Today I turned 49! So, I have decided to consider the first 49 years of my life and the next 12 months as my "Rough Draft". I will begin revising on July 12, 2010 when I turn 50 and hope to have a "final version" before July 12, 2060 (yeah, I am going all the way to 100 BABY).
In the meantime, I am going to have a COUNTDOWN to the big 50 on this blog. I am not exactly sure what form this will take other than I am committing myself to posting at least one blog segment a day as part of the COUNTDOWN. This project will culminate with my one woman stand up show (location to be determined) on the Saturday, July 10, 2010 (the weekend prior to my big 50 BDAY). Everyone I know will be invited. Anyone who reads this can attend. I do not want any gifts! I mean it. I only want you to buy all your own drinks, because the more you drink, the funnier I will get, GUARANTEED! I will not be spending a penny. In returned for your kind attendance and purchasing of your own alcoholic beverages, I will provide the entertainment. I have already started preparing the script. I encourage you to tell all your friends. By making this a public promise I hope I will actually go through with it. As the little engince that could once said...
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can......
So mark your calendars, Saturday, July 10, 2010. Be there, be drunk (don't drive), be happy.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Quiet Men
I will never forget Sollie’s funeral. He was my upstairs neighbor and before moving upstairs he lived down the block. That is what we did in West Rogers Park. People moved from apartment to apartment, but they rarely left the neighborhood. If you only met Sollie once you would never have guessed he was a man whose passing would bring together so many people from so many walks of life. He was so quiet and unassuming. My husband and I got to the funeral early because we were bringing my mother, one of Sollie’s best friends. We passed by the front row expressing our condolences to Sollie’s wife, son, daughter and granddaughter. My husband and I had only been married for 3 years at the time and we lived in the apartment above Sollie and his wife. They were married for over 50 years when Sollie passed away. Within minutes the funeral home was filled to capacity and many people would need to remain standing during the service.
Each eulogy was more eloquent than the one before it and they all moved everyone in the overcrowded chapel to tears. The first to speak was a Senior Partner at the Law Firm where Sollie had been working for the last 20 years of his life after he had retired from being a United States mailman. I later found out this attorney was a major fixture in Chicago, someone who had easy access to the halls of Power in our country’s third largest City. Next the woman who was the President of the Sisterhood at Sollie’s temple where he had worshipped faithfully for over 6 decades spoke wistfully of the light Sollie’s life had brought to so many. Then Sollie’s son spoke, the awe and regret dripping off of every word. Finally, Sollie’s granddaughter brought her self to the podium with the poise and power of someone whose 16 year life reflected all the hardship and trouble usually spread over a much longer time. She learned how to handle herself at her grandfather’s knee and she knew standing there she was the legacy he was leaving behind, his mark on the world.
Sollie once landed on the beaches of Normandy in a living hell, but he refused to speak about it. He came home after the war and repeatedly walked the same route for forty years delivering mail for the United States Post Office. I guess he thought of that as his second tour of duty serving our country. And Sollie was all about duty and service and delivering the goods. Eventually he had to retire from the Post Office but he could not retire from serving. So he delivered the mail in a law firm that was so big it needed its own mail delivery system to expedite business from office to office, floor to floor and building to building. But whatever Sollie did, he did it quietly and with great dignity and reserve. He let his smile do all the talking for him. Monetarily speaking, he left a pension and little else. Spiritually he left a wake, a cascading invisible ocean wave that lifted every soul he ever touched. I did not think I would ever see a funeral like Sollie’s again. I was wrong.
When I met Melinda and Ilene I was a freshman in High School. They had gone to a different grammar school than I had. They were already best friends, but more importantly they were neighbors. They lived on the block we all wished we could grow up on, the one filled with kids and friendships just waiting to blossom every spring when the flowers bloomed along the sidewalks and the bicycles came out of hiding . I remember meeting them individually, Melinda in Biology and Ilene in gym. On that first day I did not realize they knew each other, but by the end of the week, I fell into this triangle of a friendship that was going to last a life time. Oh, there would be some major fall outs and long separations for all us at one point or another, but a life time gives you chances for reconciliations and starting over. And last weekend any bumps in the roads we had traveled seemed so incredibly unimportant.
Since those days in high school we have managed to get married, produce 6 kids, celebrate 4 Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, accumulate 3 dogs, 2 rats (both my sons), and three suburban homes complete with attached garages and a total of 9 bathrooms. Not bad for three girls from West Rogers Park in Chicago who once occupied two town houses, and one apartment (each with only one bathroom). While Ilene and I never left the Chicago “area”, Melinda followed her heart and her close knit family to Arizona 7 years ago. Her parents and three brothers had moved there while we were still in college. I remember visiting Arizona with Ilene when Melinda was staying there one winter. We were in our early 20’s. I did not return there again until Melinda’s daughters’ Bat Mitzvah three years ago, once again I was with Ilene. Then last February, Ilene and I went back for Melinda’s son’s Bar Mitzvah. We always make sure to take a picture of three of us standing together trying to look like show girls. Last weekend when Ilene and I went to Arizona we knew we would not be posing for any pictures or raising a glass to toast another celebration. It was the first time in our friendship when we would be mourning together over the loss of a parent. I came into the friendship with only one parent. My father had died when I was 9, long before my freshman year in high school. Sadly we had already been together to mourn the loss of a sibling when Ilene’s special needs brother died in 2001. You would not expect to bury a sibling so young but I guess death has its own time line.
It was Melinda who called to tell me about Ilene’s brother. I was in my car when she reached me on my cell phone. She told me to pull over first. I knew it meant she had to tell me someone had died but I would never have thought it would be Ilene’s brother Mark. He was only 2 years old than us. He reminded me of my cousin Shelly. When we were growing up we called them “slow”, or retarded, but now those words seem so antiquated. As Mark reached adulthood his parents made sure he had an independent life style and he was living in a group home and had a job. The funeral was to be graveside at Waldheim, the oldest Jewish Cemetery in Illinois. My father was there. I went with Melinda and we stood next to each other behind Ilene and her parents who were sitting in chairs. After the service Melinda turned to me and said “I would like to meet your father now.” I thought she was nuts. I rarely went to the cemetery. It was so far from everything else in my life. It was just so far from life. But that was so Melinda. She was almost bubbly about it. It helped us to get through the day. She even grabbed another one of Ilene’s friends, Sue, to join us in our search for my dad.
I knew what section we would be in before we ever left our houses that day for Waldheim Cemetery, and could not believe the weird twist of fate that Ilene’s brother would be buried in the same section as my dad in a Cemetery that was so huge it took up enough land on either side of a main four lane Avenue to put multiple football fields. When we found my dad’s headstone Melinda looked at it and said “Wow, 1970. It was so long ago. We were so little.” And we were. But now we were adults, mothers, and here I was mourning again. Before I could get too caught up in the emotion of realizing how incredibly tragic it is for a 9 year old child to lose a parent, and then realizing I was that 9 year old child, Melinda blurted out “Nice to meet you Harry” and I had to laugh. I thought to myself, thank the lord for friends like Melinda and Ilene, the ones who fill your life with laughter even when you want to cry. I turned and saw Ilene and her parents getting into their cars. I wondered where Ilene and her brother might have been in 1970 while I was at my father’s funeral. They were probably playing in front of their townhouse on Kedzie with Melinda and her baby brother, dodge ball, jump rope, or Simon Says, who knows? Those are the details that get lost in the tunnel of time. Thank goodness for time.
My mother will be 90 this July. Ilene’s dad has been battling Parkinson’s for years. Yet, it was Melinda’s dad we were mourning first. And like my neighbor Sollie, his passing would provide me with a glimpse into the vast world where quiet men move, changing and shaping lives while barely making a sound. It was sad, but it was also inspiring which I believe would have made Melinda’s dad, Gil, very happy. Perhaps I could be one last person he would touch without realizing the impact. Proof that one lives long after they stop breathing.
Growing up without a father made me shy around other people’s fathers. I was always more comfortable with the moms. At least I thought it was the lack of having my own dad that made the other fathers seem so mysterious. But this past weekend I discovered it may have been more than that. Ilene pointed it out to me. When we were growing up the fathers were not driving us around, coaching teams, joining Me and My Dad groups at the JCC or Indian Guides/Princess at the YMCA. Park Districts did not offer Daddy Daughter Dances. Dads were part of the family but not the extended family, the neighborhood family, unless of course you are talking about Melinda’s dad.
Maybe I did not realize it because Melinda was the third of four and the only girl. So by time I entered her life, Gil’s dance card was pretty full. He and his wife had already adopted most of the kids on their block and their two oldest sons had been coming home for years with friends from grammar school and high school, and anywhere else they may have been hanging out like Wrigley Field where they earned money as Vendors selling hot dogs and soda. Melinda’s family was everybody’s family. That is how Melinda’s family made you feel from the moment you walked in the door. There was always a full house and plenty of smiles. Everyone was welcomed.
Gil’s two oldest sons attracted a wide variety of friends and many of them were in need of guidance, and more importantly a safe harbor where they could rest before returning to whatever chaos was in their own homes. But we did not know that when we were kids. We did not know about the turmoil in other people’s homes and hearts. Gil and his wife Jeanine must have. They made it their mission in life to make other people’s lives a little easier by opening their home and in Gil’s case offering his wise business sense and advice for free to any one who chose to listen. And listen they obviously did, because at the funeral once again I was sitting quietly and learning what greatness is all about. It comes by changing one life at a time, not being famous or fabulously rich. Although it was apparent that Gil was a great success in life and his sons and daughter faithfully followed in his footsteps as would his grandchildren, he wanted more than that. As one after another person got up to speak about Gil it became obvious Gil’s true desire in life was to reach out and improve the lives of more than just his own children. I kept thinking how completely unselfish, and brave this must have been especially in a culture that worships competition and coming out on top. Not to mention he did all this while raising his own 4 kids, building his own business and tending to his dedicated wife.
Gil knew more for others did not mean less for him, or his family. Instead it had the opposite effect. It filled their home and lives with laughter, memory making stories, and an abundance of the one resource worth more than all the money in the world, friendships. Gil obviously knew giving people a chance could make the world a better place for everyone. Not something I expected to learn from a successful business man in this day and age. Not when they are bailing out greedy bankers, predatory lenders and crooked investors like Bernie Madoff. I guess there still is hope. I hope there are more Gil’s in the future extending a hand to wayward kids in need of advice and a real role model, what my mother always called a mensch. I have to believe there are and they will be part of Gil’s legacy just like his own children and all those other children who became like his own over the years.
Each eulogy was more eloquent than the one before it and they all moved everyone in the overcrowded chapel to tears. The first to speak was a Senior Partner at the Law Firm where Sollie had been working for the last 20 years of his life after he had retired from being a United States mailman. I later found out this attorney was a major fixture in Chicago, someone who had easy access to the halls of Power in our country’s third largest City. Next the woman who was the President of the Sisterhood at Sollie’s temple where he had worshipped faithfully for over 6 decades spoke wistfully of the light Sollie’s life had brought to so many. Then Sollie’s son spoke, the awe and regret dripping off of every word. Finally, Sollie’s granddaughter brought her self to the podium with the poise and power of someone whose 16 year life reflected all the hardship and trouble usually spread over a much longer time. She learned how to handle herself at her grandfather’s knee and she knew standing there she was the legacy he was leaving behind, his mark on the world.
Sollie once landed on the beaches of Normandy in a living hell, but he refused to speak about it. He came home after the war and repeatedly walked the same route for forty years delivering mail for the United States Post Office. I guess he thought of that as his second tour of duty serving our country. And Sollie was all about duty and service and delivering the goods. Eventually he had to retire from the Post Office but he could not retire from serving. So he delivered the mail in a law firm that was so big it needed its own mail delivery system to expedite business from office to office, floor to floor and building to building. But whatever Sollie did, he did it quietly and with great dignity and reserve. He let his smile do all the talking for him. Monetarily speaking, he left a pension and little else. Spiritually he left a wake, a cascading invisible ocean wave that lifted every soul he ever touched. I did not think I would ever see a funeral like Sollie’s again. I was wrong.
When I met Melinda and Ilene I was a freshman in High School. They had gone to a different grammar school than I had. They were already best friends, but more importantly they were neighbors. They lived on the block we all wished we could grow up on, the one filled with kids and friendships just waiting to blossom every spring when the flowers bloomed along the sidewalks and the bicycles came out of hiding . I remember meeting them individually, Melinda in Biology and Ilene in gym. On that first day I did not realize they knew each other, but by the end of the week, I fell into this triangle of a friendship that was going to last a life time. Oh, there would be some major fall outs and long separations for all us at one point or another, but a life time gives you chances for reconciliations and starting over. And last weekend any bumps in the roads we had traveled seemed so incredibly unimportant.
Since those days in high school we have managed to get married, produce 6 kids, celebrate 4 Bar/Bat Mitzvahs, accumulate 3 dogs, 2 rats (both my sons), and three suburban homes complete with attached garages and a total of 9 bathrooms. Not bad for three girls from West Rogers Park in Chicago who once occupied two town houses, and one apartment (each with only one bathroom). While Ilene and I never left the Chicago “area”, Melinda followed her heart and her close knit family to Arizona 7 years ago. Her parents and three brothers had moved there while we were still in college. I remember visiting Arizona with Ilene when Melinda was staying there one winter. We were in our early 20’s. I did not return there again until Melinda’s daughters’ Bat Mitzvah three years ago, once again I was with Ilene. Then last February, Ilene and I went back for Melinda’s son’s Bar Mitzvah. We always make sure to take a picture of three of us standing together trying to look like show girls. Last weekend when Ilene and I went to Arizona we knew we would not be posing for any pictures or raising a glass to toast another celebration. It was the first time in our friendship when we would be mourning together over the loss of a parent. I came into the friendship with only one parent. My father had died when I was 9, long before my freshman year in high school. Sadly we had already been together to mourn the loss of a sibling when Ilene’s special needs brother died in 2001. You would not expect to bury a sibling so young but I guess death has its own time line.
It was Melinda who called to tell me about Ilene’s brother. I was in my car when she reached me on my cell phone. She told me to pull over first. I knew it meant she had to tell me someone had died but I would never have thought it would be Ilene’s brother Mark. He was only 2 years old than us. He reminded me of my cousin Shelly. When we were growing up we called them “slow”, or retarded, but now those words seem so antiquated. As Mark reached adulthood his parents made sure he had an independent life style and he was living in a group home and had a job. The funeral was to be graveside at Waldheim, the oldest Jewish Cemetery in Illinois. My father was there. I went with Melinda and we stood next to each other behind Ilene and her parents who were sitting in chairs. After the service Melinda turned to me and said “I would like to meet your father now.” I thought she was nuts. I rarely went to the cemetery. It was so far from everything else in my life. It was just so far from life. But that was so Melinda. She was almost bubbly about it. It helped us to get through the day. She even grabbed another one of Ilene’s friends, Sue, to join us in our search for my dad.
I knew what section we would be in before we ever left our houses that day for Waldheim Cemetery, and could not believe the weird twist of fate that Ilene’s brother would be buried in the same section as my dad in a Cemetery that was so huge it took up enough land on either side of a main four lane Avenue to put multiple football fields. When we found my dad’s headstone Melinda looked at it and said “Wow, 1970. It was so long ago. We were so little.” And we were. But now we were adults, mothers, and here I was mourning again. Before I could get too caught up in the emotion of realizing how incredibly tragic it is for a 9 year old child to lose a parent, and then realizing I was that 9 year old child, Melinda blurted out “Nice to meet you Harry” and I had to laugh. I thought to myself, thank the lord for friends like Melinda and Ilene, the ones who fill your life with laughter even when you want to cry. I turned and saw Ilene and her parents getting into their cars. I wondered where Ilene and her brother might have been in 1970 while I was at my father’s funeral. They were probably playing in front of their townhouse on Kedzie with Melinda and her baby brother, dodge ball, jump rope, or Simon Says, who knows? Those are the details that get lost in the tunnel of time. Thank goodness for time.
My mother will be 90 this July. Ilene’s dad has been battling Parkinson’s for years. Yet, it was Melinda’s dad we were mourning first. And like my neighbor Sollie, his passing would provide me with a glimpse into the vast world where quiet men move, changing and shaping lives while barely making a sound. It was sad, but it was also inspiring which I believe would have made Melinda’s dad, Gil, very happy. Perhaps I could be one last person he would touch without realizing the impact. Proof that one lives long after they stop breathing.
Growing up without a father made me shy around other people’s fathers. I was always more comfortable with the moms. At least I thought it was the lack of having my own dad that made the other fathers seem so mysterious. But this past weekend I discovered it may have been more than that. Ilene pointed it out to me. When we were growing up the fathers were not driving us around, coaching teams, joining Me and My Dad groups at the JCC or Indian Guides/Princess at the YMCA. Park Districts did not offer Daddy Daughter Dances. Dads were part of the family but not the extended family, the neighborhood family, unless of course you are talking about Melinda’s dad.
Maybe I did not realize it because Melinda was the third of four and the only girl. So by time I entered her life, Gil’s dance card was pretty full. He and his wife had already adopted most of the kids on their block and their two oldest sons had been coming home for years with friends from grammar school and high school, and anywhere else they may have been hanging out like Wrigley Field where they earned money as Vendors selling hot dogs and soda. Melinda’s family was everybody’s family. That is how Melinda’s family made you feel from the moment you walked in the door. There was always a full house and plenty of smiles. Everyone was welcomed.
Gil’s two oldest sons attracted a wide variety of friends and many of them were in need of guidance, and more importantly a safe harbor where they could rest before returning to whatever chaos was in their own homes. But we did not know that when we were kids. We did not know about the turmoil in other people’s homes and hearts. Gil and his wife Jeanine must have. They made it their mission in life to make other people’s lives a little easier by opening their home and in Gil’s case offering his wise business sense and advice for free to any one who chose to listen. And listen they obviously did, because at the funeral once again I was sitting quietly and learning what greatness is all about. It comes by changing one life at a time, not being famous or fabulously rich. Although it was apparent that Gil was a great success in life and his sons and daughter faithfully followed in his footsteps as would his grandchildren, he wanted more than that. As one after another person got up to speak about Gil it became obvious Gil’s true desire in life was to reach out and improve the lives of more than just his own children. I kept thinking how completely unselfish, and brave this must have been especially in a culture that worships competition and coming out on top. Not to mention he did all this while raising his own 4 kids, building his own business and tending to his dedicated wife.
Gil knew more for others did not mean less for him, or his family. Instead it had the opposite effect. It filled their home and lives with laughter, memory making stories, and an abundance of the one resource worth more than all the money in the world, friendships. Gil obviously knew giving people a chance could make the world a better place for everyone. Not something I expected to learn from a successful business man in this day and age. Not when they are bailing out greedy bankers, predatory lenders and crooked investors like Bernie Madoff. I guess there still is hope. I hope there are more Gil’s in the future extending a hand to wayward kids in need of advice and a real role model, what my mother always called a mensch. I have to believe there are and they will be part of Gil’s legacy just like his own children and all those other children who became like his own over the years.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Speech I gave at My Son's Bar Mitzvah
By now you have heard me tell the story of your first year in life 10,000 times. You challenged me then and you still challenge me now. However, I look at these challenges differently. I see how you have made me stronger and smarter and I want to thank you for that. Since you were totally resistant to sleeping for the first 12 months of your life, I use to walk for miles with you in a baby bjorn attached to the front of me. I will always remember how you searched the sky and trees with those big beautiful brown eyes. You looked genuinely fascinated by the world around you. Now you watch the Discovery Channel still searching for new experiences this world may have in store for you.
I also started reading to you practically from the day you were born. I loved reading to you because you paid such close attention to the pictures and the sound of my voice. I was convinced you understood every word. You were only about 6 or 7 months old when you started turning the pages of the books as I read. In the beginning I would say “turn the page” at the appropriate time, but it did not take long for you to simply know the right moment and begin turning the page as soon as I finished reading it. When I saw you turning the pages with out me having to ask, I knew I had a smart little baby on my hands. Today we are turning another page together.
What does your becoming a Bar Mitzvah mean to me, your mother, the woman who brought you into this world and who loves you more than words can say? I have fulfilled a dream by bringing a bright wonderful Jewish man into the world. Growing up I wanted to help my people continue to exist because I was so painfully aware that our very existence was a fragile gift. I could not think of a better way to honor the memory of the family I never knew who perished in the Holocaust than to bring another Jewish life into this world. I was lucky to have one Bubbie, but knew so many other children who had 4 grandparents. You have been blessed with five grandparents, a literal bonanza of unconditional love, not to mention your wonderful Uncles and Aunts. And today they are all here to be with you as you become a Bar Mitzvah. Your Bar Mitzvah also has a special meaning for me in that I am able to share it with my mother Becky who will be 90 this July. It was a promise I made to her when you were born that she would be here to see you become a Bar Mitzvah and she is.
I have put a lot of pressure on both myself and on you to make a difference in this world. I know it is important for you to become a well educated and successful adult, but a meaningful life must include much more than that. You are such an intelligent young man with so much potential. You have an opportunity to truly make this world a better place. I hope on your journey you will discover the way to happiness is by following your dreams and finding that by making other people’s lives better, you automatically enrich your own life.
The value of the life we make is a question of quality and not quantity. It is not about how many friends you have, but how good, dependable, and caring the friends you do have are. It is not how much money you have, but how you use your money to make a better life not just for yourself, but for those you love and those in need. I want you to know I will think of you as a great success if you become a kind, responsible and generous adult who respects everyone regardless of their status or position in this world.
Another one of my favorite memories from when you were a small child was your love for animals. There were early signs you would become an animal lover. When I would take you for long walks in your stroller, the mere sight of a dog would make you point and kick your feet because it made you so happy. You loved going to the Zoo and the Aquarium and still do. I am not surprised you picked helping an animal shelter as your mitzvah project. You have a way with animals and a truly kind heart. And it is both your intelligence and your kindness I am hoping will become the qualities you will carry with you into adulthood.
I remember when as a little girl I would sit next to my father in synagogue playing with the strings on his talit and loving the feeling of the soft strings between my fingers while listening to the congregation chanting in words I did not understand but felt resonating deep inside me. Today, you are wearing your father’s talit and I keep thinking how lucky we as a people are to have those strings to bind us to a rich history of perseverance and purpose. Those strings are a tie not only to our shared Jewish history, but to the ties that bind our family. And you come from a family with a long history of not only surviving the unthinkable but having the strength and courage to keep moving forward. I hope you will always remember and respect the past and feel a responsibility for creating a better future for yourself, your family and the Jewish community.
I love you, and I know I am going to respect the man you are becoming.
I also started reading to you practically from the day you were born. I loved reading to you because you paid such close attention to the pictures and the sound of my voice. I was convinced you understood every word. You were only about 6 or 7 months old when you started turning the pages of the books as I read. In the beginning I would say “turn the page” at the appropriate time, but it did not take long for you to simply know the right moment and begin turning the page as soon as I finished reading it. When I saw you turning the pages with out me having to ask, I knew I had a smart little baby on my hands. Today we are turning another page together.
What does your becoming a Bar Mitzvah mean to me, your mother, the woman who brought you into this world and who loves you more than words can say? I have fulfilled a dream by bringing a bright wonderful Jewish man into the world. Growing up I wanted to help my people continue to exist because I was so painfully aware that our very existence was a fragile gift. I could not think of a better way to honor the memory of the family I never knew who perished in the Holocaust than to bring another Jewish life into this world. I was lucky to have one Bubbie, but knew so many other children who had 4 grandparents. You have been blessed with five grandparents, a literal bonanza of unconditional love, not to mention your wonderful Uncles and Aunts. And today they are all here to be with you as you become a Bar Mitzvah. Your Bar Mitzvah also has a special meaning for me in that I am able to share it with my mother Becky who will be 90 this July. It was a promise I made to her when you were born that she would be here to see you become a Bar Mitzvah and she is.
I have put a lot of pressure on both myself and on you to make a difference in this world. I know it is important for you to become a well educated and successful adult, but a meaningful life must include much more than that. You are such an intelligent young man with so much potential. You have an opportunity to truly make this world a better place. I hope on your journey you will discover the way to happiness is by following your dreams and finding that by making other people’s lives better, you automatically enrich your own life.
The value of the life we make is a question of quality and not quantity. It is not about how many friends you have, but how good, dependable, and caring the friends you do have are. It is not how much money you have, but how you use your money to make a better life not just for yourself, but for those you love and those in need. I want you to know I will think of you as a great success if you become a kind, responsible and generous adult who respects everyone regardless of their status or position in this world.
Another one of my favorite memories from when you were a small child was your love for animals. There were early signs you would become an animal lover. When I would take you for long walks in your stroller, the mere sight of a dog would make you point and kick your feet because it made you so happy. You loved going to the Zoo and the Aquarium and still do. I am not surprised you picked helping an animal shelter as your mitzvah project. You have a way with animals and a truly kind heart. And it is both your intelligence and your kindness I am hoping will become the qualities you will carry with you into adulthood.
I remember when as a little girl I would sit next to my father in synagogue playing with the strings on his talit and loving the feeling of the soft strings between my fingers while listening to the congregation chanting in words I did not understand but felt resonating deep inside me. Today, you are wearing your father’s talit and I keep thinking how lucky we as a people are to have those strings to bind us to a rich history of perseverance and purpose. Those strings are a tie not only to our shared Jewish history, but to the ties that bind our family. And you come from a family with a long history of not only surviving the unthinkable but having the strength and courage to keep moving forward. I hope you will always remember and respect the past and feel a responsibility for creating a better future for yourself, your family and the Jewish community.
I love you, and I know I am going to respect the man you are becoming.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Fantasy
Most women, especially married middle aged women, probably fantasize about having fabulous sex with a much younger man. Oh, Demi, you are my generation’s greatest heroine. Statues of you should be built and placed on every college campus from California to New York. Yet, sadly as I lay down to sleep each night, instead of images of your hot young husband Ashton Kutcher throwing you over board and turning to me laying in a bikini (with your body instead of my own because my imagination is the best photo shop operation known to womankind) and falling at my tan pedicured feet. No, that is not the fantasy I have as my eyes slowly flutter to reach REM. Behind the dark circles under my eyes a far more enticing fantasy lurks waiting to be kissed awake like a princess in a locked castle. I fantasize that I become organized in both my home and my life. I actually have PAIRS of socks and not random singles searching desperately for their mates in all the different drawers, mine, my childrens, my husbands. Things are filed neatly in this fantasy world and information is easily retrieved. Don’t get me wrong, I have no desire to be Martha Stewart. After all I did coin the phrase “I am the Anti-Martha Stewart.” And I would be able to prove it, if only I could find where I originally wrote it in one of the dozens of spiral notebooks where I record my journals/diaries/rough drafts of short stories/rants for magazines/notes for my children to show their shrinks in order to explain their adult psychosis. I can’t do it. I don’t have the patience to read through all that, not to mention trying to decipher the poor penmanship. Someone else will get credit for that phrase and it will be all my unorganized sloppy writing self’s fault.
It’s true. I want to be one of THEM. Oh YOU know who YOU are! You overachieving organized, alphabetized, sanitized, homogenized and satisfied perfectly coifed people make my life a living hell. I blame all my insecurities and inabilities on you for establishing high standards for everything from flawlessly folded shirts (my husband things I don’t know what a rectangle is) to photo albums in chronological order by child to Quicken and Palm Pilots, and files for everything from school records to recipes and PTO assignments. So instead of falling asleep to pictures of Ashton and Matthew McConaughey (Yes, I AM OLDER THAN HIM TOO), I dream of waking up and having the desire, energy and talent to take my home room by room and put it in perfect order. I would welcome the help of any animated characters ala Mary Poppins if it did not mean I was hallucinating or still fast asleep. Any order crazy blue birds out there waiting to fly in? Or is that just another fantasy I can expect never to realize. I think I will file this piece under Unrealized Dreams along side the picture of me and Donny Osmond. No never mind, I think he might be my age. That won’t do. I know why I can’t get anything organized! It must all be due to my scattered brain waves. No wonder I cannot keep anything straight whether it is my closets or my thoughts, either way everything is all over the place.
It’s true. I want to be one of THEM. Oh YOU know who YOU are! You overachieving organized, alphabetized, sanitized, homogenized and satisfied perfectly coifed people make my life a living hell. I blame all my insecurities and inabilities on you for establishing high standards for everything from flawlessly folded shirts (my husband things I don’t know what a rectangle is) to photo albums in chronological order by child to Quicken and Palm Pilots, and files for everything from school records to recipes and PTO assignments. So instead of falling asleep to pictures of Ashton and Matthew McConaughey (Yes, I AM OLDER THAN HIM TOO), I dream of waking up and having the desire, energy and talent to take my home room by room and put it in perfect order. I would welcome the help of any animated characters ala Mary Poppins if it did not mean I was hallucinating or still fast asleep. Any order crazy blue birds out there waiting to fly in? Or is that just another fantasy I can expect never to realize. I think I will file this piece under Unrealized Dreams along side the picture of me and Donny Osmond. No never mind, I think he might be my age. That won’t do. I know why I can’t get anything organized! It must all be due to my scattered brain waves. No wonder I cannot keep anything straight whether it is my closets or my thoughts, either way everything is all over the place.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Lost
Alice fell through a rabbit hold and ended up in Wonderland, Dorothy got hit on the head by flying debris and the next thing she knew she landed in Oz, Tommy took one too many trips with the acid queen and then decided to start his own Holiday Camp, and the Robinson family got lost in Space. I, on the other hand, fall into an entirely different black hole, where I lose all sense of time, and place. Somewhere that not even munchkins want to go and I doubt I will ever see Roger Daltry trying to sing his way out. It is a place I go infrequently, but when I do, I know I run the risk of being reported as missing by my husband. Where could I possibly go that will make me feel as if I have left the stratosphere and entered an entirely new Universe? The answer is so obvious. It is truly the Paradise Lost in John Milton's epic poem. It is TJ Maxx.
And no, they did not pay me to promote their store on my blog, because, well, let's just be honest, we all (you, and me) are probably the only people who will ever see this. And while it takes Two to Tango, it takes a lot more people than that to attract advertising dollars (or should I say Nickles considering the current economy). And it is not the currect economy that drives my insane insatiatable desire to buy severly discounted clothing. I have always been a fool for cheap stuff. I worship at the foot of the Clearance Aisle. I have no appreciation for the finer things in life. I see brands that cause people to pay 300 dollars for a pair of blue jeans and think, oh those poor suckers. They have no idea how orgasmic it feels to pay 15 dollars for a shirt that someone else two seasons ago paid 29 dollars for. It's friggin fantastic.
Yes, today I would not even buy the "regular discounted" stuff at TJ Maxx. I need it to be super cheap to get the real high. I had to walk out of there with 10 items having spent less than 100 dollars just to prove something to myself. I will do anything to avoid writing, paper work, thank you letters that should have been written and mailed out last week, cleaning out my closets, laundry, visiting my elderly mother. I gave myself a mission and then I lost myself within the racks. I ended up with two pairs of shorts, two pairs of work out pants, 4 tops, and a small pink cellular phone thingy that I could either wear on a strap or hook onto my belt. I failed in my mission. I only got nine things and I spent 110 dollars. I suck. I am a disappointment to delusional cheap people everywhere.
While some of my closest friends have fabulous stylish and COMFORTABLE shoes costing 3 or 4 HUNDRED dollars, I am nickle and diming myself to death with 4 pairs of cheap uncomfortable shoes cause I cannot get it right. When will I learn, Quality costs damn it! Instead I see a red tag and convince myself it is a deal. So, now I have wasted about 90 bucks on two or three pairs of shoes I cannot wear, not to mention the time involved. What is wrong with me! I could have been typing blog entries that would have brought you to tears with boredom, or creating the next great American Novel. Many successful novelists have had to deal with addictions, but they usually chose alcohol and it often complimented their writing lives, loosening them up so to speak. Not me, no that would be too simple, so cliche. I need to find a more entertaining, "novel" addiction to avoid writing my novel.
"Where are you?" it was my husband on the phone. I could not tell him. "Why do you want to know?" I ask back. "Well, you are not home" he says and I wonder why he cares, and then he said "It is 6 o'clock." I can hardly believe him. It just did not seem possible. Had I really walked into TJ Maxx 4 hours ago. Danger Will Robinson, Danger! I quickly made my way to the check out, and thought of joining some sort of support group. AA for morons who think spending 4 hours of precious time is worth a 10 dollar shirt. By the way, did you know if you want to feel good about yourself, you should buy clothes at Walmart cause you can weigh 300 pounds and still be a size 8 there! It is awesome. But that is a whole other Blog entry.
And no, they did not pay me to promote their store on my blog, because, well, let's just be honest, we all (you, and me) are probably the only people who will ever see this. And while it takes Two to Tango, it takes a lot more people than that to attract advertising dollars (or should I say Nickles considering the current economy). And it is not the currect economy that drives my insane insatiatable desire to buy severly discounted clothing. I have always been a fool for cheap stuff. I worship at the foot of the Clearance Aisle. I have no appreciation for the finer things in life. I see brands that cause people to pay 300 dollars for a pair of blue jeans and think, oh those poor suckers. They have no idea how orgasmic it feels to pay 15 dollars for a shirt that someone else two seasons ago paid 29 dollars for. It's friggin fantastic.
Yes, today I would not even buy the "regular discounted" stuff at TJ Maxx. I need it to be super cheap to get the real high. I had to walk out of there with 10 items having spent less than 100 dollars just to prove something to myself. I will do anything to avoid writing, paper work, thank you letters that should have been written and mailed out last week, cleaning out my closets, laundry, visiting my elderly mother. I gave myself a mission and then I lost myself within the racks. I ended up with two pairs of shorts, two pairs of work out pants, 4 tops, and a small pink cellular phone thingy that I could either wear on a strap or hook onto my belt. I failed in my mission. I only got nine things and I spent 110 dollars. I suck. I am a disappointment to delusional cheap people everywhere.
While some of my closest friends have fabulous stylish and COMFORTABLE shoes costing 3 or 4 HUNDRED dollars, I am nickle and diming myself to death with 4 pairs of cheap uncomfortable shoes cause I cannot get it right. When will I learn, Quality costs damn it! Instead I see a red tag and convince myself it is a deal. So, now I have wasted about 90 bucks on two or three pairs of shoes I cannot wear, not to mention the time involved. What is wrong with me! I could have been typing blog entries that would have brought you to tears with boredom, or creating the next great American Novel. Many successful novelists have had to deal with addictions, but they usually chose alcohol and it often complimented their writing lives, loosening them up so to speak. Not me, no that would be too simple, so cliche. I need to find a more entertaining, "novel" addiction to avoid writing my novel.
"Where are you?" it was my husband on the phone. I could not tell him. "Why do you want to know?" I ask back. "Well, you are not home" he says and I wonder why he cares, and then he said "It is 6 o'clock." I can hardly believe him. It just did not seem possible. Had I really walked into TJ Maxx 4 hours ago. Danger Will Robinson, Danger! I quickly made my way to the check out, and thought of joining some sort of support group. AA for morons who think spending 4 hours of precious time is worth a 10 dollar shirt. By the way, did you know if you want to feel good about yourself, you should buy clothes at Walmart cause you can weigh 300 pounds and still be a size 8 there! It is awesome. But that is a whole other Blog entry.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Happy Father's Day, Mom
I remember the first father's day without my father. It was June 1970. I was wrapping up being in the 4th Grade and we were still in school back then well towards the end of June. I only wish my children spent as much time in school now as we did back then. We would go until the third week in June, start back up the day after Labor Day. We did not have "Institute Days", "Half Days", or "Teachers are just sick of teaching so keep all your kids at Home today". If we wanted to stay home for a personal reason such as a religious Holiday, an illness, or a death in the family, a note was required. It was more like a Vacation Day taken from a full time job if you were lucky enough to have a job that gave you Vacation Days. I have no idea if my father's factory job at Zenith offered him Vacation Pay, but I cannot imagine it did. I bet he had a time card and would have to punch in, but I will never know.
My father died in March of 1970 in a car accident. Decades later when a co-worker of mine lost her father she came to my cubicle seeking a soul mate, someone who could "feel her pain" and understand what she was going through. Soon our office mates, joined us. We were a close knit group of young women working long hours for pennies at a non-profit agency and everyone had gone to the Wake the day before. Her father died of some disease. She asked me how my dad died and I said "in a car accident". Then in all her innocent overwhelmed state she asked me "Was it a bad accident." At which point I said in my now polished dry dark humor that one can only develop if their childhood has seen a trauma or two: "Well, he did die, isn't that bad enough? I don't think it gets "more bad" than someone dieing." I started laughing at my own joke and soon everyone who had gathered in my cubicle was hysterically laughing including the girl who had just buried her own father. It was probably my comedic delivery with the exaggerated waving hands and escalating voice that drew the laughter, but no matter, it still provided a much needed emotional release .
I learned at a very young age to use humor as a way to cope with answering awkward questions. I guess I have my father to thank for that. But back in 1970, I was a 9 year old child faced for the first time with the dilemma of getting out of an uncomfortable situation. Mrs. English my fourth grade teacher stood at the front of the class and said that the day's Art Lesson would be to make a Father's Day card and she passed out the construction paper and some other things we could use to decorate the cards. We sat in rows of wooden desks that were nailed to the hard wood floors along with our chairs. None of the furniture moved so if a kid had a hard time "squeezing" in between the desk and the chair attached to it, it was only one more incentive not to stick out by being overweight. The first person in each row was give 10 sheets and told to take one and pass it back and that is how our system worked: Take One and Pass The Rest Back. I got my piece of construction paper and passed the remaining pieces behind me while trying not to turn around and let any of the other children see my frightened eyes. I did not know what to do. Everyone in the class had a father except me. Or at least that is what I thought. I can never know for sure I guess. But everyone knew I did not have a father. They knew when I did not come to school for an entire week that previous March. They even had a Art Lesson where they made "Condolence Cards" for me which one student and her mother brought over to our house while we were sitting shiva. I will be 49 this July and I still have the box of those little hand made condolence cards from my fourth grade classmates. Was that their first experience at having to express sympathy? More things for me to never know. I was going to have to figure it out for myself. Mrs. English did not offer up any alternatives for those of us who may not have fathers, or who may not know where their fathers are, or who may be wanting to write something other than "Happy Father's Day" like "Please stop hitting us when we make mistakes" or "I wish you could hear me when I talk to you" or "Please Stop Drinking so Much."
You see, I learned early on that most of us really don't know what is going on in someone elses world. Some people never learn this lesson and for others it takes adulthood and all that comes with it. But when you get to "become an adult" while you are still a child, life hands you many insights, and suddenly you are filled with secrets you think no one else will understand. As a child, your home and your family IS your world. You don't know what all those "other" worlds look like. As an adult I figured it out when we all start talking honestly about how we grew up and what went on in our lives, the alcoholic parents, the divorces, the physical abuse. It was there, but we kept it to ourselves either because we were embarrassed or we simply did not have the tools to really understand and express what was happening. Now I realize that is how all those kids with bad behavior were simply manifesting some toxic experience in their family. It always has to "come out some how". That is what I tell my best friend. The goal is to experience and release it all in the least damaging way possible. And hopefully learning those coping skills will transfer to other areas of one's life. It is not what happens to us as much as it is how we cope with it all.
On Father's Day of June in 1970 I quietly sat at my desk and made the most beautiful and meaningful Father's Day Card of my life and it was addressed to My Mother. It was the beginning of many years when I would give my Mother a card on Father's day. After all, she had to do both jobs after my dad died, hers and his. So Mom, Happy Father's Day. I love you.
Benita
My father died in March of 1970 in a car accident. Decades later when a co-worker of mine lost her father she came to my cubicle seeking a soul mate, someone who could "feel her pain" and understand what she was going through. Soon our office mates, joined us. We were a close knit group of young women working long hours for pennies at a non-profit agency and everyone had gone to the Wake the day before. Her father died of some disease. She asked me how my dad died and I said "in a car accident". Then in all her innocent overwhelmed state she asked me "Was it a bad accident." At which point I said in my now polished dry dark humor that one can only develop if their childhood has seen a trauma or two: "Well, he did die, isn't that bad enough? I don't think it gets "more bad" than someone dieing." I started laughing at my own joke and soon everyone who had gathered in my cubicle was hysterically laughing including the girl who had just buried her own father. It was probably my comedic delivery with the exaggerated waving hands and escalating voice that drew the laughter, but no matter, it still provided a much needed emotional release .
I learned at a very young age to use humor as a way to cope with answering awkward questions. I guess I have my father to thank for that. But back in 1970, I was a 9 year old child faced for the first time with the dilemma of getting out of an uncomfortable situation. Mrs. English my fourth grade teacher stood at the front of the class and said that the day's Art Lesson would be to make a Father's Day card and she passed out the construction paper and some other things we could use to decorate the cards. We sat in rows of wooden desks that were nailed to the hard wood floors along with our chairs. None of the furniture moved so if a kid had a hard time "squeezing" in between the desk and the chair attached to it, it was only one more incentive not to stick out by being overweight. The first person in each row was give 10 sheets and told to take one and pass it back and that is how our system worked: Take One and Pass The Rest Back. I got my piece of construction paper and passed the remaining pieces behind me while trying not to turn around and let any of the other children see my frightened eyes. I did not know what to do. Everyone in the class had a father except me. Or at least that is what I thought. I can never know for sure I guess. But everyone knew I did not have a father. They knew when I did not come to school for an entire week that previous March. They even had a Art Lesson where they made "Condolence Cards" for me which one student and her mother brought over to our house while we were sitting shiva. I will be 49 this July and I still have the box of those little hand made condolence cards from my fourth grade classmates. Was that their first experience at having to express sympathy? More things for me to never know. I was going to have to figure it out for myself. Mrs. English did not offer up any alternatives for those of us who may not have fathers, or who may not know where their fathers are, or who may be wanting to write something other than "Happy Father's Day" like "Please stop hitting us when we make mistakes" or "I wish you could hear me when I talk to you" or "Please Stop Drinking so Much."
You see, I learned early on that most of us really don't know what is going on in someone elses world. Some people never learn this lesson and for others it takes adulthood and all that comes with it. But when you get to "become an adult" while you are still a child, life hands you many insights, and suddenly you are filled with secrets you think no one else will understand. As a child, your home and your family IS your world. You don't know what all those "other" worlds look like. As an adult I figured it out when we all start talking honestly about how we grew up and what went on in our lives, the alcoholic parents, the divorces, the physical abuse. It was there, but we kept it to ourselves either because we were embarrassed or we simply did not have the tools to really understand and express what was happening. Now I realize that is how all those kids with bad behavior were simply manifesting some toxic experience in their family. It always has to "come out some how". That is what I tell my best friend. The goal is to experience and release it all in the least damaging way possible. And hopefully learning those coping skills will transfer to other areas of one's life. It is not what happens to us as much as it is how we cope with it all.
On Father's Day of June in 1970 I quietly sat at my desk and made the most beautiful and meaningful Father's Day Card of my life and it was addressed to My Mother. It was the beginning of many years when I would give my Mother a card on Father's day. After all, she had to do both jobs after my dad died, hers and his. So Mom, Happy Father's Day. I love you.
Benita
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Long Time, No Blog
I have not visited my blog lately. Does it get lonely without me? Do the old posts go stale? Has anyone read it? Yes, it is lonely. Yes, the old posts proably go stale just like food. No, no one has read it because I have failed to tell people. So here goes, if I build it, will they come? I am going to send out an email blast to as many people as I can. I realize most of them will never read any of this. Who has the time. Obviously I do since I am sitting here typing away.
The real reason I am trying to "drum up business", create a following, find an audience (you get the picture) is I need the pressure of a deadline. It is either that or a need for public humiliation. Either way, I need to jump start a writing career of some kind. I need to expand beyond ghost writing speeches for Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. I need a purpose and possibly a money producing adventure. We could all use a little more money these days. I thought of trying my hand at writing Greeting cards, butI am not sure my ideas would float in a Hallmark Store. You would think with all the ever expanding categories there would be tons of people looking for those special cards like:
"Your Cheating Spouse Doesn't Deserve You"
"You looked better BEFORE you lost all that weight"
"Don't let the fact that I have REAL problems stop you from Complaining about Bad Service at the Hummer Dealership"
"Keep UP the Great Bragging, I really do LOVE listening to you go on and on about (fill in the blank).
Alas, I am usually alone in the corner with my dark humor. So I must use this blog to help myself find a map, a treasure map to making money from my writing. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then why can't my words be worth a thousand bucks. If I keep writing all the time, something will have to happen. A book deal, an offer from Saturday Night Live writing staff, a chance to become a correspondent for the Daily Show, my own local cable program to be viewed by as few people as there are reading this blog??? Who knows where the creative energy being produced by my tip tapping fingers will lead? Then again, perhaps I should develop Mad Libs for Adult parties. Just think of the fun I could have inciting trouble between neighbors, friends and spouses.
As you have figured it out by now I have a very difficult time charting and following a specific writing theme. If I did not have this problem I would be writing a novel and not some inconsequential blog. So what made me start a blog. Truthfully, I think I am fufilling some long hidden desire to create something. I thought creating a human being would have quenched this desire, but now that my children are 13 and 10 I realize that even the miracle of creating human life did not satisfy my inner need for creating something larger than my "self" which is quite large. I take up a lot of psychic space.
Yet, I have only told three or four people about this blog. "If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?" Ahhh, an old conundrum. I say yes, especially for the birds living in the tree. But it is not a very loud sound. So using that premise: If I write a blog and do not tell people about it, does it make a sound? Not really. At least not a very loud sound. And anyone who knows me, knows I am one LOUD person. So I am expanding my exposure. I have always wanted exposure and at the same time feared it, but as I get closer and closer to 50 I realize it is finally time to conquer all my fears. And this includes writing AND publicizing my BLOG.
Please consider this a formal invitation into the mind of a scattered fearful almost fifty year old woman.
This blog may actually be serving two purposes. Yet, I believe dual purposes like multi tasking are a trend. Soon we will all discover we should never multi task since it will only result in diminishing returns for all involved tasks. And if there are dual purposes, there must be competing priorities. A lose/lose/lose situation.
So this blog will have to become something else entirely. For those of you who have tuned in and have the courage (okay, I mean patience, not courage) to visit on a regular basis, I will try my best to provide entertaining insights into the secret world I call BenitaVille. Hopefully my static thoughts will not result in static writing. Hopefully, my words will electrify, and cause laughter for one and all. Hopefully, Next Time will not be in a very Long Time. In the meantime, please let me know if you have been here by leaving a comment or two. They do not need to be positive. I will take anything. Negative comments are just as welcomed and ignored as the positive ones. I do believe I am immune to praise and insults alike.
I hope to see you soon.
The real reason I am trying to "drum up business", create a following, find an audience (you get the picture) is I need the pressure of a deadline. It is either that or a need for public humiliation. Either way, I need to jump start a writing career of some kind. I need to expand beyond ghost writing speeches for Bar and Bat Mitzvahs. I need a purpose and possibly a money producing adventure. We could all use a little more money these days. I thought of trying my hand at writing Greeting cards, butI am not sure my ideas would float in a Hallmark Store. You would think with all the ever expanding categories there would be tons of people looking for those special cards like:
"Your Cheating Spouse Doesn't Deserve You"
"You looked better BEFORE you lost all that weight"
"Don't let the fact that I have REAL problems stop you from Complaining about Bad Service at the Hummer Dealership"
"Keep UP the Great Bragging, I really do LOVE listening to you go on and on about (fill in the blank).
Alas, I am usually alone in the corner with my dark humor. So I must use this blog to help myself find a map, a treasure map to making money from my writing. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then why can't my words be worth a thousand bucks. If I keep writing all the time, something will have to happen. A book deal, an offer from Saturday Night Live writing staff, a chance to become a correspondent for the Daily Show, my own local cable program to be viewed by as few people as there are reading this blog??? Who knows where the creative energy being produced by my tip tapping fingers will lead? Then again, perhaps I should develop Mad Libs for Adult parties. Just think of the fun I could have inciting trouble between neighbors, friends and spouses.
As you have figured it out by now I have a very difficult time charting and following a specific writing theme. If I did not have this problem I would be writing a novel and not some inconsequential blog. So what made me start a blog. Truthfully, I think I am fufilling some long hidden desire to create something. I thought creating a human being would have quenched this desire, but now that my children are 13 and 10 I realize that even the miracle of creating human life did not satisfy my inner need for creating something larger than my "self" which is quite large. I take up a lot of psychic space.
Yet, I have only told three or four people about this blog. "If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?" Ahhh, an old conundrum. I say yes, especially for the birds living in the tree. But it is not a very loud sound. So using that premise: If I write a blog and do not tell people about it, does it make a sound? Not really. At least not a very loud sound. And anyone who knows me, knows I am one LOUD person. So I am expanding my exposure. I have always wanted exposure and at the same time feared it, but as I get closer and closer to 50 I realize it is finally time to conquer all my fears. And this includes writing AND publicizing my BLOG.
Please consider this a formal invitation into the mind of a scattered fearful almost fifty year old woman.
This blog may actually be serving two purposes. Yet, I believe dual purposes like multi tasking are a trend. Soon we will all discover we should never multi task since it will only result in diminishing returns for all involved tasks. And if there are dual purposes, there must be competing priorities. A lose/lose/lose situation.
So this blog will have to become something else entirely. For those of you who have tuned in and have the courage (okay, I mean patience, not courage) to visit on a regular basis, I will try my best to provide entertaining insights into the secret world I call BenitaVille. Hopefully my static thoughts will not result in static writing. Hopefully, my words will electrify, and cause laughter for one and all. Hopefully, Next Time will not be in a very Long Time. In the meantime, please let me know if you have been here by leaving a comment or two. They do not need to be positive. I will take anything. Negative comments are just as welcomed and ignored as the positive ones. I do believe I am immune to praise and insults alike.
I hope to see you soon.
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