjectives, and positive reinforcement. It's been over 30+ years, but I still can flash to the feelings of sadness, inadequacy, and wanting to be invisible that have shaped my perception of self - even to this day, all triggered by careless words, misinterpretations, social and peer pressures, or grown-ups good-naturedly, but often misguidedly, trying to help out a little fledgling trying to find her wings. I may have just been in the wrong pond with the swans, when I should have been over with the ducks and geese, but I had to find my way there myself. As a culture we're more aware now about many of these issues and how they impact our youth, but let me tell you, we need to be conscious about them when the kids are even younger than we think. They imprint on the funniest things ... and they remember much more than we give them credit for.

As for me, I've closed the chapter completely now on my dancing past. As part of the sorting and archiving of the programs and pictures that were included in this post, I've filed it away in its proper place. I took the frame off the shelf. I've removed the photo from behind the glass. I've given away the frame. That tiny dancer is archived now with her other past selves. She was who she needed to be at that time and should not, and shall not, influence who I am now. This doesn't mean I'm going to be any more happy about being photographed, or exactly pleased with the shape of things, but the outline of who I am, past, present, and future, should be more of who I perceive myself to be on the inside - rather than the outside.

When you comment here - be kind. When you talk to a kid - be kind. Be real. Use your words carefully.

I'm intentionally posting this in the week leading up to the annual Savvy Auntie celebrations. One of the contributors on the website has written an article about how to talk to your nieces (and nephews) about body image. So appropriate.

Listen. Be Open. Be Real.

Exit Stage Right

Curtain down

Young Trendsetters Streak Their Hair With Gray

According to a New York Times Fashion blog, I'm not old ... I'm a young trendsetter. (Click here to go to the multi-media site.) I am a bit dubious of this, though, as it was posted on April Fool's Day.

If they aren't being sarcastic ... that's just excellent news. I was about to go out and buy some Kool-aid to dye my hair in Easter Egg colors, but now I don't have to worry about it. I can just tell people that I'm a trendsetting fashionista!