cruisin-mom

Yep, I'm still cruisin'

2011-02-18T21:39:00.000-08:00

It's been so long since I've been here, that I didn't even realize my age had changed.

Yep, I'm now a 55 year old wife and mom. Still eating too much ice cream and watching way too much t.v.

Still love American Idol. Dancing with the Stars? ah, not so much.

I miss feeling inspired to write here. But who knows, maybe this little post will bring forth some inspiration.

Stay tuned. But, if I don't receive comments, I probably won't feel inspired.

(uh, that's a subtle hint...let's see who takes it)

You "can" go home again

2009-11-14T11:39:00.000-08:00

(thanks to Hey Joe, who keeps harassing, oops, I mean encouraging me to write a new post)

This is a follow up to this post I wrote 3 years ago. In order to make sense of what I'm about to say, you should probably read it first.

Sometimes, when you least expect it...a wish comes true.

It has taken me over two months to sit down and write this. And, this is the first thing I have even been inspired to write about since my last post in March.

This past August, my brother and sister-in-law came for a visit from the east coast. My brother, who of course grew up here in L.A. with me, was on a mission to revisit every section of the city that had meaning to him. And since they were only going to be here for 3 days, we were racing against the clock.

I love L.A. (yes, me and Randy Newman) because there is no other city quite like it. There are so many diverse sections within this one city. Some beautiful and filled with opulence, while some are worn down by time and lack of care.

The first day, my mother and I met them at the airport and we were off and running. First stop, Culver City, where my dad owned a children's day camp up until he died. It was quickly replaced with an American Legion Hall back in 1967, and has stayed just that way ever since.

We continued on that first day, through Beverly Hills, Hollywood, and various parts of the "city". And at days end, my brother requested that the next day's journey be to our home in the valley. The home where my father died when I was 10. The home where absolutely everything about life would change for me.

Now, if you read my original post, you know that I have wanted to step back into that home since 1993. So when my brother announced that we'd be driving by there, I quickly gathered photos that would show us in front of the house...proof for the people living there now, that we had actually resided there.

Sunday came, and after fortifying with a nice big breakfast at Jerry's deli, off we went. We drove up to the house, parked and sat. Two cars were home in the driveway, which probably meant the people living there were as well.

We waited. What were the chances that someone would come out? And if so, what were the chances they'd welcome us in to their home?

Well, minutes went by and my sis-in-law says, "let's go knock on the door". I about fainted. How could we possibly knock on a strangers door and say "Hi, we used to live here, we are the original owners, can we come in?".

My sis-in-law was not going to give up. She suggested we go to the door, tell them who we are, and that we were going to be taking some pictures outside, and didn't want them to wonder what we were doing, should they look out the window.

And, we did just that...while my mother and brother waited in the car.

As we knocked on the door, I could feel my heart pounding and my brain flooding with memories. Thoughts swirled though my head...how would we convince these people that they should make a wish come true and let us walk through the house?

The door opened. There stood an older gentleman. We proceeded with our plan, telling who we were and how we would be taking pictures.

I came armed with my photo album and began showing him the proof.

He responded with this: "We are the 3rd owners of this home. I had heard that the first owners moved because the husband had died". My knees became weak, and in the voice of a 10 year old I blurted out: "That was my dad!!"

I quickly took a deep breath, and with all the courage I could muster, I asked if we could come in to see the house. The tears began to uncontrollably stream down my face, as I could feel the urgency to go in.

He. said. yes. of course.

This man seemed to understand the needs of the 10 year old little girl inside me...waiting to retouch what had long ago been lost.

We called to my mom and brother who were still waiting in the car, and in we went.

The same black slate entry floor. The same built in cabinet in the dining room.
The same wallpaper in the bathroom where my dad and I would look into the mirror to make funny faces together.

We made our way through the first floor.

But I knew I had one more stop to make on this journey through time...the upstairs, to my bedroom. My lavender room, where I knew everything was once whole and safe.

We climbed the stairs slowly, my heart once again beating quickly. And there it was, no longer lavender, but familiar and welcoming.

As the tears continued to pour down my face, the older gentleman went on to explain that they had been there since 1969. They raised a family of five in this house. They now had grandchildren.

We came back downstairs, where we would then meet his wife, who went on to tell us stories of neighbors who had moved away.

You could tell they were touched by our story and they knew they were participating in something important and healing.

As we thanked them and said our goodbyes, I felt complete somehow.

It was a day I won't soon forget.

It was the day my wish came true.

Dave and Me

2009-03-23T22:56:00.000-07:00

In honor of David Letterman's marriage I figured I should post this picture. The resemblance between Dave and I is uncanny.

That's me, age 7. Quite a hairdo for a 7 year old, don't you think?

And those teeth...can you say braces?

Caddyshack...Cruisin' Style

2009-03-14T16:45:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have followed this blog, you know that Mr. Cruisin's attempts at fixing this house have been great fodder for my writings. And so, once again I present another one of Mr. Cruisin's escapades, only this time it comes to you in his own words. Please give a big hand for my guest blogger...my old man...

Grab a beer or cup of coffee and sit back while once again, I make a complete ass of myself so that my friends can laugh at what a moron I am.

So when they did our landscaping years ago, they put a drain system in which for the life of me I don't understand why as we here in California are always in a perpetual drought.

Anyways, the back lawn has 9 drain spots where runoff water is collected and then gravity fed to the street. About once a year, I have to go around and trim the grass around them so they don't get covered up. I found 8 but the last one of course is MIA.

The typical protocol is for me to walk around with a shovel ( which my mother always told me "if you don't go to school, you better learn how to use a shovel".....so much for higher education...when you get your advanced degree, you will still be pushing a shovel...sorry to burst your bubble).

When you feel your foot fall into a small depression in the area where you think the drain was, you are probably right. For some reason, geologic forces beyond my comprehension have been in force and the area is aircraft carrier flat.

Of course, the walk area is a little compromised as my wife has switched dog foods which seems to be helping the velocity of my dog's digestive tract....enough said, you get the picture.

OK, time for plan B. Since the area is completely flat with no indication of where the drain was, we start punching holes in the area where I seem to recall the drain was.(like anyone even makes such a mental note of those things).

After about 45 minutes, the lawn looks like the last scene in Caddyshack after Bill Murray has blown up the fairways in pursuit of the gopher. Still no drains. No doubt someone has scaled my fence and stolen drain #9. I am telling you, this economic crash is having ripple effects no one even imagined.

OK, so now I am one hour into this idiotic quest. I could say screw it and quit and live with 8 drains, but a quitter I am not. It is the principle after all. Imagine where we would be as a nation if we were quittters......probably on the porch with a beer, but I digress.

OK, plan C. I saw this one in a Sylvester Stallone movie. You take a piece of fabric, wrap it around your forehead which makes you look dangerous, then you take a bayonet (or a big kitchen knife which you have to hide in your pants as if your wife sees you and asks you what in the world you are doing, you dutifully tell her, then she reminds you the dog craps out there and we carve roasts with that knife. You mumble something and run out. You also learn why it is not in your best interest to run with a knife in your pants.

So you get down and gently probe the ground with aforementioned knife at a 45 degree angle like you have seen in numerous war movies when they are looking for landmines. Of course, I have found landmines in my backyard courtesy of the dog but I hate to repeat myself.

Another 45 minutes prove fruitless. Now I am beginning to think one of my idiot friends came in and moved the drain so I could never find it. But they forget who they are dealing with. No doubt, they are perched somewhere with binoculars just laughing their collective asses off. I keep listening for the thump when they fall out of the tree they are hiding in from laughing so darn hard.

Where are we, plan D? Anyways, I grab an electrical fish tape, a small B/W camera which is 2x2" from Alllelectronics and the attendant data/power cable. I attach an led light array to the camera, tape the whole thing to the fish tape and down the drain it goes.

Of course, I have taken the small 12" tv out to the backyard with what can only be described as enough electrical extension wire to secure an aircraft carrier to a dock. Amazingly, I can see the inside of the pipe as I advance the camera. I think I could do colonoscopies!!! And with a 2" camera, some of my friend's are such big a##holes, well, let's save that for later.

12 feet later, I see the coupling which contains the missing drain. I mark the cable, pull it out, extend it on top of the grass, adjust for windage and plant my shovel. Eureka, there she is. The damn gophers must have dug a hole and covered it with dirt and the grass grew in. This is what happens when you leave the newspaper on the driveway, the gophers get it and read it thereby increasing their IQ's. But I fooled them, I canceled the paper.

So I spend the next 45 minutes replacing all the grass plugs I have dug looking for the stupid drain. I estimated my total time spent at close to 3 hours, but that's not the point, I did find the drain. Today I will measure and plot the location of my lawn drains on a plot plan of the house using GPS and a sextant.

Never give up, never quit (I think that would be more impressive in Latin)

I'm facebookin' you

2009-02-06T09:57:00.000-08:00

Wanna freak your kids out? Get yourself a facebook account.

One of my friends told me I MUST get on facebook. Who am I to not follow the directions of a good friend?

So, I did.

What started as a place for college students to connect, has blown up into a monster of "cool connections" for every age. Even old fogies like myself.

But here's what I've noticed about Facebook.

People write little comments constantly updating you on their every move and thought.

Susie is: about to take a dump, feeling constipated.
Debbie is: in the mood for a massage...anyone willing?
Sandy is: going to watch American Idol (okay, so that one I can understand)

and on and on...

People seem to be even more addicted to this phenomenon than blogging.

It's crazy. This whole six degrees of separation is quite extraordinary. It's amazing to see how many people you can find if you just keep going through people's friends.

And yet, it's all just a little scary. The amount of detail you learn about people on Facebook sometimes falls into the category of TMI (too much information).

So, what is this phenomenon all about? Are we all so desperate to find people from our past?
Is this the only way we can connect with people?

Maybe it's comforting to know we can connect in a moment's notice in this great big world.

If you have any thoughts about this...I'd love to know.

Cruisin-mom: is off to the bathroom.......

Put another candle on my birthday cake...I'm another year old today

2008-11-18T06:29:00.000-08:00

What's a cheap way to get people to comment on your blog? Well, remind them it's your birthday.

Yep, had to go and change my age at the top once again. When I started this thing, I was 50.

I still love ice cream. I still love t.v.

I'm much achier than I was 3 years ago. Probably not much wiser. I'm skinnier, so that's a good thing. Even with all that ice cream and sitting on the couch.

My son brought me home a quart (not a pint, that smart boy) of chocolate Haagen Dazs last night...so there goes the skinnier.

When my grandparents were this age, I thought they looked so much older. That's because they did. They were gray, and dressed matronly, and thought and spoke old.

But not me....uh uh, no gray here. No matronly clothes. Hey I even watched the final show of MTV's TRL...doesn't get much cooler than that does it?

When I look in the mirror, I'm not sure who or what I see. I don't think I see a 25 year old anymore. But I certainly don't see a 53 year old.

I am much more tired, and that scares me. I suppose it's because I work hard...my job takes alot of emotion and heart. I never imagined I'd be doing work so gratifying though, and for that I feel grateful.

I can still make my husband laugh, so I suppose that's a good thing at the age of 53.

My kids, well, I imagine that what they see when they look at me is a tired old woman.

I wonder if all kids should have a Back to the Future or Field of Dreams moment, where they get to see their parents as they were when they were young, and fun, and full of life.

Well, I think I've rambled long enough. It's time to go and get my annual birthday breakfast donut...a tradition I started on my 50th.

So, I leave you with this little story, which seemed appropriate as I reach this ripe old age of 53.

Oh, and don't forget to comment :)

A stunning senior moment
Apparently, a self-important college freshman attending a recent football game took it upon himself to explain to a senior citizen sitting next to him why it was impossible for the older generation to understand his generation.

'You grew up in a different world, actually an almost primitive one', the student said, loud enough for many of those nearby to hear. 'The young people of today grew up with television, jet planes, space travel, man walking on the moon. Our space probes have visited Mars. We have nuclear energy, ships and electric and hydrogen cars, cell phones , computers with light-speed processing...and more.'

After a brief silence, the senior citizen responded as follows: 'You're right, son. We didn't have those things when we were young........so we invented them. Now, you arrogant little snot, what are you doing for the next generation?'

The applause was amazing.....

sax appeal

2008-10-25T11:03:00.000-07:00

Is it just me, or does anyone else notice that every song released in the 1980's had a sultry sax jump in at some point?

Can I call you Joe? Say it ain't so...

2008-10-05T08:26:00.000-07:00

I don't care who you are voting for...this is hysterical.

Blue Eyes

2008-09-27T07:39:00.000-07:00

Sad news today.

Paul Newman has died at the age of 83.

Gorgeous and generous.

He will be missed.

I read the news today, Oh boy!

2008-09-20T10:30:00.000-07:00

Originally written over 2 years ago, I was inspired to re post this after reading SuperRaizy's post. The first 29 comments are from the original post...back when I was, ahem, popular.

Paul McCartney and Heather Mills agree to split.

When I was only 8 years old, something life-changing happened to me. (okay, it happened to millions of others too, but when you're 8 years old, you're pretty sure it's only happening to you).

The Beatles

Yep, that's what happened. I saw them. Well, not in-person, but as close to in-person as you could get...I saw them on Ed Sullivan.

I can still remember it. The t.v. picture was black and white. You actually had to get out of your chair to switch to the right station.

They stood there, singing to an audience of screaming fans. Girls ready to faint. It was like nothing I'd ever seen before.

And there he was...PAUL...he was the most gorgeous male person I had ever seen. How did I even comprehend that, at eight years of age? His hair was thick and dark and funny looking. (yes, in 1964 that was considered funny looking). But his eyes, oh his eyes. And his smile...he melted my little girl-sized heart.

My neighbor and I were so obsessed with Paul, that we would play a game, for hours, called "I married Paul". Can you imagine? All I wanted was to marry him. Thank goodness the Monkees came along a few years later, so Davy Jones could take my mind off him...for a little while anyway.

I was convinced Paul would find me, swoop me into his arms, and propose. I mean, why not?
Wasn't Paul looking for a little Jewish girl from the suburbs of L.A. to marry? Why, of course he was!

Until he met Linda, that is. It all went down hill from there. In 1969, he and Linda married. Female hearts around the world had been crushed and shattered. It was devastating. He even seemed happy.

How could I be so angry, at the age of 131/2, that Paul had decided to marry Linda? Wasn't I supposed to be happy for him? Afterall, he was the man I had loved faithfully for over 4 years. And when you truly love someone, aren't you supposed to be happy when they're happy?

HELL NO

I knew it was over. I had to accept it. My dream would never come true. Paul would forever be lost to me.

So I mustered all the emotional strength I could and proceeded to get on with my life. Boyfriends would come and go, but no one could tweak my heart the way Paul did.

Until the person in the picture above, at the top, came along. This was amazing...he had the same dark hair. His eyes were those "sad" eyes, just like Paul's. Something about his lips looked familiar.

This man resembled Paul. Could it be? If I could not have Paul, was I destined to have a look-alike?

As fate would have it, this was to be the case. Because the picture above, at the top, is...

Mr. Cruisin...in all his Beatle-like glory.

I had found "my Paul". Okay, so he didn't have a gazillion dollars, and wasn't one of the most famous musicians in the world, and couldn't serenade me to bed at night with "If I fell". Hey, a girl can't expect absolutely everything right?

Anyhow, I bet Paul can't swing a hammer, or turn a wrench. He probably doesn't even watch American Idol. "My Paul" can do all that and more.

Life was good. Status quo. I had accepted gracefully, that I would never be married to Paul. But how many women can say they married a look-alike of their childhood fantasy? Not many, I suppose.

Sometimes life goes on without a twist or a turn. But sometimes, everything changes.

Once again, fate would present me with a dilemma.

In 1998, Linda McCartney, beloved wife of Paul McCartney, died from breast cancer.

Feelings swirled through my body. What sad, horrible, devastating news. POOR PAUL...the love of his life, the woman he had never spent a night away from, the mother of his children...GONE.

"Hmmmmm", I thought to myself..."SHE'S GONE!"...

My head snapped. What was I thinking. Paul, the man I had loved faithfully, was in deep pain and all I could think about was the fact that Linda was gone...out of my way...

Of course, there was one tiny problem. Unlike back in 1969, I now had a husband and children, and a name in my community. How could I dump all that for Paul?

I knew that Paul was probably needing me now in his hour of grief. But I was resigned to my fate. We were not meant to be and that was that.

A few years later, Paul would meet a British model, fall in love, marry, and have a child. I suppose I was happy for him, but there would always be a longing in my heart.

Fast forward to today. I woke up, turned on my radio, and there it was...the ANNOUNCEMENT..."Paul McCartney and Heather Mills agree to split".

Oh my God, poor Paul...my heart sank. This man had found happiness once again (without me)...and was now going to lose it.

Fate has presented me with another dilemma...Paul is FREE again. What to do? I mean, Mr. Cruisin is still here...faithful all these years.

Did Paul stay faithful to me?...don't think so. Did Mr. Cruisin? Through all of life's ups, downs, twists and turns...he stayed faithful to me.

Sorry, Paul...you had your chance in 1964...and even though you're free again...

I guess you blew it.

Father/Son Bonding

2008-09-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

I don't know about you, but when my children were small, we were always searching for new ways to "bond" with our kids.

Perhaps reading a book together, going outside for a "catch", building legos, solving a jigsaw puzzle, or riding a bike.

As they grew older, this became a little more difficult because, of course, they were more interested in spending time with friends than with mom and dad.

Of course we found this impossible to believe, why, being the cool, hip, baby-boomer parents that we are.

Now, we're lucky if we can get them to go out to dinner with us, and if they do, I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that we pay.

So, imagine my excitement when the news flashed the story last night that Ryan and Redmond O'Neal were arrested together for possession of drugs.

What a fabulous bonding activity. Maybe they'll even get to share a jail cell. Think of the hours these two could have to spend together, just shmoozing and sharing and well, simply being together.

Wow, the 21st century continues to surprise and delight me.

off track

2008-09-15T06:52:00.000-07:00

Update: Robert Avrech, over at Seraphic Secret, was kind enough to link to this post. Thanks Robert!

It's not often that large scale death and destruction comes to your own "back yard".

But on Friday, Sept. 12th at 4:23 p.m. that's exactly what happened.

An explosion, a mushroom cloud of smoke, helicopters overhead, were the first signs that something had gone terribly wrong.

I quickly turned on the t.v. to find that a commuter train had collided with a freight train.

My brave husband, along with two other selfless neighbors, were first responders. Forgetting that the train on fire could have easily blown up, they ran in the direction of danger, doing what their hearts told them to do...

...to help save someone's child, or spouse, or sibling.

They immediately began pulling people out of the train, blocking the death, and groans and cries of people all around, in order to do what they were compelled to do.

Just regular people, who will never admit that they were heroes for a day.

I dedicate this post to:

the ordinary people who lost their lives just simply trying to get home on a Friday evening after a long work week.
the people who were injured and may have a long journey back to health.
the families who will never again see the people they loved.
the firefighters, the police, the rescue workers, the emergency room doctors and personnel, the news reporters, and the brave neighbors who all worked tirelessly to save lives.

Firefighters who had responded to the Northridge earthquake, the train disaster in Glendale, CA in 2005 killing 11 people, stated that they had never seen anything quite like this.

My husband and the others were asked to leave the scene as soon as rescue workers arrived. They came back home overwhelmed, out of breath, tears falling down their cheeks.

They came back home as ordinary heroes.

Who's your daddy?

2008-09-03T18:00:00.000-07:00

Update: Just watched Sarah Palin's speech...She is articulate and certainly not afraid to go after Obama. She might even hold her own against Joe Biden(?) Well, these next weeks will certainly be riveting...

Is this not the most amazing time in history (aside from the appearance of the Beatles on Ed Sullivan of course) to be living through?

Who would have ever thought we'd see a black man running for president, having won the nomination from a woman to boot.

And a woman selected as the opposition's vice presidential running mate.

A black man and a woman all in one fell swoop.

What progress we have made.

Why, just 16 years ago Dan Quayle, while running as the Republican vice-presidential candidate, was quite clear that (the fictional) Murphy Brown, successful career woman earning enough wages to care for herself and her baby, was committing the heinous act of having a baby out of wedlock and planning to raise him as a single mother.

Isn't it wonderful that in just 16 short years, it has become acceptable and actually something to applaud, that a 17 year old high school student has become pregnant while unmarried?

But wait, I guess it's okay since the baby's daddy, an 18 year old self-described f-ing redneck is forcibly, 00ps, I mean willingly, going to step up to marry the young mom. You know, the guy who "doesn't want kids"...has come around. Isn't that sweet? Won't that just make for a wonderful marriage?

I think every woman should have the right to choose. I admire someone who takes a stance for pro-life or pro-choice. But it should be each individual's choice.

Did anyone consider adoption for this baby? Just sayin...

Is it better to thrust this young 17 year old into the spotlight and have her marry this redneck- not so kidloving (his thoughts, not mine)-young 18 year old who would rather be hangin' with the guys?

I know that many feel that the children and families of the candidates should be off limits. And yet, it is the candidates themselves who put these things out there. Not unlike John Edwards telling us all about family values, and well, we know how that turned out.

When politicians impose their values on us, then I think their behavior and that of their families become fair game for discussion.

I guess you could say we've come a long way since the days of Dan Quayle and that mess of a gal, Murphy Brown.

Politics makes strange bedfellows

2008-09-03T15:01:00.001-07:00

well, I had a political post up, and then I chickened out. I could still post it, but I'm not sure I want to risk starting a fight here.

Any thoughts?

It's a mystery to me

2008-08-27T06:55:00.000-07:00

post inspired by Wendy...

Remember the games you played when you were little?

I do.

Mouse Trap.
Monopoly.
Parcheesi.
Candy land.
Life.
Checkers.

But of all the games I played...MYSTERY DATE was the best.

Now, since I seem to be the oldest person who reads my blog, I'm probably the only one who remembers this game. So, most likely I'll be talking to myself here...but what else is new?!

Mystery Date was the answer to every little girl's dream. Since you couldn't date for real at the age of 10 or 11, the next best thing was pretending to date on a board game. Yikes, that's pathetic.

But then again, there are some advantages to dating someone in a board game. They don't talk back. They can't cheat on you. You can tell them how to dress. They aren't (eh hem) flatulenty expressive. They don't try and hog the remote. They don't leave their clothes on the floor, or the cap off the toothpaste.

Now of course, I was lucky enough to find Mr. Cruisin...a man who is none of those things I just mentioned.

He never talks back can't get a word in edge-wise.
He wouldn't cheat because he knows I wouldn't hesitate to then kill him.
This man dresses like he's just stepped out of the pages of "Car Mechanics Weekly", so no need to tell him how to dress.
Of course he never has any of those nasty bodily functions.
He knows better than to try and pry the remote from my "never cold because I'm always flashing, not so dead" hands.
His clothes neatly make their way to the laundry basket each and every night.
And that toothpaste cap? Well, his breath is made of roses, so no need to even brush.

Thank goodness for Mystery Date...it obviously taught me just how to find my dream man.

WTF

2008-08-13T06:19:00.000-07:00

CLUNK!

That's the sound you could hear my last post make.

FLAT!

That's where my last post fell.

SURPRISED!

That's the color I turned when only 2 people responded.

What the hell? WTF?

Am I (and the 2 people who commented) the only one who had an opinion about John Edwards?

As I wrote that last post, I thought:

"Oh yeah, Cruisin-mom, you are brilliant. EVERYONE'S gonna want to comment on this one. This one will kick everyone in the gut, and bring commenters out of the woodwork".

So where are you people? No opinion? Is this subject just a hot potato?

HUH?

I'm a narcissistic scum bag (or is it scumbag)

2008-08-08T14:13:00.000-07:00

I rarely use my blog to talk about people in the news, but this story has me hopping mad, yep that's right, I've spent the last hour hopping around my house. Well, not really, but boy, am I pissed.

And why I'm surprised, even I don't know.

John Edwards is an effing scum bag. The lowest of the low.

His wife is diagnosed with cancer, undergoing chemo, devotes herself to his career and his little children are dragged around the country. He repeatedly lies to media and everyone around him...

But sure enough, he CHEATED on his wife.

Oh big surprise...how many others have done the same. FDR, Eisenhower, Kennedy, Clinton.

But this one seems particularly repulsive.

C'mon John...your wife is dying of cancer. She has suffered the death of her son. She has devoted herself to you and your career.

C'mon, I mean, really? Seriously?

All I can say is blech, argh, yuck.

BIG

2008-07-27T13:51:00.000-07:00

Some movies can be watched over and over.

For me, "BIG", with Tom Hanks is one of those.

It's too bad he was nominated against Dustin Hoffman that year...had he not been, maybe he would have won.

To be able to access the feelings of a 12 year old boy and act them out in the body of a 30 year old man, is no easy feat. Who else but Tom Hanks could have pulled that off? The charm, the innocence, the honesty of his performance all make it perfect.

An adult longing to return to his youth, I suppose that's not a new plot.

But Big had a twist. It began with a young boy longing to be a grown-up...who soon learns through the eyes of his best friend...that the trappings of adulthood cannot replace the sweet innocence of childhood. (of course that is supposing you had a wonderful childhood).

I guess the movie touched that cord in me. Of course, past the age of 10, life for me was no longer innocent. But I have fond memories of my childhood, nonetheless.

Yesterday was my mother's birthday. I took her to a play and dinner to celebrate, and afterward we took a drive by the house we lived in from the time I was 5 until my father died.

We sat in the car...looking at all the things that remained the same. A little brick walkway that my not-so-skilled father put in himself. A lamppost with the address hanging from it, still stands in the front yard. An awning my parents had specially made for the front window still hangs. And most surprising is the original shingle roof, that is now considered a fire hazard in Los Angeles.

I have driven past the house before, secretly hoping the owners will walk out, and invite me in.

I have dreamed of going into the house, to capture, even if for one moment, what it was like when I felt "whole" as a child.

Maybe what the movie Big does, is remind us not to forget that innocence. Not to forget the child inside. Not to forget what it's like to play, and have a best friend, and a family...

and know that nothing comes before that...

The Beat Goes On

2008-07-01T21:08:00.001-07:00

Today is the first day of a new law here in California.

You must talk on your cell phone "hands free" or...

you get nabbed with a nice little fine. Close to a hundred bucks, is my understanding.

Thank goodness for this new law. After all, now we'll be safe.

Because...while that mom in the mini-van is turning around screaming at her kids, and that guy over there is smoking a cigarette while shaving, and that new teenage driver is applying her mascara while gazing into the rear view mirror, and that 50 something business man is downing In and Out on his way to his next meeting, and that salesman is fiddling around with (no, don't go there) a CD...

at least they won't be holding their cell phones!

So, this afternoon, I crawled into my car, put my earphone in my ear, strategically placed a bag of jelly bellies on the seat that I could easily attack, and set out for the ride home.

As I drove down the infamous 101 Ventura Freeway...I happened to look to my left.

And there it was...I thought I had seen it all in my 52 years. But, apparently I hadn't.

The guy next to me was "playing the steering wheel".

Playing the steering wheel you ask? Yep, that's what I said. He had a set of drumsticks and was drumming on the steering wheel.

And keeping a pretty good beat, I might add.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm all for safety...I even think it's a good idea to enforce this new cell phone law, but hey...

Seriously? Do you really think cell phones are the only problem out there?

I'm just sayin'.

NO...You come on...

2008-06-24T22:30:00.000-07:00

LOVE THIS COMMERCIAL

I guess that's why they call it "the Blues"

2008-06-21T09:37:00.000-07:00

I don't think there has ever been another set of eyes quite like his.

Is there a woman alive (at least over the age of 40) who doesn't think Paul Newman was the epitome of hunk in his day? And, quite frankly...even beyond his "day".

The latest news, is that Newman is sick with lung cancer. Not sure if it's true, but the most recent pictures of him do not look good.

Not only gorgeous, he has managed to sustain a very long marriage with the beautiful and talented Joanne Woodward, survive the death of a child, has been an avid fan and participant of race car driving, created a natural line of foods, given enormous amounts to charity, and has had one amazing acting career.

Recently, an old interview conducted in his home, was shown on t.v. And on the wall was a sign that read:

EVERYONE BRINGS HAPPINESS HERE...
SOME BY COMING...
SOME BY LEAVING.

Wow...I love that.

What a way to throw your guests off balance and keep them wondering...

which one am I?

Dream a little dream of me

2008-06-09T08:56:00.000-07:00

post inspired by Jack

A few nights ago, I had a dream that all of my teeth were falling out.

A few at a time.

Painlessly.

But out they came, slowly but surely.

I don't remember panicking, but I do remember thinking there must be something symbolic about this dream. It seemed this had to be one of those "universal" dreams that many experience.

Kind of like that dream where you float through a room (or am I the only one who has had that dream?).

There are many interpretations for a dream when teeth fall out. It depends on how they fell out, how you were feeling during the dream, and what is going on in your life at the time.

One interpretation is, it represents letting go of something, a changing relationship.

So, I think I know what it means for me. I think it has to do with letting go of my children...

who are no longer children.

This is not for the faint of heart. This is more difficult than giving birth. How do you let go of the piece of your heart that has been forever changed? Is "let go" really the term we must use?

Some say the "tooth" dream is about appearance, fear of getting old and ugly. I don't think that's really it for me. (although, if I end up looking like the gal above, that might bother me a little)

Or is it all a bunch of bunk? Maybe dreams mean nothing.

Hmmmmmmm...

It happened again

2008-06-08T13:52:00.000-07:00

Went to two car shows today. It's amazing how there can actually be two car shows in one city, both crowded.

The first was in Johnny Carson Park, across from Burbank Studios, home of the Tonight Show.

While driving there, I wondered out loud to my husband whether or not Jay Leno would be there. He has his own amazing collection of cars, and has been known to show up at these things.

We walked through, perusing the classic cars...no Jay Leno. Oh well.

Off we went to our next destination...Woodley Park for another classic car show.

As we were walking around, we noticed a crowd gathering by one particular car. Of course, being the incredibly nosy person that I am...I insisted we make our way over to see what was going on.

And, lo and behold, there was that familiar silver hair, blue jeans and work shirt.

Jay Leno was was there, drawing a bit of a crowd. No obnoxious paparazzi, no screaming, no fainting.

Just regular folk politely asking Jay to pose for a picture and sign an autograph. And he happily complied.

This was not our first encounter with Jay. A few years, I wrote this about another Sunday with him.

Oh yeah, last night we went out to dinner and watched Steve Perry walk by.

Living in L.A. is cool, no?

Goodbye Sydney...and thanks

2008-05-27T12:39:00.000-07:00

originally posted here

Two years ago, I wrote this post. Upon hearing of Sydney Pollack's death, I decided to re-post this, in tribute to a great film maker. Without Sydney, who knows...maybe my first date with Mr. Cruisin' wouldn't have led to the following...

I had just broken up with someone.

Well, that's not true. I had been dating someone, who, after a weekend ski-trip with the boys, came back to tell me he had met someone else. He told me...over the phone. Just as I was about to see a client. Nice.

I already knew Mr. Cruisin, as he was a friend of a relative. We would see eachother at various events, but he had a girlfriend. Although I thought he was cute, and funny...I didn't look at him in that way, you know, potential husband material...because he was, well...taken.

But as fate would have it...one evening right after a$%hole dumped me...I ran into Mr. Cruisin at a local restaurant. He proceeded to tell me that he and the girlfriend had broken up.

Now, you think I would have been jumping up and down ecstatic at this point, right? I mean, come on...nice Jewish boy, cute, funny, good job, tall, good dresser, hair on his head...what more could a girl ask for?

Well, being the "girl" that I was...I was too immersed in a self-pity party. Afterall, someone actually had the nerve to DUMP me! I was unable to see past my own sorrow, to notice that this perfect speciman of a guy was now available.

A few days later, the relative who was friends with Mr. Cruisin, told me that Mr. Cruisin wanted to ask me out. The relative told him not to...HUH? Well, as it turns out, the relative was just being protective, not wanting me to be a rebound, "transitional" person...and possibly get hurt.

Since I was still in a stupor and wallowing in self-pity, I didn't even react to this. I figured, okay, whatever.

Luckily for me, Mr. Cruisin is a self-made man. If you tell him he can't do something...he's all over it.

So, a few days later, to my surprise, I received a message at work...from none other than Mr. Cruisin. I proceeded to return his call, totally unaware that he was about to ask me out.

And sure enough...that's exactly what happened. We were having a fun, polite conversation, when out it popped...the question..."would you like to go out Saturday night?".

My head was spinning...how could I go out with this guy when my relative had just told me it wasn't a good idea to go out with someone who was on the rebound? Not to mention, I was still having a wild time attending my own self-pity party.

What to do?

I pretty much had to go out with the poor guy...I mean, he did just break up with someone...wouldn't it be rude to say no? I had known him for years, afterall, and he was my relative's friend, and I felt kinda sorry for him, having just broken up and all.

So, I said YES. We set up the date and that was that...or so I thought.

When I hung up the phone, a thought occured...

Should I really go out with him on a Saturday night?...afterall, Saturday night was notoriously "date" night. I didn't want to say no, but I didn't want him to think I was really interested in that way, since I had been warned by my relative that I would probably end up hurt.

So this was my quick-thinking plan.

I would call him back, and explain that I couldn't go out Saturday night...something had come up, but I could go out with him Wednesday or Thursday night. He said it would be no problem and we changed the date to Thursday.

It just so happens that following my phone call to Mr. Cruisin, my mother called. I proceeded to tell her about my upcoming date...telling her of the switch from Saturday to Thursday, and the carefully thought out plan behind this decision, when she had this to say to me:

"Cruisin-mom (she always called me that)...don't you deserve to have a date on a Saturday night? You don't have to marry him...just go out on a nice date...there's no harm in that."

Panic quickly set in...my mother (as always, dammit) was right. Why shouldn't I go out on a nice date, with a nice person, who could at the very least, end up being a good friend?

I picked up the phone, and called Mr. Cruisin back. I explained that the plans for Saturday night had been changed and I could go out afterall.

Mind you...this is all happening within a 20 minute time frame at the most.

Let's recap: Mr. Cruisin calls for Saturday night date. I say yes. I rethink, and call back within 5 minutes to change to Thursday night. I talk to mom 5 minutes later. I call Mr. Cruisin back to say Saturday night is good afterall. Cruisin Mom appears to be "nuts" at this point in time.

Thankfully, Mr. Cruisin was still in a bit of his own stupor, having just broken up with his girlfriend...so throughout all of this he was just kind of like "whatever".

By now the guy knows I'm nuts, but decides to show up for the "Saturday night" date anyway.

Since that phone call, (or calls, I should say), I had developed the cold of the century. I was sneezing and coughing... and producing enough mucous to fill Dodger Stadium.

Ah, yes, I was a beautiful, red-nosed sight. And I had to decide what to wear on this okay-I'll go out with you on a Saturday night-but don't want you to get the idea that I'm interested-because you are on the rebound and I don't want to get hurt-date.

I decided to go casual, sweater and cords...nice but nothing fancy (hey, at least I wore something besides my blue jeans).

It was time, and Mr. Cruisin arrived...I opened the door, and there he stood...ADORABLE!!! My heart did that thing it does when you first realize you are actually attracted to someone...I believe it's called "skipping a beat" or "all a flutter" or "tingly all over" or "the need to throw up"...well, you get the idea.

There he stood...wearing a tie!!! I was dressed casual and he was wearing a tie...YIKES!

So of course, being the genteel gal that I was, I immediately blurted out, rather loudly I might add, "You're wearing a tie!!!" ...(Duuuuuh)

You know what that adorable man with hair on his head did? ... he bravely ripped off the tie! He could sense my discomfort (the scream may have tipped him off) . "Wow,...this guy is already getting me", I thought to myself, as I proceeded to blow mucous into a kleenex.

Off we went. We drove into Westwood (the ultimate date destination in those days) for a wonderful dinner and movie. A new movie starring Dustin Hoffman and Bill Murray had just opened (Tootsie) and we stood in line to see it. We talked effortlessly, really getting to know one another, while I proceeded to blow and hoch up buckets of mucous.

How could any man resist that?

Well apparently, this man couldn't. Here we were on a Saturday night, out on a non-date, date, having the time of our lives. The connection was undeniable. The conversation and laughter endless...not to mention the mucous.

He brought me home. We talked (yes, really, that's all) until the wee hours of the morning. At one point, I excused myself to the bathroom. And here is what Mr. Cruisin told me later about that moment:

He spied a mastercard bill sitting on my dining room table (open, so it wasn't like he was going through my mail). It was for a grand total of $32.50. It was at that very moment he knew he could spend his life with me.

Afterall, what woman has a mastercard bill of only $32.50? So, she screams and blows mucous and calls me 3 times within 20 minutes to keep rearranging our date...she has a mastercard bill of only $32.50. He knew then, I was the woman of his dreams. Needless to say, those bills have a few more zeros tacked on them now.

The evening was coming to a close...and he asked me out for a second date.

There was no turning back now. This man, apparently thought I was wonderful...mucous and all.
And I knew, that any man who could take in stride and laugh at endless streams of mucous and being screamed at on a first date, was most likely the man for me.

We danced the first dance at our wedding to...

the theme from Tootsie.

Just a spoonful of sugar...

2008-05-25T12:20:00.000-07:00

It was 1964. I was nine.
And I was going to see Mary Poppins.
My entire family was going. Parents, brother, aunt and uncle and cousins.

It was a huge event. I lived in Van Nuys, so we had to drive all the way into the "city" (Los Angeles) to see the movie. It was playing at a beautiful old theatre called The Carthay Circle theatre (it was later demolished, considered obsolete in light of modern multi-plexes).

In those days, you didn't just throw on a pair of jeans and run out the door to see a movie. Oh no. You had to "dress". I remember getting all dolled up, in a dress, patent leather shoes, and a pair of white gloves.

Yep, you heard me right...white gloves.

Movie going was serious business in those days. (Christ, I sound old...oh yeah, I AM)

As I have written about before (in fact, coincidentally, exactly two years ago to the day) all first run movies were shown in the city. So the trek had to be made over the hill if we were to see Mary Poppins.

I can't begin to tell you the anticipation and excitement I can still remember feeling. The whole event was like a dream come true.

Julie Andrews was so beautiful...who wouldn't have wanted her as their nanny. Not that I would have known what a nanny was!

I often wonder if seeing a movie is as exciting for a little girl today. Knowing that you can rent it in a few months if you miss it, and then watch it 50 times over, probably takes the same excitement out of it. But I wouldn't know...being so old and all.

I truly hope that's not the case. I truly hope that the same excitement and heart pounding anticipation is experienced today by little girls going to see a long awaited movie.

It's an experience that I can still feel and smell and taste all these years later.

I'm Alright

2008-05-24T19:41:00.001-07:00

Your name please

2008-05-23T08:14:00.000-07:00

A few years ago, I wrote about our blue and gold macaw here. It's funny, I wrote it at a time when I was getting 20 to 30 comments on a post, and yet this particular story only pulled 3 comments.

I couldn't understand why at the time...and I didn't dare tell my bird for fear she would either fall into a deep depression, or take it out on me and attack.

So when I came across this story the other day, I couldn't help but think, WOW, now that's an impressive bird.

(AP) When Yosuke the parrot flew out of his cage and got lost, he did exactly what he had been taught - recite his name and address to a stranger willing to help. Police rescued the African grey parrot two weeks ago from a neighbor's roof in the city of Nagareyama, near Tokyo. After spending a night at the station, he was transferred to a nearby veterinary hospital while police searched for clues, local policeman Shinjiro Uemura said. He kept mum with the cops, but began chatting after a few days with the vet. "I'm Mr. Yosuke Nakamura," the bird told the veterinarian, according to Uemura. The parrot also provided his full home address, down to the street number, and even entertained the hospital staff by singing songs. "We checked the address, and what do you know, a Nakamura family really lived there. So we told them we've found Yosuke," Uemura said. The Nakamura family told police they had been teaching the bird its name and address for about two years. But Yosuke apparently wasn't keen on opening up to police officials. "I tried to be friendly and talked to him, but he completely ignored me," Uemura said.
Now, my bird?...she can say her first name.

But when I read that the bird said: ""I'm Mr. Yosuke Nakamura," well, that just did me in...

I have been laughing for 2 days straight.

(okay, so I don't have much of a life...American Idol and Dancing with the Stars have both ended this week...I'm in a deep funk, so give a girl a break).

And then, I couldn't help but imagine if this bird had been Jewish...

"I'm Hymie Goldberg, I come from the Bronx and I love to eat bagels with a little shmear. Now...get me home".

Wow, I'm really sumthin'

2008-04-26T07:39:00.000-07:00

Wendy tagged me last week...

I'm finally answering it.

The rules: to write a 6 word memoir...

If anyone else would like to do so, consider yourself tagged.

Here goes:

loyal,

empathetic,

understated,

imperfect,

funny,

woman

Wow, I sound pretty fantastic, almost perfect...don't you think?

Next assignment: to write the real one.

Hey Big Boy

2008-04-12T10:06:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl, the place to get a burger, and I mean the ONLY place to get a burger, was Bob's Big Boy.

We'd head on over to Van Nuys Blvd. for the great "combo" plate. A burger, fries, and salad with the best blue cheese dressing ever.

And those milkshakes?...woah!

Years later, when I was old enough to drive, my friends and I would "cruise" down Van Nuys Blvd. right by the Bob's Big Boy, and all the way down to Mike's Pizza. (the best rolls imaginable).

We'd stand in the parking lot, teenagers gathered to talk and flirt, really quite innocent.

Last night, Mr. Cruisin came home from work and said: "Let's head over to Bob's Big Boy in Toluca Lake". Although the one on Van Nuys Blvd. has since been knocked over and turned into a car agency, the T.L. Big Boy remains...declared an historical landmark...alive and kicking.

Friday nights are "classic car night". Lot's of gray-haired baby boomers gather to strut their very old cars, oops, I mean very classic cars for all to see. The parking lot was filled to the brim.

By the way, if you're looking to meet a man?...this is the place to be. If you can tolerate the smell of exhaust and gas fumes that is. (isn't' that always the case with men? sorry, couldn't help myself)

A small price to pay to see people enjoying the California car culture. Boy do we love our cars.

But there is something refreshingly simple and heartwarming about seeing families out on a warm Friday night, enjoying a burger and the beautiful lines of a classic Cadillac or Camaro.

It was so crowded, you could barely move between the cars and the people. Every table was taken, some eating, some observing.

For a moment, it was like stepping back in time. Thoughts of carhops running around taking orders from teens pretending, even if for one evening, that they were totally in charge of their lives.

I couldn't help but laugh when I looked over to the far side of this historical landmark...

only to spy a Starbucks.

Old
and
new
colliding.

OFF

2008-04-08T23:13:00.000-07:00

Well, that's it for Adam Carolla...even my votes couldn't save him.

But, he went out with class, hilarity, and on a uni-cycle.

Yep, you heard me right...

ballroom dancing on a uni-cycle.

And here is what he said at the end, referring to his dancing partner Julianne Hough:
“I lost 20 pounds of fat and gained 105 pounds of angel,”

Coincidentally, that's just what Mr. Cruisin said to me the day we got married.

Oh yeah, that's me...the "angel".

"You are the example of everything that's wrong with t.v. today"

2008-03-18T19:53:00.000-07:00

Those are the words my son uttered (with shame and distain, I might add) to me last week...

...after making the announcement that I called in my votes to Dancing with the Stars...not once, not twice, but 12 times. (did I just say that out loud?)

I couldn't help it. I felt compelled. This is the first time I've ever done anything like this.

Really...

I swear.

No, REALLY...I'm not that kind of girl.

But I was possessed. I had to vote. I didn't think I could live with myself had my favorite been voted off, and I didn't even vote.

It's no secret I love American Idol. But this season of Dancing with the Stars has captured my heart (and my funny bone). Yeah, that's right, MY HEART.

I love Adam Carolla. He's hysterical. He grew up in the San Fernando Valley. He grew up very close to where I did, but even closer to where Mr. Cruisin did.

His haunts were Mr. Cruisin's haunts as a kid. In fact, he is practically my husband's clone, if my husband was Italian, had his own radio show, was on Dancing with the Stars, had a new movie out, was best buddies with Jimmy Kimmel and Dr. Drew Pinsky, and about 13 years younger.

Okay, so maybe not his clone. But Carolla cracks me up.
Mr. Cruisin cracks me up.

Daily life is not always easy. Laughter pulls us through, don't you think?

So, this season of Dancing with the Stars is providing me with the best medicine...dancing, laughter, and the chance to unwind on my couch without having to think.

And thanks to Adam Carolla...I have done the unthinkable...

I VOTED on a reality show.

(did I just say that out loud?)

Jumping the shark

2008-03-11T07:02:00.000-07:00

The term jumping the shark alludes to a specific scene in a 1977 episode of the TV series Happy Days when the popular character Arthur "Fonzie" Fonzarelli literally jumps over a shark while water skiing. The scene was so preposterous that many believed it to be an ill-conceived attempt at reviving the declining ratings of the flagging show. Since then, the phrase has become a colloquialism used by U.S. TV critics and fans to denote the point at which the characters or plot of a TV series veer into a ridiculous, out-of-the-ordinary storyline. Such a show is typically deemed to have passed its peak. Once a show has "jumped the shark" fans sense a noticeable decline in quality or feel the show has undergone too many changes to retain its original charm. "Wikipedia"
Post inspired by Neil

I love this term. What a perfect way to describe what's happened to much of television.

All of reality t.v. has jumped the shark (except, of course, American Idol)

So, I'll leave it at this...because I'm too lazy to figure it out myself...

which of your favorite shows, past or present, jumped the shark? and why?

"You look just like a friend of mine"

2008-02-14T19:55:00.000-08:00

Awhile ago, I wrote this post about being told twice in my life that I look like Carrie Fisher.

I suppose if pushed, we could all come up with someone, at least one person, that we resemble.

But for me, it has been quite odd lately. Over the last several months, I have been stopped, no less than twice a week, by someone who just has to let me know I look exactly like someone they know.

People have actually confused me, albeit for a moment, with their friends. "Oh my gosh, you look just like my brother's ex-wife's sister-in-law".

Last week, the guy making sandwiches at Bristol Farm's Market, was positive I was his regular customer that comes in weekly...I have never set foot in that market before.

Just tonight, while paying for Big Hunk candy bars (for my "big hunk" of a husband on Valentine's day...yep, I'm a real sport), a lady in line looked at me and said, "wow, I thought you were my friend, who lives across town...I was wondering what you were doing all the way over here!!!!". And she laughed hysterically. (I'm so glad I could provide her with Valentine's day entertainment.)

This has really got me thinking...

What is it about my face that actually has people stopping me several times a week to say that I look just like someone they know?

I must be the most ordinary looking person on earth, who just looks like...EVERYONE.

Or, perhaps, I have a comforting, friendly face, that doesn't intimidate people, so they think I'm their friend.

Christ, maybe I'm so ugly that people tell me I look like their friend, hoping I won't feel too badly when I have to go home and look at myself in the mirror.

Maybe I'm one of those X-Men characters, Morph-ine...I morph into people's friends, right before their eyes.

Whatever the reason, it has been a very strange phenomenon...

I love trivia, maybe you do too

2008-01-22T11:01:00.000-08:00

Apparently, only Val has a great sense of humor, and understood that my last post was a JOKE people...even my husband didn't get it...OY...

So, moving right along...

Who are the writers of the following songs?:

UH, uh, UH, oh no you don't...do not Google :)

1.Daydream Believer sung by the Monkees

2.The First Cut is the Deepest (Rod Stewart and Cheryl Crow did covers)

3.Smile (though your heart is aching)sung by Nat King Cole

4.Red Rubber Ball sung by the Cyrkle

I've been lookin' for love in all the wrong places

2008-01-18T17:57:00.000-08:00

Lonely Wives Dating Network: Married Women Looking to Meet New People (sexually explicit)

So there you have it.

This is what I found in my "spam" mail today.

And it's about time.

I've been waiting for something like this. It's so inviting, so to the point, so discreet, and so tempting, don't you think?

How long have married women been ignored? How long have we waited to be acknowledged as a viable group just waiting to expand our circles? Apparently...long enough.

Once you're over 50, and married for well over 20 years...life can become a little, shall we say, stale. So why not spice it up. And that is just what I've been wanting to do.

How many reality shows can one person watch? How much ice cream can one woman eat? (I've already been through all 31 flavors) And so, after searching my soul for the answers to these questions, this "spam" mail came just in the nick of time.

I can sit on my laptop (while watching t.v. and eating ice cream, mind you) with my husband right next to me...and he'll never even know that my while my fingers are quickly typing away...I am in actuality, having the time of my life.

This could be the answer I've been looking for. After all, what could be better...

I don't have to put on make-up or do my hair. I can sit in my grubby sweats. I can spill ice cream all over myself. I don't even have to give up American Idol.

Does life get any better than this? I DON'T THINK SO!!!

So, hopefully, before the weekend's over, I will have increased my...

"circle of friends "

*wink wink*

You're pathetic DAWG

2008-01-14T16:32:00.000-08:00

Call me pathetic, call me what you will.

But...

I can hardly contain my excitement. Tomorrow is the start of American Idol.

Again.

I love this show. I watch it from beginning to end.

Why, you ask?

Well, maybe it's the simplicity of it. Maybe it's that I'm jealous and wish I could sing. Maybe it's the fun of watching Paula Abdul, or Randy say DAWG just one more time, or hearing Simon give it to someone.

Maybe it's that I can lay on my couch and not think.

My line of work touches and breaks my heart just a little each and every day. (I will not mention what that is, but trust me, it's true...and I am honored and privileged to do what I do).

So, to lay on my couch at night, and be entertained, and laugh, and follow along with the triumphs and losses of people just trying to live out a dream, hey, why not.

Some say, American Idol is the easy way out. I don't agree. Because if you should make it all the way to the end, and win, you still have to prove yourself viable. In fact, many who have not made it to the end, have faired even better.

So, I'm off to Trader Joes so I can stock up on food for tomorrow night.

I'll be grabbing a big bowl of ice cream, laying on the couch, cheering the contestants on.

Since my last post went over like a lead balloon...

2007-12-27T07:08:00.000-08:00

...I will post again.

Just for me.

No longer for comments.

Those days are gone.

Soooo...

I am taking this week off of work (of which I do not reveal what I do for anonymity reasons...yeah, yeah, I'm a very important person in the witness protection program and can't have my identity revealed).

While lazing around the house yesterday with a cold and cough, and quite frankly enjoying doing absolutely nothing, I tuned into the Ellen Degeneres show.

She begins the show with a monologue, and then breaks into dance.

Wow, how great is that?

I turned to my husband (who is also on holiday from his highly confidential job, and sat very patiently with me while I hackingly coughed my way through the day) and said...

"What could be better, I mean really, than to have your own talk show, where you can get up and dance each and every day, with an audience cheering you on, and your own D.J.?"

Of course my husband turned back toward me and said, "why don't you blog about it?"

Isn't that cute? How sweet,huh?

And in that moment it hit me...

this guy has figured out how to get me off his back!

Now that I think about it, this isn't the first time he has gently suggested I go blog about some inane topic.

And all this time I thought he was supporting me in this endeavor, while praising my great writing talents (coincidentally, especially when they are posts about him).

So there you go. After two years of digging into the depths of my brain, cranking out stories from my past and present, the truth is revealed...

Turns out, blogging has saved my marriage. When my husband was frustrated with me, he told me to blog.

When he could no longer listen to my words (I know, hard to imagine), he told me to blog.

When I couldn't stop talking about the same thing over and over, he told me to blog.

Turns out...the act of blogging is more than just a place to express oneself...

Turns out...

Blogging is a marital aide. (you should pardon my expression).

Who needs Dr. Phil when you've got blogging...

Drove my Chevy to the Levy

2007-12-24T10:11:00.000-08:00

inspired by Val

It's funny how all of your feminist ideals get thrown right out the window when staring into the eyes of a great big policeman.

Especially when you're 16. Especially when you have just gotten your license a few weeks prior.

There I was, newly licensed, in my brother's "kelly green" '69 Camaro. I had four other girls in the car with me. For those of you who know Los Angeles, you will recognize the exact off-ramp of the 405 Freeway I'm about to describe. The exit is Mulholland. As you pull off the freeway, there are a couple of lanes...you can go left from the left and right from the right lane...makes sense, right?

Sitting in the left lane with my four friends all screaming different things at me..."go left, no, go right, no left, no right"...I finally had to choose. Unfortunately, the last thing I heard was "GO RIGHT!"...and so, I did.

OOOPS! I was in the LEFT turn lane.

And there it was. The thing we fear most. The thing a brand new 16 year old driver fears most. Those lights, the siren. I knew I was "dead".

I pulled over, in my brother's kelly green Camaro. The Camaro that, in this year of 1971, had a huge peace sign in the back window. Not to mention the crap all over the car...a rolling trash can as it were.

The nice, rather large policeman came over to my car, motioning to roll down the window. I began to roll it down, and then it happened.

I burst into tears. Uncontrollably. I couldn’t stop.

The great big policeman asked me a few questions. I answered through my tears. My girlfriends were as still as statues. And then the miracle happened.

He asked me to promise I would never do it again. Hell yeah officer

Of course it was more like “y-y-y-es officer”.

“O.K.” he so generously said. “Then go, and don’t ever do anything like this again”.

And you know what? I never did. Until I was 34, and pregnant with my youngest. I was nabbed doing 40 in a 30 zone. And hormonal. And figured, hey those tears worked oh so many years ago, why not now, right?

So, bring on the tears! Only, this guy? Wasn’t buyin’.

Crap…out came the ticket book…I was doomed to “comedy” traffic school. (which, by the way…NOT funny)

I have never sped down that street again.

Somehow, the picture of a flashing 52 year old with tears streaming down her face, just isn't quite the same as a cute, perky, scared out of her wits 16 year old.

Maybe I'll soon be able to play the "poor old senior" card.

Hey, you do what you can.

Does this make my butt look big?

2007-12-16T12:14:00.000-08:00

AWWWWW...the holidays...

CAKE CANDY COOKIES...

EVERYWHERE

And so here is what I am acutely aware of this holiday season...

My derier enters the room about 5 minutes after I do.

Yep...everything I eat goes straight to you-know-where. The cake, candy, and cookies do not pass GO. They make a bee-line for my (in the words of Tyra Banks) "big fat ass".

Now, really, is this such a bad thing? Let's face it...it's worked well for J Lo hasn't it? Kim Kardashian had a whole show planned around her big booty airing on the scholarly "E" network.

So why shouldn't it work for a menopausal, post mid-life, Jewish woman, right?

In fact, I say, a big rear is like wrinkles...they are earned.

With hard work.

Determination.

Getting rid of wrinkles has never made sense to me. Have you seen botoxed women? Their foreheads literally do not move. What happened to aging gracefully? As far as I'm concerned, each little line and wrinkle is a like a road map.

A map that carefully lays out where you have been. The heartaches, the triumphs, the wins and losses, the births and deaths that have boosted up or torn out your heart.

All of these expressed in the little lines that run through our faces.

Wrinkles really are a beautiful thing. They are wisdom, laughter and tears all rolled into one.

And so, I say it's time we re-think the rear end.
It's time to find it's beauty, wisdom, and true meaning.
It's time to stand up and let the big rear be counted.

We must appreciate a large tush for what it really is...

it is a woman's expression of having lived a "full" life.

And so, the next time you realize yours is entering 5 minutes behind you...remember,

it is merely a testament to...

a lifetime of talent, beauty, inner strength, and wisdom.

Enchanted Memories

2007-12-09T11:43:00.000-08:00

When I was a little girl, I went to Disneyland twice each summer.

Yep, you read that right...TWICE each and every summer.

Why, you ask? Well, my father, an elementary school teacher, needed to supplement his income. So, he and a fellow teacher, borrowed money, worked hard, and opened a well-respected summer day camp in L.A.

The camp ran two sessions each summer. And each session consisted of various field trips...Disneyland, Knott's Berry Farm, Mattel Toys, and Helms Bakery, to name a few.

This was how I spent each summer, until I turned 10...the year my father died. The next summer, my mother would run the camp with my dad's partner, one last time.

I was reminded of all that last weekend when I went to see the latest Disney blockbuster..."Enchanted".

It is a tribute to all things Disney...and they were not afraid to make fun of themselves. (Of course, putting McDreamy in the staring role, didn't exactly hurt).

Isn't it strange how a movie can take you into the hidden corners of your mind...corners that have gone unnoticed for years.

Movies, just like music, have a way of transporting us to another time, place, or emotion that has gone unexplored for years.

Maybe that's exactly why we go to movies. To relive long lost feelings. To escape to another time and place.

As the movie Enchanted moved along, I found myself giggling like a little girl...enjoying every aspect of this movie. I felt slightly silly. Until I realized that an entire audience was enjoying it just as much as I was. I wasn't the only one finding their way back to a simpler moment in time.

Maybe it's that Disney is a constant in our lives. Always there, always dependable. Disneyland is, after all, the happiest place on earth. Disney characters find their way to the hearts of generation after generation.

Even when everything else changes or falls apart, Disney is always there.

I guess we need to be able to escape to those corners.
We need constants.
We need the things that connect us to the warm, safe places that exist in our hearts and minds.

Even if it's just for a mere 90 minutes.

A little sappy...maybe...but, hey...

Thanks Disney...

for connecting me to memories of my past, and for memories yet to come.

Selling my Soul

2007-11-30T07:18:00.000-08:00

Unlike most people, I'm willing to openly admit that I blog because I love the comments.

Oh sure, it's a great outlet. I love digging into the recesses of my mind (which has become quite recessy) and tying the past with the present as I have often done.

I love telling stories about my poor husband, the clutz, I mean PRINCE, uh yeah, that's it...PRINCE.

But without the feedback...it simply just isn't as much fun.

Now, when I first started blogging...I was a complete whore...selling my soul on EVERYONE'S blog just to get people over here to read.

And it worked...you began coming in droves. 10,then 20, then sometimes 35 comments a post would come.

But then...my blogging slowed down for personal reasons...and my posts were fewer and farther between.

The comments slowed down.

And now I'm back (well,sort of)...and the comments are very slowly coming in.

C'mon people, do I have to start whoring around again? I mean really, now I'm 52, not the spry 50 year old who started this thing.

Do you really want me out there "selling" myself again?

I DON'T THINK SO!

So, if you don't want that to happen...you'd better show yourself here...that's right...leave me a comment...

Are you still out there?

When this old world starts getting me down...

2007-11-27T08:08:00.000-08:00

(yep, that's my husband)

Last week, as I was pulling out of my driveway, I just happened to look...UP.

Lo and behold, there was Mr. Cruisin atop...the roof.

WTF?!!!!

This is the same man who has fallen off a ladder and twisted his ankle, fallen off a ladder and broken his toe, been knocked in the head while dumpster diving for accidentally thrown away keys...is this really the same man who should be up on a roof?

I don't think so.

So, how was I to drive off, while my husband was up on the roof? Everything ran through my mind...

-Maybe I should bring him his cell phone, so when he goes tumbling, he could call 911 to come scoop him up.

-Maybe I should sit there until he comes safely down from the roof.

-Maybe I should yell and scream at him for going up on the roof at his age, after breaking a toe, and twisting an ankle (which, by the way, he is still hobbling on, but of course won't admit it).

In other words, should I be an annoying, overbearing, controlling, protective wife, or should I be cool, calm, collected?

Well, hard to believe...but I drove off, putting all images out of my mind of Mr. Cruisin sliding off the roof to his doom.

While driving myself to my destination, not thinking about my husband's demise...my cell phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me, Mr. Cruisin" (yes, of course he always identifies himself this way)

"Just thought you'd like to know...I'm off the roof".

OH MY GAWD...how sweet was that? Does this man know me, or WHAT?

And of course, in my own cool way, I calmly answered...

"OH, were you up on the roof?...hadn't noticed".

can I quote you?

2007-11-18T09:07:00.000-08:00

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

I found this quote today, and thought it quite appropriate for my birthday.

I think it's true. If you can find what makes you come alive (hopefully it's legal and doesn't hurt others)...then what could be better for the world?

We are here for such a short time. It seems that we should really make an effort to be "alive", productive, meaningful, and touch a heart or two.

It's not always an easy accomplishment though, is it?

Have you found what makes you come alive?

aging and ice cream

2007-11-11T08:12:00.000-08:00

One
More
Week...
and I have to change my heading again...

Turning 52...Oy

I suppose it doesn't matter, since I have no readers anymore. But, I might as well keep it updated.

Turning 52...Oy

What's changed most is my stomach...no longer nice and flat.

And the changes in my body temperature...I travel from Hawaii to Alaska several times a day (if you get my drift).

Still love ice cream...maybe that's why my stomach isn't flat anymore.

Still love Mr. Cruisin after 26 years of being together (or is it 25?)(whoops, losing memory is certainly a part of this aging thing).

Well, in a week, I'll let you know what it's like to be 52...until then...gonna enjoy the remainder of being a young 51.

"the shoes"

2007-10-10T19:36:00.000-07:00

As I drive to work in the morning, depending on what time I leave, I watch the parade of ladies in "the shoes", as I lovingly refer to them.

You may know who I mean. Maybe you pass them on your way to work.

These are the dedicated: "it's-my-break-so-I'll-put-on-my-sneakers-and-
walk-like-a-maniac-around-the-block-time" women.

I admire these women. Not a one is skinny. Not a one is fit. Not a one is in sweat clothes.

But they're trying. Trying to get skinny. Trying to stay fit. Trying to pretend to be in sweat clothes.

Who started this trend anyway? I think it started in New York. Because in New York, you take a subway and then walk another 10 blocks to get to your destination.

Putting on your sneakers (as they say on the east coast...here they are tennis shoes) makes a whole lot more sense than struttin' down the street in your Jimmy Choos, Prada, or Manolo Blahnik's (HA...as if I own a pair of any of those. This is real life, not an episode of Sex and the City).

And these women walk in packs.
And can they talk.
And talk.
And talk.

Maybe I'm jealous of the ladies in "the shoes". After all...they don't have to be skinny. They don't have to be fit. They just have to be willing and raring to go.

And these women bond...each and every day.

I imagine they talk of life and love, of children, and divorce, the latest with Britney, and who got kicked off of Dancing with the Stars, who was diagnosed with cancer this week, and what they'll make for dinner that night, will my husband still love me if I don't lose this weight, will I get that raise, will my children be okay, who will win for president, and do our lives really matter after all.

Women just trying to stay fit, while trying to make a living, and take care of their families, only to wake up and do it all again tomorrow.

And, tomorrow, I'll wake up, drink my coffee, and drive off, to once again witness, but perhaps with a whole new respect...

the ladies in "the shoes".

Look Out Below!

2007-09-28T17:06:00.000-07:00

Who woulda thunk that my adorable husband would be the thing to bring me back to blogging on a semi-regular basis.

But, alas, he's done it again.

Here is the back story: My mother, in her haste to get ready for a trip to the east coast, inadvertently threw her keys down the trash chute from the second floor of the building she lives in. Oh yeah, I guess I should mention that she did this accidentally, while throwing a bag of trash away...it's not that she just goes around throwing keys down trash chutes at will.

After receiving the call from my mother, I quickly informed Mr. Cruisin' of dear old mom's mishap.

We were in the middle of dinner when I revealed this information...and my husband couldn't scarf up the food fast enough.

Oh joy, rapture..."let's go dumpster diving!!!"

"Christ", I thought to myself. This man has now totally lost it. When I asked what he was talking about, he replied: "well, it's not as if I haven't done this before".

Now this was an interesting visual. Of course he defended these actions by proceeding to tell me that back in his college days, while working his way through school, there were times that he'd have to dive through the dumpster at work, when something had been accidentally thrown away.

Whew! And I thought he was going to tell me that this was part of his mysterious past in the witness protection program leading to a secret life of hiding in dumpsters.

With flashlight and ladder in tow, we made a bee-line for my mom's condo. We knocked over a few pedestrians on the way...but hey...you can't get between a man and his dumpster.

Upon our arrival, we clandestinely made our way over to the dumpster, which lies behind two big metal doors.

Up the ladder (yes, another f#*%ing ladder) and over he went...into the pile of trash.

With flashlight in hand...he began his search. I stood by as the dutiful wife, ready to puke from the stench.

Suddenly, as Mr. Cruisin was bent and hunched over, there was a strange whooshing sound.
And before you could say "Look out below"...down came a huge, full, bag of trash...

right on his head!

That was it...I was sure his neck had been lopped off, and my prince charming was becoming the headless horseman, right before my very eyes.

He jumped back, I screamed, and all he could say was "shhhhh, they'll hear you".
Oh yeah, this was a good time to be showing discretion and a sense of dignity.

God forbid the alter kockers in my mother's building find out her prince of a son-in-law was actually going through the trash.

Within seconds of Mr. C jumping back (and he did this with his lovely swollen purple ankle)...WHOOSH...down came another bag! And, I might say, with the weight and strength of an anvil that Coyote just pushed over a cliff to land on the Roadrunner.

We might as well have been Elaine and Kramer, straight out of a Seinfeld episode. I laughed so hard, well, let's just say I was no longer clean and pristine.

I spent the rest of the night screaming at him "Look out beeeeeeloooowww".

Well, look at the bright side...Luckily no one decided this would be the ideal time to dump out the cat box.

Oops, he did it again...

2007-09-21T18:47:00.000-07:00

No, don't worry, this is not another Britney story.

Well, just a little over a year ago, the following happened:

http://cruisin-mom.blogspot.com/2006/08/toe.html

For those of you who follow the writings of this mostly mundane blog, you'll remember that the amazing Mr. Cruisin' broke a toe while bravely rebuilding our patio cover for the entire summer of '06.

After a year of recovery,(don't worry, unlike his wife, he did not spend a year on his ass watching American Idol and eating icecream)he boldly decided to run some wiring in the ceiling of his office, so his air conditioner might work more efficiently.

As he readied himself to take on the ceiling, tools and ladder in hand, I of course, nagged him about not doing this himself and risking falling off the ladder.

Me: "Mr. Cruisin', you're not the young hunk you once were...perhaps you shouldn't be climbing a ladder all by yourself, you could fall and break something".

Mr. C: "Oh pu-leeeeze...I've been doing this all my life...I don't need help...it's no big deal...what could possibly go wrong?"

ding ding ding...those words are always the kiss of death.

Fast forward an hour or so...

Phone rings:

Mr. C: "What are you...a witch?

Me: "Huh?"

Mr. C: Well, guess what? I was coming back down the ladder, missed the last step, twisted my ankle, and down I went. But don't worry, it's not broken. No big deal...just a bit purple".

So, what's a big-mouth wife to do? I was at a cross roads...should I be a supportive, compassionate wife, or lace into my poor, mis-steppin', old hunk of a man?

Afterall, this scene could've played out so many different ways...a broken hip; a split head; passed out. Hopefully he had clean underwear on, or any underwear on...could you imagine being found by paramedics with dirty underwear?

Luckily, the worst did not happen. A person can survive a sprained ankle...although not easy to get around when your job requires you to be on your feet all day.

But my Mr. Cruisin' never complains...he marches on (so to speak), with nary a gripe.

ME...I'd be wining, complaining, and demanding as much icecream as is humanly possible for one ailing person to eat.

And do you think my husband learned a lesson from all of this?

Of course not...he'll be back up a ladder in no time. Luckily for me...

Purple is my favorite color.

Confessions of an old lady

2007-08-28T13:10:00.000-07:00

How do I admit this? Should I admit this?
Okay...I'm going to admit this.

I watched HIGH SCHOOL MUSICAL 2.

Okay, my head is hanging low. But, it's true...I watched every last mousketeery, hokey, over-acted moment of the thing.

Why, you ask? Well, I asked myself the same question. Over and over for 2 hours... while I sat glued to the television (well, except for the time I had to get up and refill the ice cream bowl).

What was so appealing to this almost 52 year old, flashingly menopausal woman that allowed me to give up 2 hours on a Friday night to dedicate to this Disney mega hit?

And, I don't have the excuse of young, Zac Efron-dedicated, crazed little girls forcing me to sit and watch with them.

While I watched the movie though, I noticed I had a smile on my face. I noticed that I wanted to sing along. I noticed that the lead girl, Vanessa (I think), is the 2007 version of Annette Funicello (anyone else notice that?). Zac Efron is a dead-ringer for David Cassidy. No wonder hearts are swooning over him.

These kids are such a ridiculous throw-back to a time long forgotten...that you just can't get enough. Sounds ironic? I think that's exactly what makes this so appealing.

The characters are just pure, and clean, and likable...and hey, who DOESN'T want to throw a musical extravaganza? I mean...really.

Who doesn't want to watch the most gorgeous boy and girl fall in love, and almost kiss at least five different times, sing in perfect harmony, and all the while spending their summer raising money to go to college?

The music, the dancing, the clothes, all a reminder of simpler times gone by.

Maybe it was 2 hours away from Lindsay, Paris, and Britney. Maybe it was 2 hours away from the sad realities of war, drunken celebutantes and low-life politics.

I can't say it was 2 hours of the best cinematic entertainment I've ever seen.

But, maybe, once in awhile, it's good for the soul to be transported back to a time filled with innocence, sweetness, the value of friendship, and puppy love.

Still Here

2007-06-09T11:37:00.000-07:00

Well, by now, I can't imagine that people even remember me, or think I'm still here.

But, guess what?...I am!

I miss writing, I miss reading, but for personal reasons I have had to basically quit the blogging world.

I miss walking through the memories in my head and heart and sharing them. I miss the comments from readers, that let me know they too had shared similar experiences and feelings.

So now, I watch too much t.v. and eat too much icecream.

I know more about Paris Hilton than I ever imagined wanting to know.

There are too many people trying to throw their hat into the ring of running for president.

Please don't tell anyone that I laughed all the way through "Knocked Up", even though it was a ridiculous premise and kinda raunchy.

I have written and self-published a children's book, accomplishing a dream I've had for 40 years. Some of you, who I communicate with personally, know about it. Due to my unwillingness to break anonymity, I won't be telling you about it...seems sort of ridiculous but that's the way it is for now.

I suppose no one will even be reading this...but the urge to write something was just too great...

All by myself

2007-03-15T14:36:00.000-07:00

Holy smokes...I looked at my site meter today and found that I have one, that's right I said ONE, reader a day.

How sad. But of course it's my own fault. I have fallen off the radar.

I no longer write consistently, nor do I read or comment consistently.

I don't want to go completely by the wayside, but unfortunately circumstances have changed, and I'm not able to tend to my blog as I once was.

Even I miss my writing, so I can only assume that my regular, loyal readers do too. So much, in fact, that you just can't even bear to bring yourselves over here to check me out.

That's what would account for my daily average readership of ONE person.

Oh, wait a minute...an average of one means that somedays there are NO readers.

PATHETIC!

I'm not even sure of what to write about. I remember loving to write about my past and intertwining it with my present. I seem to recall that many of you enjoyed those stories too.

So here is a quick one.

When my oldest son was 3, he had two goldfish he named Grape and Fruit (clever, huh?).

Well, Grape was a pleasantly plump guy, while Fruit had black spots on his lovely golden skin (do fish have skin?)

As luck would have it...one dark, grey, somber night...Grape bit the dust.

Being that our son was a sweet little 3 year old who had no experience with death, we had to decide how to properly deal with the situation.

What could we possibly tell our sweet little boy about the fish he had grown to love (after 3 weeks)? I mean, we wouldn't want to tell the truth...that the fish had died, and start explaining the meaning of life, and what happens when someone dies, and that mommy and daddy won't be dying anytime soon, etc. etc.

We did what any good parents would do...we panicked...and quickly drove to the local pet store to buy a new Grape. Unfortunately we could not find one quite as plump, but we knew a 3 year old wouldn't notice.

We snuck the new Grape into the bowl while our little boy slept soundly and unknowingly.

The next morning he woke up, and ran downstairs to see his precious goldfish, as he had done each morning those 3 weeks since he had acquired the fish.

He looked carefully, left and right, looked away, and back again. We held our breath hoping that he wouldn't notice that Grape was not quite the same.

After a few moments of sizing up the situation, my son turned to us and announced "Look mommy, Grape got skinny!".

Whew, it worked...we didn't have to deal with the dreaded subject of death.

Now for the part where I intertwine this story of the past with my present.

I would not have dealt with this the same way today. I would have used it as a wonderful opportunity to explain the cycle of life and death to my son. I would have used real language: death, dying...not "passed" or "gone to sleep". I would have allowed him to express what he loved about Grape, what he would miss about Grape, to say if he felt sad, or scared, or mad that Grape had died. We would have had a funeral service and burial for grape. I would have answered any questions he had about death. I would have told him that we would always hold what we remember about Grape in our hearts, and that we could talk about Grape anytime he wanted to.

Maybe more than one person will read this...maybe not.

I miss blogging. I miss talking to people all over the country and world for that matter.

I miss sharing stories that might touch someone's heart just a little.

I miss your comments, because it reminds me that people just want to connect and make contact and know we're not alone in our thoughts and feelings.

I hope you are all okay.

Thanks for reading.

reality

2007-02-24T16:31:00.000-08:00

I couldn't be happier.

American Idol is back.

The Academy Awards are on tomorrow night...the best day of the year.

Britany Spears head slowed down Anna Nicole Smith news for five minutes.

Isn't life wonderful?

I went to a bar mitzvah today. Mr. Cruisin and I had the honor of performing an aliyah (called up to the torah to say a prayer before the young man reads his torah portion).

I have to say we weren't half bad. As we got back in our seats, my husband, being the great observer that he is, menitoned that going up to sing the aliyah is not unlike going before the judges on American Idol.

So, of course,upon returning to our seats, we sat in judgmental bliss over all the other contestants, ooops, I mean friends and family that were called up to say this prayer.

Just like American Idol, some were single contestants and some came forward in groups.

Mr. Cruisin: "hey you, contestant number 1...a bit pitchy, wouldn't you say?" "I'm just not feelin' you dawg, you know what I'm sayin'?"

Me: (elbowing Mr. Cruisin' in the gut) SHHHHH! Don't you know this is a serious religious ceremony...keep it down...besides...he wasn't bad. In fact, he had personality, a spark, he should keep going, and not give up".

Mr. Cruisin: "WHAT?! Are you kidding, (suddenly breaking into an English accent)that was just AWFUL! He should be ashamed, that was completely fuhget-table".

Next up was a group. NO choreography, no harmony, quite pitchy...hopeless.

How did any of these people expect to ever be invited to another audition, I mean, ceremony.

Oh well, all of life seems to have become just one big reality show.

Don't you think?

Gosh, I hope Mr. Cruisin isn't the father of Anna Nicole's baby.

A Cut Above

2007-01-29T07:57:00.000-08:00

It's no secret that I love American Idol.

There is something mesmerizing about watching people throw themselves at the mercy of the judges and be voted off one by one.

And since I am a slave to the TV remote...my fingers uncontrollably clicking away (yes, I'm the equivalent of a guy...my husband and I actually arm wrestle for the remote)...I have discovered that A.I. is just part of a trend that has, quite frankly, gotten out of hand:

...the preponderance of shows where people compete, are judged, and then kicked off.

Of course there are shows like Top Model, Top Chef, Project Runway, and Survivor. There is even a show that allows America to pick the 2 stars of a Broadway production of Grease...yikes, a bit risky.

And then, just the other night, while flipping around the dial, we stumbled on a show called the TEASE...a hair styling competition where stylists strut their "haircutting stuff", are judged, and tossed out like an old pair of clippers.

The host of the show is Lisa Rinna, of Melrose Place and Dancing with the Stars (oops, there’s another one I forgot about) fame. Mind you, Lisa has the greatest short haircut in all of show-biz and has earned the right to host this distinguished show.

Mr. Cruisin and I just couldn’t believe how far this whole “compete, get judged and ripped apart, and then tossed out like a baby with bathwater” thing has gone.
What could possibly be next, you ask? Well, start looking for it, cause it’s coming soon.

A CUT ABOVE! America’s Next Top Mohel.

Mohel’s will compete before a panel of three judges: A surly British Rabbi, Joan Rivers, and of course, Paula Abdul. (Paula has agreed to share whatever’s in her Coke cup with the contestant).

Here’s a preview of what the competition will look like…Enjoy!

And to the winner, whoever he may be…Mazel Tov!

my achy breaky heart

2007-01-27T14:30:00.000-08:00

I can't come up with anything to write about.

I've been very blah lately.

It just seems that the best thing to do is take a little break, eat some ice cream, and watch American Idol, until I shake the writing blues.

I'm a big fat loser

2007-01-13T17:03:00.000-08:00

Well, I notice it's that time again.
It's award season.
Golden Globes, People's Choice, Grammy's, SAG, Oscars are right around the corner.

And, once again, it's time for the JBlog Awards.

And, once again, I notice I'm not nominated. Last year it was understandable. I was even too new to be considered for best new blog.

But this year, I'm shut out again. I can't even be considered for best new blog cause I'm too freakin' old now. Wow, this must be how William Shatner feels.

Perhaps I need publicity. What's a girl to do?

I know, I need to get out of my car at In and Out Burger with no underwear on...that should do it...hey, don't knock it...it worked for Britney.

Perhaps a good fight with the Donald is just what I need. Hey Donald...your comb-over stinks.

Maybe I could pretend to be James Brown's widow, and go on every entertainment show whining my eyes out.

Oh, what's the use...I'm just not destined to be a winner.

See if I ever share the details of my colonoscopy with you people again.

tired

2007-01-12T09:46:00.000-08:00

Life is not for the faint of heart.

This past week has not been easy.

Attending two funerals in one week, at two ends of the spectrum, certainly makes one pause and ponder life, time, meaning, and whatever is it all about.

The first funeral was for a 2nd cousin, who lived to be 100 years old. A sweet woman who loved and was loved by her family, who died with all her faculties. She was tired and ready to go.

The second funeral was for a 49 year old friend. A husband, father, athlete, business man, who simply had a massive heart attack in his sleep.

Hundreds of people attended the service. Wives whose hearts were aching with the question "what if I were her?". Husbands whose faces had written all over them, "wow, could that be me?".

Hundreds of people simply stunned with the shocking death of one so vital and young.

How to make sense of it.

I am not a big believer in destiny, or the theory there is a reason for everything. There is no reason a wife and children should experience the death of a husband, father too soon.

I, simply believe, that everyone dies, the time and circumstances different for each of us.

The job for those of us left behind, is to honor the dead, as well as ourselves, by continuing to make the best of our lives.

Sometimes that's just plain hard.

Exhausting.

But I will wake up, start again, and make sure I do the best I can to honor those that go before me...

and honor the life I have been given.

Indulge your sweettooth...you won't be sorry

2007-01-04T17:40:00.000-08:00

Thank you all for responding to my blackmail. I must say, it warms the cockles of my heart to know just how intimidated you all are of little ol' me.

So, now that I know this, I shall wield my powers to get you to do just one more thing.

Please take a moment to stop by and read Jaime...better known as Sweettooth over at A Little Indulgence.

I really can't remember how I first came to Jaime's blog. The usual way I suppose. I probably read a comment of hers on someone's post, and followed it back to her blog.

Lo and behold I found a "young" east-coast version of myself! We love the same music, movies, have had similar childhood experiences, it's just that I did it all before her!

I have no problem with the fact that she is waaaay younger than me...no, no, not at all.

Don't worry Jaime, you'll be having colonoscopies, and flashing soon too.

Jaime's posts are open and honest about things going on in the moment. She is insightful and sensitive, and you won't be sorry you stopped by.

Go ahead, indulge your sweet tooth.

okay Jaime, I can expect the check, when?

I heart Letterman

2006-12-27T18:29:00.000-08:00

If you've been following this blog for a while, you know I LOVE David Letterman.

Yep, that's me, and Dave. See a resemblance?

Now, I've noticed lately, that my comments are waaaay down. Perhaps I have lost my magic; perhaps it's preoccupation with the holidays; perhaps I'm not as important as I would like to believe I am.

So, until I see more comments here, I really don't see a reason to grace you with my wit and wisdom.

Instead I shall provide you with this link.

I hope you enjoy it. If you do, please comment.

If I receive enough comments, then perhaps I shall reward you with a posting.

http://youtube.com/watch?v=FD-K8P-7rTI

One year ago today I had this to say...

2006-12-24T10:41:00.000-08:00

Perhaps some would call this cheating. Some may call it sheer laziness. I call it..."hey, this wasn't bad writing for the beginning of my blog, and since many of you were not readers yet, you missed it...therefore, I feel compelled to share it with you, so that those of you who did not read it the first time, will have a chance to learn a little bit more about me".

Whew, that was exhausting.

I want to say just one word to you. Just one word. Are you listening? PLASTICS!

When I was a little girl, we would often visit my grandparents in the Fairfax district of Los Angeles. They were Russian immigrants who came here by way of Canada to New York and finally to lovely Los Angeles. In those days, L. A. was filled with dreams of Hollywood, orange groves, blue skies, and year round sunshine. They lived in several places before I was born, but the place I remember was their apartment near Fairfax.

What I remember most about their apartment was... PLASTIC! Every sofa, every chair, was dressed with a specially sized covering of clear PLASTIC. Now, as if that weren't enough...even the carpets were shielded with plastic runners.

My formative years were spent trying to figure out why. What would lead these two little Russian immigrants to such strange behavior?

Was it for comfort? I don't think so...considering that trying to pry yourself off the couch without leaving the skin from the back of your legs was no easy feat...I don't think it was for comfort.

Was it for cleanliness? Perhaps...I suppose there's alot to be said for being able to hose down your furniture at the end of each day.

Was it for status? Maybe...The 60's was a time for PLASTICS, as was so aptly pointed out in the movie "The Graduate".

Was it for protection? Could be...we know the '80's was all about "protection"...maybe they were just ahead of their time.

Whatever the reason, I do know this...that plastic covered furniture is a memory I now hold close. My grandparents lived a hard life. They left their home to come to a land of great promise...promises that were in many ways fulfilled. But they had to live through the death of their only son. And I can't remember a day where I felt their anger, resentment, or the unending pain that I now know they must have felt.

My grandfather lived to the age of 93, writing love letters to my grandmother 'til the day he died. Not a visit would go by, where he didn't tell me the latest joke. And, although my grandmother complained that she hadn't slept in 50 years, she lived to the age of 89, dying only a year and a half after my grandfather.

Maybe, in the end, the reason for the PLASTIC was this...Preservation.

It preserved the furniture that to them meant they had "made it"...they had achieved the American dream. And within that dream they preserved a marriage, a family, a life together for 63 years. I'm grateful for those memories and the model of a long lasting marriage made of ups, downs, hard work, humor, love, and loyalty.

Maybe that guy's advice in "The Graduate" wasn't so far off the mark after all.

(post inspired by Danny Miller)

technology meets hair

2006-12-17T11:15:00.000-08:00

(this is my 100th post...who knew when I began 1 year ago, that I'd have 100 things to say. Thanks to those of you who stop by here, and truly make it fun for me to write).

I have great hair. No, really, just ask anyone who knows me...they'll tell you:

"Cruisin has great hair".

The main reason my husband married me was because I had great hair. (he tries to tell me it was for my superior intellect, but I know better).

Now, I can't take credit for this...my father had great hair, and my father's mother had great hair. (and by great, I mean...lot's of it). It's simple genetics, and that is that.

Through the years, I've had people ask me where I get my haircut...no big whoop.

But last week I think I experienced the ultimate in the age of technology.

Upon having just had my hair cut (and colored...gotta keep the gray at bay), I decided to do a little shopping at a local Mervyn's. I was wandering around the store, with my usual dazed and confused look, when suddenly I was approached by a woman around my age.

Not unlike many strangers have stated to me in the past, this woman wanted me to know what a great haircut I had.

She then proceeded to ask me where and who cuts it. She vigilantly took down the information. She wanted my name, so she'd be able to tell my hairdresser whose hair she'd like hers to look like.

But she started to think (aloud, mind you, as if I'd really care), that perhaps she didn't want to insult her own hairdresser, by leaving and trying someone new, and having to explain to her own hairdresser why she had opted to go somewhere else.

So, she and her friend decided that it was best to snap a picture of me so she could show her own hairdresser how to cut her hair.

Out came the camera-phone.

What could I say? I mean, this was my shining moment...the moment I could truly help another human being.

After all, if I could help this woman's self esteem by simply showing her the way to better hair...why, I would have accomplished a mitzvah, a good deed. And during the holiday season...this is the time to give of oneself, no?

I had no choice but to agree to her request. She took a picture of me from the front. Then she asked me to turn around, so she could represent my backside as well. And, let' s not forget about the side view.

So there you have it. Who knew that my greatest assest, my hair, would someday enrich the life of just one woman. And if this woman feels better about herself when she receives her new haircut, who knows what she will go on to achieve...a "pay it forward" moment, if you will.

Now, if this heartwarming story about a little camera phone doesn't explain the far reaching effects of technology on the human condition...well, then I don't know what will.

And, in that moment, I knew I could return to my shopping, with the knowledge that I had behaved in the true spirit of the holiday season.

Ramblings (or, how not to end up like Brad and Jen)

2006-12-14T15:58:00.000-08:00

Well, I just picked myself up off the floor where I was eating handfuls of jelly bellies.

Sounds weird, you say? Well, let me explain.

Our annual Hanukah party is this Saturday night. You can read about last year's party here. A staple of the party is a big jar of jelly bellies from Costco. I bought that jar today, and of course had to hide it from the vultures, I mean my family, so there would be at least a few left for the party.

Well, the problem with hiding things from others, is this: you know where you hid it!

Now, if you have followed this blog for awhile, you know of my unnatural love for jelly belly's.

So, about an hour after hiding them, I remembered and thought to myself: "Eureka, I have jelly bellies in the house"!!! So, what's a girl to do? What else...find those little buggers and start shoveling them in.

It just so happens I hid them in a lower cabinet in the laundry room. So, I bent down to grab them, open the jar, and lo and behold I fell right on my a*#.

And there I sat. With the jar. I opened the jar. I ate. Lot's and lot's of jelly bellies. Ummm, good.

I thought to myself, well, this is certainly "blogworthy". Actually, it was "pull out the video camera, she's sitting alone on the floor shoveling j.b.'s into her mouth as fast as she can" worthy.

That was rambling number one.

Here's rambling number two.

Last week while attending my work's holiday lunch, a 30 year old volunteer for the center I work for, asked if I had a boyfriend.

See, apparently she thought I was a widow, and that I should be fixed up with somebody.
After contemplating how to answer for a moment or two, I thought that perhaps I should tell the truth...that I had been happily married for 21 years. But I asked her if she knew any men around the age of 50 to fix up with my friend.

Her reply:

Oh, I don't know anyone THAT old!
I immediately asked, "jeeeeeeez...how old was this guy you wanted to fix me up with"?
She said, "well I'm 30...so, someone around that age".

Now may I say, this was getting more intriguing by the minute. I mean...Mr. Cruisin probably wouldn't notice that I was out on a date with a much younger man. He'd probably be asleep on the couch, or repairing bushings, or refurbishing the entire house or something.

So, why not go out on a date with a much younger man? I could be out and back before Mr. Cruisin finished napping.

But then I thought about Brad and Jen...afterall, he just went out to make a little movie, and we all know what happened there.

Goodness knows, that's not what I want...no one could make me laugh like Mr. Cruisin.

But hey, a girl can fantasize for a moment right? Afterall, how often does a flashing 51 year old get asked to be fixed up with someone in their 30's?

Hmmmm?...tell me...I'm waiting...............

(happy hanukah everyone)

Mr. Cruisin: walkin the red carpet

2006-12-09T07:51:00.000-08:00

I started this blog back in June '05 so I could comment on others.

It was not until Dec. 12, that I actually started to regulary write here.

So, as I approach my one year anniversary of writing on a regular basis, I have been re-reading the things I wrote last year at this time.

As I read through my past posts, I am quite impressed. I didn't know I had it in me to be so funny at times, so thoughtful and esoteric at times, and just plain ridiculous at times. (not to mention quite modest, don't you think?)

I reported this to Mr. Cruisin...letting him know that I was quite impressed with some of my writings...referring of course to some of my more moving, thought-provoking pieces.

And here is what he said...

"Gee, my favorites are the ones about me".

and he said this quite seriously ( yeah...enough about me, let's talk about me)

Mind you, my husband is a simple, unassuming guy. He isn't flashy and hangs onto possessions for a very long time (lucky for me, he likes things that are old, yet in fairly good working condition).

So, it's rather adorable that he would come up with such a statement. (you can imagine how much he is loving the fact that I am referring to him as adorable).

And it's true, he has been my greatest muse. He let's me make fun of him and gush about him. How cute is that? (can you see his eyes rolling right about now?).

I think that he secretly (well, I guess with a statement like: "Gee, my favorites are the ones about me", maybe it's not so secret) likes being the focus of a great deal of my writings.

And what's not to like if you really think about it. Afterall, I've:

compared him to Paul McCartney (in a good way, that is)
referred to him as my "knight in shining armor"
sung his praises when it comes to fixing my sagging bushing
bragged about him taking on our rotting patio cover
provoked sympathy from readers when he broke his toe.

Come to think of it...he gets more attention around here than I do. Why, he was even dubbed with a nickname: Mr. Cruisin!

But, am I jealous? NO WAY! Afterall, this being the season of giving, I am in touch with my inner "giver". Tis better to give than receive, right?

So, if I can make this poor old guy feel like a star...why not. In fact, I think that I get the largest response of comments when I write a Mr. Cruisin post. And, I don't think asking me to roll out a red carpet, and flash my new digital camera at him when he comes home each night is asking too much, do you?

Who knew when I started to post "for real" last year, that my husband would become a star here just one short year later.

So, let's hear it for Mr. Cruisin...my muse, my man.

(we'll see how many frickin comments come in because this is a Mr. Cruisin post...Ba-Humbug)

(oops, did I just say that out loud?)

Brain on the loose

2006-12-02T08:49:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered how one event changes the course of your life?

Last year, I asked this question on my blog.

I did not get one response.

Was this too threatening a question? Too thought-provoking? Too intimidating? Too esoteric? Or just plain stupid?

Now, at the time, I had only posted 4 times...I was a blogger "newbie", if you will. But I thought it was a pretty good question (if I do say so myself).

Of course, for me that answer has always been obvious: the death of my father at age 10 had to be the most life changing event of my life. But...I wonder if there were others.

And, is it events that change our lives...or is it our reactions to events that change our lives?

For example: Two people can be driving along and suddenly hit a flurry of traffic. One person may succumb to this situation with anger and bitterness. While another may blast a Frank Sinatra CD, enjoying the extra time spent in the car singing her lungs out (that would be no one I know persoanally).

The event changes both of these lives (they will arrive late to their destination, thereby setting off a chain of other events, etc). But it's really the reaction to the event that impacts our personality, our health, and our relationships with others.

Is this all too confusing? Perhaps...but it's food for thought. Probably only food for my thoughts.

So, there you have it...a glimpse into my mind. Now you know what's running around loose in there.

If you care to comment this year...be my guest. If not...I'll know not to ask this question again next year.

How I spent my Thanksgiving vacation

2006-11-28T16:14:00.000-08:00

You may have noticed (or NOT) that I have been suspiciously quiet these last five days on the blogosphere.

Perhaps you have been enjoying my absence :)

But, guess what...I'm baaaack!

I left for the east coast last Friday, returning to L.A. today. I surprised my brother and sister-in-law for her 5oth birthday. They had no idea I was coming. Even my mother, who left five days earlier from L.A., had no idea I was coming. Only my, niece, who I recruited as my chauffeur, was privvy to this great caper of mine.

I haven't seen my big brother for 2 years...my sis-in-law for 3 1/2.

When I learned they were having a birthday party, I immediately decided that I wouldn't be attending. Afterall, it was Thanksgiving weekend, the busiest travel weekend of the year.

But about a week prior, something inside of me clicked. I remember hearing stories throughout my childhood, about people who found the money and time to attend funerals across the country, but wouldn't go while the person was alive. I didn't want to end up being one of those people. I wanted to be there with them to celebrate, and not wait until tragedy struck.

I really wanted to be there.

So, I figured out a way to go and not miss Thanksgiving with my husband and kids. And...to avoid the nightmare of travelling.

My thought was, that by Friday, everyone would have reached their destination for Thanksgiving, so the travel would be light. I would return Tuesday, after everyone had made there way home from the holiday weekend.

And boy was I right. The plane was only 85% full on Friday, allowing me to have a full row of seats to myself! And today...zipped right through security, little crowds, and our flight was smooth sailing.

I had a wonderful weekend. I am so grateful for the relationship I have with my brother and sister-in-law, nieces and nephew...even living 3000 miles away from eachother.

I even played a new game...Scattegories...almost as much fun as eating icecream.

I did the right thing this weekend. I filled myself with a wonderful, loving, Thanksgiving dinner with my husband, children and extended family. And then spent the weekend filling myself with memories and love.

So that's why I've been missing from the blogosphere the last five days.

...just in case you were wondering.

The sentence finisher

2006-11-21T08:41:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite t.v. shows of all time was Seinfeld.

He managed to take the mundane moments of life and turn them into an hysterical 1/2 hour show that we couldn't wait to view every Thursday night for years.

One of the watermarks of a Seinfeld episode, was his ability to make an everyday behavior bigger than life.

One episode that clearly stands out is that of the "close talker", played by actor Judge Reinhold.
(pictured above in Fast Times at Ridgemont High)

You know this person... the one that invades your space, your personal invisible boundary, moving right smack into your face while talking to you.

The other day, my husband noticed something about a friend of ours, that I had not been aware of.

He finishes your sentences...he's a sentence finisher!

I couldn't help but laugh hysterically, thinking, this is one episode Seinfeld missed!

This is the person who, while you're talking, is busy thinking up the best ending to your sentences or sometimes, your entire story. Before you can spit the words out of your mouth...they have already judged and executed the remainder of your story.

Now, if you're a brand new couple, this behavior is quite adorable. "Oh, don't you just love Susie and Joe together...they're so in tune with one another that they finish eachother's sentences".
"How romantic, how cute, how adorable, how endearing...they complete eachother".

Of course, cut to that same couple 20 years later, and Susie is reaming Joe for constantly cutting her off, never letting her finish a sentence, or get a word in edge-wise, and for doubting that she has a valuable thought in her head.

Joe is screaming at Susie for being a blustering loud mouthed bitch, who never shuts up unless she has a bowl of icecream in front of her.

(no, no, despite what you may be thinking, I'm not talking about me and Mr. Cruisin...he knows to keep his mouth shut when I'm talking).

Now, if you're not a couple, and just two people talking...it's a little more difficult to lambast the person for cutting you off. I mean, afterall, that lambasting should really be reserved for those closest to us...wives, husbands, children, parents...you know, the people we love and care about the most.

Never waist a good reaming on someone you don't really care about intimately and passionately.

So what to do when confronted with this kind of person? I say, why not have fun with it.

And here's how...

See how many sentences or stories you can start, and have that person finish. You know, kind of like mad libs or a sentence completion game. Become a sentence-finisher enabler!

Keep score in your head. How many sentences were they able to complete? How many entire stories of yours did they already know the ending to?

And why not just keep increasing the stakes as you go along...start telling about your bathroom habits; relay a story about your sexual escapades with your husband...

and see where the sentence finisher takes you!

Yahoo...what fun!

So, the next time you find a sentence finisher's behavior annoying, it's time to look in the mirror, girlfriend (sorry if you're a guy...what's the guy equivalent to girlfriend?) and ask yourself...

How have I let this person down? How have I not enabled them in becoming the most proficient sentence-finisher they could be?

Perhaps you have been unwilling to share, openly and honestly. What's a little sexual escapades story among friends...

And bathroom habits? ...why, crap, I've already shared the intimate details of my colonoscopy with you...

Perhaps we can do a "sentence finishing" test run right here...go ahead, fill in the blanks.

Okay, here goes...

last night Mr. Cruisin and I.........

another day

2006-11-19T08:44:00.000-08:00

How observant are you?

Yeah...YOU!

C'mon, look around...notice anything different? Look up...keep going...your getting warmer...yep...that's it...my ramblings are now from a "51" year old wife and mom.

Yesterday, I turned another page in the book of Cruisin-mom.

51

Funny, it smarts just a little more than 50. Don't get me wrong...I'm not unhappy to be here. In fact, I love my 50's. It's just so damned weird to say...

"I'm in my 50's".

How can it be? "And yet, everything around me and about me, tells me I am in my 50's:

I flash.
I have grey hair (well, under the brown dye).
People in their 40's call me "ma'am".
The kid at the movie theatre offers me a senior ticket.
I don't sleep at night.
I remember with great clarity, the Beatles visit to Ed Sullivan.
I voted just a "little" Republican (but mostly Democrat) in the last election. (HORRORS)
I prefer to go out to dinner at 5:00 rather than 8:00.
People are talking to me about their bowel movements.

It all points to the "50's".

But it's okay, because I'm not alone. The planet is lousy with baby boomers. And we happened to see one of them last night doing a one-woman show.

Carrie Fisher (princess Leia), just turned 50. She is performing a brilliant one woman show at the Geffen theatre in Westwood, CA. called Wishful Drinking.

We arrived at the theatre about 45 minutes before show time, and thank goodness we did. What a people watching lalapalooza it was. We even saw Carrie Fisher enter the theatre right through the front doors, as they have no artist entrance at the Geffen.

Rob Reiner (Meathead to those of you old enough to remember All in the Family), was in the lobby waiting too...he did, afterall, direct Carrie in my favorite movie When Harry Met Sally.

Her show covered her life, from her birth into Hollywood royalty (Debbie Reynold's and Eddie Fisher...or as she put it for the younger people..."the Brad and Jen of this era, with Angelina Jolie being their Elizabeth Taylor")...through her pivotal role in Star Wars, her marriage to Paul Simon, her boughts with drug abuse, rehab, mental illness, the gay father of her child...right on up to the present.

She was funny, engaging, heartwarming, and who knew she could belt out a tune?

And...Mr. Cruisin managed to once again...LISTEN!

I mentioned that I'd love a digital camera for my bday, and what did he do? He surprised me with the Canon powershot and a printer to boot!

Now, although this camera seems to have every possible function known to man...
don't expect any pics of me.

For some odd reason, they left off the "make the 51 year old broad look 25 again" function...so...

NO PICS FOR YOU!!!

Take me home

2006-11-09T09:05:00.000-08:00

Curtis, the take home chef

inspired by Neil

On my third date with Mr. Cruisin', he brought me back to his house and cooked me a meal.

Yes, it worked...I was duly impressed, and knew that this was the man I had to marry. Let's not forget this is the same man who had decorated his livingroom with splashes of mauve (oh relax, it was the '80's you know).

We dipped cubes of sourdough bread into a lovely fondue, as we gazed into eachother's eyes.
We drank wine, and laughed, and talked...all the while I was thinking...Yep, I could do this the rest of my life.

Well I fell for it, hook, line, and cheese. Months would go by before I would wake up and notice that this guy hadn't cooked another meal for me.

Now don't get me wrong...he took me places and bought me plenty of meals...but the actual cooking of one? ... uh, uh...no where in sight.

Once we married he, of course, cooked meals here and there...but few and far between. Now, I will say that no one makes a turkey sandwich like my husband. And he does have a rare talent of turning a watermelon into a hippopotamus.

But just last month something changed all that. We happened upon a t.v. show on TLC channel called "Take Home Chef".

A chef named Curtis, picks up babes (well sometimes men, but mostly hot babes) in one of the fancy markets in L.A. (Gelson's or Whole Foods). He helps the woman pick out ingredients for someone's favorite meal...a husband, friend, children, roomate...and together they go back to this person's home to cook a meal.

The idea is that whoever the meal is being cooked for, will come home to this wonderful surprise of this strange chef and an entire camera crew in their home.

Now, Curtis, a hunky, friendly Australian, has a wonderful way of cooking...you know...a little of this, and a little of that...but everything must have olive oil in it.

While cooking the meal, he is completely flirting with the hot babe, but all the while we, the viewers, are learning all about how to cook this fabulous meal.

Well...Mr. Cruisin' is completely enthralled with Curtis. I'm not sure if it's Curtis' hunkiness, or the Australian accent...but Mr. Cruisin' can't wait for this show to come on.

Am I worried about this unusual attraction to Curtis? Hell no.

And here's why:

Every time Curtis cooks...Mr. Cruisin' goes rushing to the market and cooks up the same thing!

Tell me this isn't like striking gold. My husband has been inspired to cook, all because of one hunky Australian.

Several times a week I come home to the smell of something incredible wafting through my home.

And there's Mr. Cruisin' practically dancing around the kitchen...shaking salt and pepper and olive oil anywhere he can. It's the most excited and animated I've seen the guy, since thinking he could be the next American Idol.

Thanks to Curtis...my husband has become a chef extraordinaire.

So girls, the lesson here is to never give up hope...just when you think that after 21 years you may never get more than a turkey sandwich...something happens to turn your world, or should I say kitchen, upside down.

Although, don't tell Mr. Cruisin'...but everytime I go to the market, I get all dolled up, waiting for Curtis to come find me...

Afterall...

I am a hot almost 51 year old babe.

Area 51

2006-11-06T09:35:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it.

I'm eating my ice cream and watching Desperate Housewives, and on comes a commercial for Christmas.

And then another.

HUH?

Is it my imagination, or does the whole advertising thing get started earlier and earlier every year?

I just finished stuffing all of the left over Halloween candy down my throat...the Thanksgiving turkey hasn't even been captured, and already the Christmas ads are here.

In these commercials, it's snowing.

Of course, here in L.A. it's 90 degrees.

And if I don't buy Hanuka invitations soon, the only available invitations and decorations will be for St. Patrick's day.

Do you think a Shamrock can pass for a Star of David?

In the midst of all of this...I'm turning choke, cough, choke 51 in less than two weeks.

Things are spinning and spiraling faster and faster each year.

Unfortunately this includes my body parts. And they aren't spinning and spiraling in an upward motion if you get my drift. Well, that's a post for another time.

Anyhoo, back to the holidays. And my birthday. And trying to figure out how it is that I am turning 51, which somehow feels even more surreal than turning 50.

When you turn 50, even though it's old (don't believe 'em when they tell you that 50 is the new 30), people make a big deal out of it. After all, it's a milestone right?

But 51, well...let's just say everyone "fuh-gets" about it.

Now, not only are you old...but no one really cares.

So this year I took the bull by the horns and decided I would go see my look-a-like in a one woman show the night of my birthday. I'm draggin' Mr. Cruisin along.

Poor guy, never in his life did he dream he'd be sleeping with a 51 year old broad.

But that's how life goes...one minute your a hot 25 year old babe...the next minute you're hot alright, but it comes in flashes.

So, while scarfing up the rest of the Halloween candy, and preparing to capture my Turkey, I will try to enjoy these next two weeks and bask in the glory of being a 50 year old.

I'm singin' and dancin' in the...SHOWER?

2006-10-28T09:28:00.000-07:00

I don't think I've made it a secret that I love "Dancing with the Stars".

Call me shallow, call me what you will.

I have racked my brain about what it is I find so irresistable about this show.

Is is the stars themselves? Is it the professional dancers? Is it the live band trying so hard to do their own special rendition of songs we all know? Is it the amazingly skimpy, sexy costumes that I could only fantasize about wearing? Is it Joey Lawrence's bald head?

Perhaps it's all of that.

Mostly, I just love to watch dancers. I am awestruck by how one can move and contort their body in such a way, that it becomes a beautiful dance. It seems unfair that only a select few have the true capability to do this.

Are you born this way or is it training?

The other day, I told a friend that I have two fantasies...to be a dancer, and to be a singer.

Now, mind you, I have no aptitude for either. When I sing, my kids ask me to please "SHUT UP" (but very politely, mind you). When I dance, well, let's just say Jerry Springer and I would make perfect dance partners.

This friend told me "you can do both Cruisin'...all it takes are some lessons". I laughed, rather loudly, in her face.

Really...can you make a silk purse out of a sow's ear? Can you make Audrey Hepburn out of Mama Cass? (of course Mama Cass could sing, couldn't she?) Can you make Fred Astaire out of Herman Munster?

I mean, come on, they couldn't even make "Britney Spears" out of Britney Spears.

So, no...I don't think you can make Paula Abdul out of Cruisin-mom.

But one can continue to fantasize, right?

So, this morning I'll go into the shower, like I do every morning...and put on a great concert.

(oh please...like you don't do that?)

would you like that warmed up?

2006-10-22T10:21:00.000-07:00

(this post inspired by Wendy)

I love coffee.

I started drinking it when I was 16 and never looked back. I suppose at the time it was the one thing I could do to feel mature...sit in Dupar's coffee shop and drink coffee...just like a grown-up .

My little Russian Nana (grandmother) used to ask me: "Honey, vhy do you drink that dirty vater?"

Yeah...tell that to Howard Schultz, founder of Starbucks. Who knew, that 20 years later that dirty vater would become an industry unto itself. (well, not that coffee wasn't already an industry, it's just that who knew it would become a "designer" industry).

And why is it that Starbuck's is so popular?...How come people flock to pay $3.00 for something that was only 50 cents, with free refills to boot, not so long ago?

Now, this may surprise you, but I like my coffee black. That's right, you heard me; BLACK. None of this wussy cream or sweet and low or sugar for me...uh uh; oh no.

What is it about coffee that makes it so irresistible? I can't get enough of coffee flavor.

I love:

Coffee icecream (yeah, now there's a surprise)
Coffee candy
Coffee yogurt
Coffee cake (does that count?)

Now, I'm sure the caffeine has nothing to do with it. That morning jolt and rush, that comes after those two mouthwatering cups that I savor each morning means nothing to me. Really.

It's simply the magnificent flavor that beckons me back everytime.

But I started to think, what has coffee meant to me throughout my life? As I approach the ripe age of 51, I realize that my coffee habits are simply a reflection of my life stages.

As a teenager, coffee was the gateway to dating. It meant staying up late, talking, giggling, and flirting. Yes, drinking coffee was just part of the early mating ritual. If you drank coffee at 16, it signaled to the boys that you were "mature" enough to date.

On to college. Of course, coffee is mandatory in college. How else can you pull an "all nighter" that it takes to start and finish a 20 page paper that's due the next day? In fact, I'd have to say that through my twenties, coffee was essential.

Coffee got me up every morning to face a treasure trove of jobs all through my twenties. It kept me going at night so I could stay up late, while my girlfriends and I were on the hunt for the perfect man each weekend. Did I just say that out loud?

thank goodness Mr. Cruisin came along when I was 27...that hunt was getting pretty old. Perhaps having Dick Cheney along would have sped things up.

Coffee shops were where some of my most memorable conversations with friends about life, love, politics, and religion were held into the wee hours of the morning.

Marriage and then babies came along. You know, those sweet little beings that, although under 2 feet tall and often less than 8 pounds, control every move you make. Within a few months, I actually began to look like I could've auditioned for a part in Michael Jackson's Thriller video.

But once again, the faithful java was there...waking me each morning, so I could perform my motherly duties.

And all through my forties and now into my, ahem, choke, cough, fifties...coffee has been a social bridge.

The local Starbucks on a Sunday morning, for many years, was the place to be. After the movies on a Saturday night, let's go out for coffee. Now, I'm too lazy to go out to Starbuck's on a Sunday morning, and who bothers with the movies anymore...finding a good one is almost impossible.

But the last several years, coffee has continued to perform a very important function.

Each and every morning, Mr. Cruisin and I sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee. This is where we quietly, calmly discuss:

our lives, children, politics, work, what's broken and needs to be fixed, who is ill, and who is doing great things, will we always stay in this house, should we go out with so and so next weekend, didn't you love Grey's Anatomy last night dearest (yeah, he really says that to me), what's for dinner tonight, and what's on your agenda today.

A simple cup (or two) of coffee in the morning has become our anchor. Every morning is spent connecting through coffee. It's the time we simply talk, with few distractions. Our children have left for their day, and we are free from responsibility and duty. Okay, maybe it's only for 50 minutes...but 50 minutes without distraction is like 500 minutes in dog years (or something like that).

And so it seems that coffee has done more than provide that extra jolt needed to get going in the morning.

It has provided the stability, routine, and warmth necessary for two people's hearts and minds to connect each and every day.

Hmmmm...maybe Howard Schultz knew exactly what he was doing.

Shine

2006-10-15T10:35:00.000-07:00

When you hear the word flashing, what comes to mind?

Well, of course, your local pervert in the latest London Fog trench coat, right?

Unless you happen to be a 50 year old woman. Then the word flashing takes on a whole new meaning.

And it ain't pretty (not that your local pervert flashing his wares is, mind you).

Yes, it's finally happened. You perimenopausal ladies know the mantra...the dreaded question that we can't seem to stop asking...

"Is it hot in here, or is it me?"

I can hardly stand hearing myself ask this question...I can only imagine how my poor husband feels.

But, alas, this is my new reality.

Of course Mr. Cruisin is sure I'm hot all the time because that's what naturally happens when women are near him. I, of course, lovingly assure him that is not the case.

With my new found condition, I seem to be up most of the night, shall we say, glistening.

And figuring out what to wear for the night's retire, has become quite the challenge. I start out cold, since temperatures here in L.A. are dropping to a low 50 degrees at night (sorry east coasters).

A nice pair of sexy flannel p.j.'s call out to me. I climb into bed, fall asleep, only to be awakened by a cold sweat. There. I've said it...

SWEAT!

My next move is to change into something more comfortable. Out comes the summer sleepwear, and all seems right with the world again.

Back to sleep...only to awaken a few hours later...FREEZING.

And glistening again.

Back to the sexy flannels. This quick change of costume continues throughout the night.

All the while, my husband is comfortably "sawing logs" next to me. How nice for him.

Before I know it, the alarm is sounding off, and it's time to wake up. WAKE UP? When did I ever sleep?

Now, the good new is, I have the television to soothe me while I drip. Who knew that T.V. in the middle of the night could be so educational. I have learned more about diets, exercise, hair products, Suzanne Somers, and GIRLS GONE WILD than I ever thought imaginable.

All the while, I try to grasp the purpose of this nightly shvitz. After spending years experiencing the joys of our once a month visitor, this is our reward? Why does mother nature want us to glow and drip at this particular time of the lifecycle?

I would have to say the answer to that one, is the answer to everything else in life...SEX. I mean, come on, what's sexier than a woman in flannel p.j.'s sweating profusely? Let's not forget the fact that I'm up all night, ready to go.

But, there's more:

Why, sweating is just like being on vacation in Hawaii all the time. In fact, I've added a blue drink with a little umbrella to my nightly regimen.

And you know what? My skin has never looked better. It's like a free facial every night.

Getting up to change outfits all night long, is better than aerobics.

I guess this flashing thing isn't so bad afterall.

My message to menopausal women everywhere is this:

Don't worry, enjoy the drip and don't sweat it...

turns out...

this is our shining moment.

Sagging and Loose

2006-10-05T23:21:00.000-07:00

It is the day before Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement. The day when Jews around the world ask God's forgiveness for sins committed over the last year.

My beloved husband comes to me on this day to announce:

"Cruisin...your front end is sagging".

Now, I realize that an important component of atoning is a willingness to be honest with yourself and your loved ones. So I decided that I must be one lucky woman to have a husband who is willing to be this open and expressive.

As if that isn't endearing enough...he continues from there.

"...and your bushings are loose".

Wow, at this point my heart is all a flutter, and quite frankly, I'm feeling pretty hot.

"I've got a brand new part that's strong and erect, not like the last one that was all floppy and flimsy. Give me about 5 hours and I'll have the job done".

That was it. I knew I had to prepare, and fast.

I ran to the drawer to pull out the little Victoria's Secret number I had purchased for my colonoscopy, because afterall, how often does your husband of 21 years announce that he's going to spend 5 hours getting the job done?

While I spent the next 1/2 hour readying myself, Mr. Cruisin was in the garage tending to who knows what.

I showered, powdered, put on a little lipstick. I even brushed my teeth. A dab of perfume, and I was ready to go! Why this almost 51 year old broad was feeling 38 1/2 again!

I waited patiently until I could wait no longer.

I stepped into the garage only to find Mr. Cruisin on his back.

Woah...in the garage? Well, that would be a new one, but hey, you only live once, right?

Except for the fact that he was on his back...underneath my car.

When I asked him what he was doing, he exclaimed:

"I already told you. Your front end is sagging and your bushings are loose.Those new parts arrived, and I'm under here fixing it for you. You'll need to give me about 5 hours to get it done".

"And by the way...why are you wearing that ridiculous thing from Victoria's Secret?...didn't you get that colon thing done already?"

Well, that was that. All my hopes, dreams, and fantasies thrown out in one fell swoop.

But, just as he had promised...five hours later, after a long hot shower and a couple of Advil, he had gotten the job done.

And there was Mr. Cruisin, sprawled out, waiting for me on the sofa...

snoring.

Glazed

2006-10-01T08:54:00.000-07:00

inspired by Neil's latest post.

We all know there are many things that influence who and what we become in life. That being said, I must confess, that the donut has played an important roll, oops, I mean role, in my life.

From the time I was a tiny girl, I can remember my grandpa giving me this advice:

"As you go through life, keep your eye on the donut, and not on the hole".

For years I wondered what this meant. I liked the sound of it. Afterall, what could be better than being told to look at donuts?

Well, in my estimation, being told to eat them would have been better.

But I accepted this sagely advice and went about my life.

I spent the first five years of my life in Inglewood, California. Some of you may know this as the original home of the Laker's (the Forum), but what you may not know is that Inglewood is the home of Randy's Donut's.

I always thought it was amazing that a donut shop had been erected in my hometown and named just for me. But I could never understand why they didn't spell it correctly (you know, with an "i"). When I was five, we moved to the San Fernando Valley. I never had a Randy's donut in those five years, and never have since.

The years went by, and Winchell's donuts became the consummate donut of choice. It was at Winchell's, that I would learn to truly love and respect the glazed donut.

In high school, as I have mentioned in a previous post, Westwood was the place to be, and many Friday and Saturday nights were spent leaning at the counter of Stan's donuts.

In my college years, I would master and perfect the art of donut eating. Going away to college was eye opening to say the least. You are afforded a new independence that extends to all levels of your being...one of those, of course, the independence to eat whatever foods you so desire.

No longer could my mother tell me what to eat, how to eat, and when to eat.

And what better way for a 19 year old to manifest that independence than to eat donuts? (None, I dare say).

So, thus began my journey on the road of differentiation. In order to strike out, and be different from the generation before me, I knew I would have to eat donuts.

One might think that one donut a day would be enough to achieve this goal. But noooo...I would begin each morning of my college career with not one, but FOUR glorious donuts.

Yes, it's true. (oh...maybe that's why I had packed on an extra 20 pounds by the end of senior year).

When college was over, I moved back to West L.A. into a tiny apartment that was coincidentally (yeah, right) within walking distance to, you guessed it, a donut shop. Arlene's donuts. The most amazing donuts this side of the Mississippi.

It was there that I would learn about inner strength and control. I learned that it was possible to eat one donut a day, and still enjoy the independence necessary to differentiate from the generation before me.

(Arlene's donuts has since been torn down, and resurrected as none other than...Starbuck's)

I was beginning to understand the lesson my grandpa was trying to teach me, all those many years ago.

Imagine my confusion, though, when the donut "hole" was invented. Which was I to keep my eye on now?

As the years sped by, my donut intake would lesson. Diet fads would come and go as quickly as first dates...leaving me no choice but to dump the donut. No fat, low carbohydrate, no sugar, protein only...all of these were to leave no room for the donut.

But in my 30's all that would change. With the birth of my sons, the donut would re-enter my life.

For those of you who have children, you know that a sporting event, a birthday sleepover, or just a plain old Sunday morning, is not complete without donuts.

When my children were old enough, we began a tradition. I would take them to the local donut shop (as good as Arlene's by the way) the first and last day of school as a celebration of sorts...a rite of passage, if you will.

As we sat and indulged in our donuts, I would gently pass on the sagely words of my grandfather. I did not take this responsibility lightly.

It is a rare occasion today, when I actually indulge in a donut. But I stick with the donut that got me through those tender early years of life. The donut that taught me the lessons my grandpa so wanted me to embrace.

The glazed donut was and will always be the donut of my life.

And, I now know what my Grandpa's advice was all about.

He knew that to get through life, you must remain focused on what's real, solid, and not full of "air".

I suppose, that without really knowing it...I did just that. I've never been one for flighty dreams, or unrealistic thoughts. Some may call that boring. I call it down-to-earth. Some may call it unimaginative. I call it matter-of-fact.

Because I kept my eye on the donut, I attained much of what I had set out to achieve. That's not to say that life is not without it's ups and downs (some more down than up).

But I have figured out what's "real", and that's where I focus myself. My heart and soul center around my family, my work, and all that is real.

And that is my "donut" these days.

Now, if you'll excuse me, all this talk of donuts has made me hungry.

Think I'll go eat a...

glazed.

Saddle shoes

2006-09-27T09:30:00.002-07:00

I love fall.

I'm not really sure why. Perhaps it's the idea that order, once again, sets in.

School begins, holidays abound, the new season of t.v. shows commence.

When I was young, I remember anticipating the start of school. I knew that a new pair of shoes (black velvet saddle shoes are among one of my favorite memories) and perhaps a few new dresses or skirts were coming my way. A trip to the dime store (yes, I'm dating myself with such language) for new school supplies was always on the schedule.

(Just an aside...I think saddle shoes are the greatest...I don't understand why they haven't made a comeback...maybe I'll start the trend...if you see someone strutting her stuff in saddle shoes...you'll know it's me).

My grandmother was a talented seamstress, and would actually sew beautiful dresses for me. My 7th grade picture was taken in a dress she made for me in "psychodelic" fabric. Yeah, yeah... psychodelic was actual terminology of the day (late 60's), thanks to Timothy Leary and a few little acid trips he took.

It seems that today, we aren't really allotted the time or space to just enjoy the fall. The season has barely begun. Here in L.A., I don't think a leaf has even had the dignity of turning a different color (and yes, leaves turn, even here in lala land)... and Halloween is already being forced to compete with Christmas decorations and gift items.

And what about poor Thanksgiving? What's a turkey to do? Pushed aside for the sake of a pumpkin and a tree.

But, nonetheless, this is still and will always be, my favorite time of year.

McDreamy

2006-09-20T20:36:00.000-07:00

Well, the new fall season of t.v. has begun...

Life just doesn't get any better.

Deal or No Deal...BACK

Dancing with the Stars...BACK

Grey's Anatomy...BACK...McDreamy is back, girls.

Need I say more?

A Bunch of...

2006-09-16T10:22:00.000-07:00

Okay, so how do I say this nicely?

You guys are a bunch of suckers!

You couldn't tell from that amateurish writing that the last post was written by none other than...

ME?

Geesh.

Your comments blew me away.

Thanks, from the bottom of my heart.

The Other Me

2006-09-12T07:41:00.000-07:00

I found this children's story.

It was a day I would always remember.

The beginning of fall, the end of September.

I ran home from school to lie on my bed.

Events of the day swirled through my head.

What could go wrong did so for me.

Starting with recess…a kick to the knee.

When teams were chosen, I was called last.

Stuck with the “losers”, it happened so fast.

When I answered, “Who sailed the ocean blue?”

My only reply was “1942”.

The class roared with laughter, I turned bright red.

I couldn’t wait to get home to my bed.

While wrapped in my blanket, day became twilight.

At once, something flashed, so big and so bright.

It flew past my window, I’d never suspect…

What I would see next, just wasn’t correct.

I opened the window and all I could see

Was a downright, completely new kind of me!

I thought and I pondered, “What’s happening here?”

I looked even further, but all was not clear.

I glanced to the left and then to the right.

The me over there said, “Hold my hand tight”.

“I’ve got plenty to show you, don’t be afraid”.

“Beyond this window, new dreams are made”.

I climbed through the window and there it stood.

The world’s largest slide, carved out of wood.

I sat on the slide and down we went,

While screaming out loud, “Where am I being sent?”

At the end of the slide stood a big sign,

“As you go through life, don’t merely recline”.

“ Don’t just sit back!” it went on to say.

“Life is a journey, you take each day”.

“You’re in charge of your feelings”, the other me cried.

“Just do your best and always take pride!”

We continued to walk through giant, lush trees.

The other me spoke, I listened with ease.

Was this really happening? Was she really me?

Or was it a dream, only I could see?

Time passed quickly, the next thing I knew,

It was time to go back…would she come too?

As a dazzling light flashed over my body,

I slid UP the slide, rather quite oddly.

The other me wept, and said her goodbyes,

both of us wiping the tears from our eyes.

Before I knew it, I was back on my bed,

Remembering things the other me said.

It was the day, my life changed forever.

The lessons she taught were simple but clever.

“We came through the window so you would know,

There’s always a choice of which way to go.

If you don’t believe me, just look in the mirror,

You’ll be surprised by what will appear”.

Could it be true? Do I hold the key?

The way I feel is all up to me?

All l could do, was take her advice.

I promised myself, I wouldn’t think twice.

I looked in the mirror, and what did I see?

The craziest thing…the other me!

I knew then, it was me all along.

I knew then, I could be strong.

So, if you’ve had a day where nothing seems fair.

A time filled with feelings you can’t quite bear.

Just look in the mirror…who’s looking right back?

The one you can trust to keep you on track!

Oprah, Bon Bons, and the Pool Man

2006-09-09T08:18:00.000-07:00

It seems that much has been written about the children going back to school, so I thought I too, should jump on the bandwagon.

From the time my children were in pre-school, everytime they'd start a new school, (elementary, middle, and high school) I would cry like a little baby.

I wonder why my oldest wouldn't let me take him to his first day of college?

My kids would look at me like I just lost my mind...and in the midst of my sobbing I would explain ..."one day when you become a mom, you'll understand"...

(For some reason, my two boys never really appreciated that statement).

But for a mom (since I'm a mom, I can't speak for dads), the ritual of sending your baby out into the world is heartwrenching.

At least in pre-school, I knew they would still be nurtured for the couple of hours they were there...learning songs, reading books, and fingerpainting. So I suppose that sending them to kindergarten was the hardest. No longer would they be so coddled and cuddled.

What if my baby needs a hug? What if he has to go to the bathroom? What if falls and splits his head open?

With each passing year, this task of dropping them off to the "wolves" became a little easier. In elementary school, I became involved in PTA and volunteered in the classroom, so I would see what both the teachers and my kids were up to.

You can imagine how much my children loved having me around (stifling their independence and freedom to cause havoc and mayhem).

But I was a stay-a-home mom and therefore my duties were to make sure I sufficiently embarrassed my children all through their growing up years.

Now, what most women won't tell you, is that they're secretly thrilled when the children go off to school...THAT'S RIGHT...you heard me!

And why, you ask? Well, duh, why do you think?

That's when we get right down to the business of crackin' open the champagne, eating bon-bons, "engaging" with the pool man, taking bubble baths, watching Oprah and Dr. Phil, and let's not forget, All My Children.

Without Oprah, afterall, how would I know which books to read, or makeup to wear, or how to make my man... you know..."satisfied".

When my youngest entered high school, I knew that my school volunteering days were coming to an end.

Because, here's the deal folks...and listen carefully...

No matter how cool you think you are?

YOU'RE NOT.

This seems to be a tough one for us baby boomers to swallow. Afterall, we were the generation who invented cool.

We had Dylan, the Beatles, and Springsteen. We knew how to dress and keep our bodies looking young. I made sure I watched MTV, knew the latest bands, and all about pop culture.

But, to no avail. Because every generation, just like the one before, must be different from their parents.

They must work their way toward independence and self-actualization.

They must not conform to the ways of the adults around them (although they all conform to eachother...ever notice that every generation of teenagers all look alike?).

So, what's a volunteering mom to do when those days are over? Well, I can only speak for myself, of course.

I wave goodbye to my children as they drive off to school. I lay around in p.j.'s, watching Rosie on the View...waiting for the pool man to arrive.

Okay, not really, but it sure makes for a better story than the real one.

I still get a little pang when my kid's drive off. But now I drive off too. I've gone back to work in a field I'm passionate about.

And, although I don't eat bon bons, I do admit to eating icecream every night. I've figured out what make-up to wear, and even how to satisfy my man without watching Oprah.

Life meanders and changes, slowly and quickly, all at the same time.

Sometimes, I long for the days of holding my children's hands as I gently passed them over to big world.

But the day comes when you must let go.

And there's nothing Oprah, or even the pool man can do,

to mend the little hole in your heart that's created

when that time arrives.

There's no place like home

2006-09-03T09:21:00.000-07:00

When I was 5 years old, we moved from "the city" to "the valley". If you live in Los Angeles, you know what that means. I have touched on this subject here .

The valley was the place that a young couple could comfortably afford to buy a home, away from the city, and raise a family.

The years I spent on this street in the valley were magical. The kids on the street, although various ages, could spend hours together roller skating, bike riding, playing hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, and just generally running through the neighborhood.

Although I spent the first five years of my life in another home, the one in the valley is where I carry the most memories of my father.

When a child experiences the death of a parent, grief is revisited over and over again as you progress through life. At each new stage you come to understand it from a different perspective. New feelings are uncovered, and hopefully an opportunity for growth is found.

Many years ago, after the birth of my second child, the enormity of taking care of two children led me to a deeper place of dealing with my grief. As I navigated through these feelings, I began to think about my home in the valley...the one I grew up in...the one I associated most with my dad.

I even began to dream about that home and imagine what it would be like to go inside. I wondered how it would be to visit the lavendar bedroom, the bathroom mirror that my dad and I would stare into together while making funny faces, the kitchen where my mom would make a proper dinner each and every night, the empty living room where I learned to do somersaults, the master bedroom where I could find safety with my parents.

It was 1993, and I could not stop thinking about going inside that home. I almost felt a sense of urgency, that somehow, walking through this home...my past...would be healing in some way.

I was able to track down the owner of the home, and wondered if I should contact them.

Imagine getting a letter or phone call from some young woman saying..."you have no idea who I am, but I was actually the little girl who lived in this house first, way before you did. I would like to come walk through the house because I have some feelings of grief I would like to deal with, so you won't mind if come right over, would you?"

Yeah, right, no problem little (psycho) girl...

But, I felt determined and certain, that this was just what I needed to heal my heart.

And, when one feels determined and certain, one will do just about anything.

I contacted the lady of the house. I explained who I was and began to rattle off things about the house that only someone who had lived there would know. (you know, kind of like the killer who knows information the police have kept out of the public).

I named neighbors who were still living there, and even ones that had long sinced moved away.

She believed me...whew!

We talked. She was kind. And even said that she would be willing to let me come to her home.

But, as life sometimes just happens...nature took it's course...

As I mentioned above, it was 1993...the end of 1993, when we spoke. A few weeks later, the Northridge earthquake would hit. We would speak again following this event, only to have her tell me that I could come after their repairs had been made.

Didn't she understand that I didn't care if she had a broken shower, or if her ceiling was on the ground? I was a woman wanting to heal the heart of the little girl inside me. Who cared about "red tags" or FEMA?

I called one more time...she made every excuse not to let me come. Who could blame her really. To her I was just some nutty woman wanting to walk through her home, searching for ghosts.

How could she understand what walking through that home could mean to me? How could she imagine the little girl who once slid down her stairs on her tummy, or ran through her kitchen looking for oreos and milk, or cried in the safety of a once lavendar bedroom?

She could not.

I never called again.

I have driven by that house a couple of times since. Each time, I hope that someone is standing outside so I can tell them my story and ask to walk through.

I drive by, hoping that I can tell them...I'm the little girl, who rode a bike for the first time in that driveway, who felt safe with her mom and dad and brother and dog and turtle, who put on her roller skates with a key, and played Barbies til dark.

Thirteen years ago, I really thought that going through my valley home would be the key to healing the wound of grief.

I now know, it's okay if I never go in. But if I happen to drive by one day, and they are kind enough to let me...

I know it is something that this little girl from the valley would be forever appreciative of.

The TOE

2006-08-26T10:10:00.000-07:00

Well, it's time for an update to this post. I't been almost three months since my hunk of a man, decided to rebuild our patio cover.

Judging by the picture above...alot has changed in three months.

Obviously this project has taken longer than expected, taking on a veritable life of it's own. But my husband has the patience of a saint (duh...he married me, didn't he?).

Of course the summer he decides to take on this project, is one of the hottest on record in Los Angeles in years. It hasn't been easy keeping the diet coke stocked.

Every evening after slaving away at the office, my husband comes home to a home-made turkey sandwich, lovingly slaved over by moi. He then goes to work. Painting beams of wood, measuring, sawing, hammering away.

Slowly but surely, a new patio cover is coming together. All of my worries about him falling or breaking some part of his body were, of course, unfounded...

NOT!!!

Just as it was beginning to look like we were out safely out of the "contsruction" woods...this happens (in the words of Mr. Cruisin', as he describes his calamity in an email to a friend)

So there I was installing the last joist...
I position one end of the 12' joist on the outer beam and walk the other side up the ladder while it is on my shoulder.

Put a 6x8" block on the top step of the second ladder to hold the house end of the joist up and then get off the ladder and jack the joist the remaining 2" into place.

Perfect!!!. I can do construction!!! I could be on This Old House!!!

Quickly, I grab the steel joist hanger, manage to get 5 out of 6 screws in when the 6th screw flies out of the screw gun. No biggie, scurry down the ladder to grab more screws.

While I am down, I guess I can move the second ladder out of the way now that the joist is secured.

That is about the time the train left the tracks. I forgot about the 6x8x10" block of wood previously mentioned.

Newton's laws of gravity and physics are immutable and the inevitable happened. I see the block falling and pray to a higher source that the block doesn't deflect it's trajectory and go thru the slider window.

The higher source hears me, lets the block hit the third rung and land on my left foot. I guess something or someone had to pay the piper on this one. I figure it won't be that bad because I didn't go thru the slow motion thing that normally occurs during normal disaster...

HA!!! You know, it is true, one can see stars when injured if the impact is great enough. Strangely, after a couple of minutes, the second toe next to that ugly little one on the end goes numb.

Great, now I can finish in comfort. About and hour later, I take off my shoe and sock and see that my toe is the color of a ripe eggplant and approximately doubled it's normal girth.

It looked like an eggplant with a toenail on it.

So, there you have it. A broken toe...there's nothing to do for a broken toe but grin and, well, bare it.

All I can say is, thank goodness purple is my favorite color.

Threads

2006-08-19T10:32:00.000-07:00

One day, a person appeared in my life as quickly as she vanished. She left a footprint on my mind, that has never disappeared.

It was the summer before I would turn 14. The summer of '69. While at sleep-a-way camp for 3 weeks, I would meet a girl named Jenny.

She was smart. Really smart. A bit bohemian, especially for one so young.

I instantly felt a connection with Jenny. She was a cabin-mate...one of maybe 10 other girls.
But she was the one I was drawn to.

We would talk for hours. About nature, the meaning of life, the world in general.

I'm sure I had had meaningful conversations with friends before this, but for some reason, conversations with Jenny were different. They caused me to search my not-so-very-old soul for answers and ideas that I didn't know existed within me.

When we spoke, I didn't feel shy.
When we spoke, I felt smart.
When we spoke, I felt that every word that flowed from my mouth, counted.

As a teenager, I remember that the intensity of friendships was so thick, you could touch it and sometimes, even hold it. Perhaps it's the emergence of hormones, or the fact that identifying with friends takes presidence over identification with our parents. I only know that the strength of adolescent friendships knows no limit.

I would only know Jenny that one summer. A few letters may have followed, but the connection would soon fade.

Years would come and go, but I didn't forget Jenny. I couldn't help but wonder what had become of that young, bohemian mind. I simply wanted a glimpse, but would have to be satisfied with never knowing.

People weave in and out of our lives, much like the yarn that holds together a favorite blanket. And just like a blanket, those people keep us "warm" as they pass through for that brief moment in time. Without one of those people, there would be a hole left in the blanket.

And that is why I know now, that people are in our lives at specific times for specific reasons. Some stay longer than others, some even stay forever. But each one gently and sometimes, not so gently, weaves their thread, adding to what makes us who we are today.

Jenny is one of my threads. It's strange, but somehow I know, that without her, something would be missing.

Years later, I could not tell you the content of those conversations we had. But I have never forgotten that moment in time...

when I first came to know a deeper part of me.

All because of a tiny thread

named Jenny.

Reunited, and it feels so good.

2006-08-11T14:23:00.000-07:00

This is what many of the boys looked like when I graduated high school in 1973. Quite the "do", wouldn't you say?

High school. For many, the greatest time of life. We were young, still thin, no cellulite. Okay, a few zits to deal with, but nothing some good make-up couldn't cover up.

A time that was stress free, no cares in the world, friend's galore...right?

WRONG

High school was tough for some of us. Not unbearable, but tough. Had it not been for BBYO, a Jewish youth group for boys and girls, I'm not sure I would have had any social life at all. Through this group I felt connected...I belonged...I was important.

We had "socials" with boys, teaching us the ways of young love.
We performed good deeds, one of which was volunteering to entertain the sick children at Children's Hospital.
We had elections for board members, teaching us the ways of politics.

For me, it was life saving.

It's not as if I was unable to make friends in high school, but I just never really felt at home, until joining this group.

I attended my 10 year reunion, nonetheless, mainly because I was feeling better about myself by then. I had been dating Mr. Cruisin for awhile, had two college degrees, but most importantly...NO MORE ZITS. So...why not show-off.

I was glad I attended, and surprised by how many people had actually remembered who I was.

So when it came time to attend the 20 year reunion, I was all over it.

By then, I had all the confidence in the world. Hey, I was married, had two kids, no cellulite yet, and still NO ZITS.

I thought, why not attend. People remembered who I was at the 10 year, surely they would all come rushing over to me again at the 20 year.

I have a theory about the 10 year vs. the 20 year reunion:

At the 10 year, everyone is very busy strutting around, showing off what they've accomplished in the last ten years.

By the 20th, everyone is much more relaxed and settled with their lives.

So, the night of my 20th reunion, I was actually pretty excited. Nervous, but excited. I knew I'd have Mr. Cruisin by my side, and at the very least he and I would have a good time together.

We arrived at the hotel, all dolled up, and ready to face the class of 1973. Upon entering the hotel, there were plenty of people running around, giggling, screaming, hugging...genuinely excited to see eachother.

As Mr. Cruisin and I walked through the lobby of the Marriot hotel, I stared at the faces going by me. Everyone was wearing a name badge with a picture from senior year of high school, so that if you didn't recognize the person in the "present", you would certainly be able to identify them by the picture of the "past".

We walked around for several minutes, and I was stunned by one observation...

I DIDN'T RECOGNIZE ONE SOUL.

As we continued to stroll around, looking for somewhere to check in, I began to feel myself wilt.

It was just like being back in high school. Not one person recognized me and vice versa.

My heart started pounding, my eyes welled-up (just a little) with tears. After twenty years, was it possible that I was even more unpopular than I was in high school?

I began to feel a wave of panic rush over me, as we continued walking around, not recognizing one person.

I knew I was not popular in high school, but this was just plain hurtful. How could I not be able to recognize one person and, not one person know who I was?

Finally we found the check-in table. I told the woman at the table I was here for BLANK high school, class of '73. She looked up at me and quizically asked, "HUH?"

I repeated myself and she just stared at me.

Finally, I looked at the sign posted on the table, which stated: OTHER BLANK high school reunion, class of '71.

WTF

I was at the wrong reunion!

I knew that several reunions had taken place at the Marriot hotel, and just made the assumption that mine was there as well. I never bothered to do what most people do, which is to thoroughly read the invitation.

Fortunately for me, a company that plans reunions for high schools, had planned both my reunion, and the one I was now stuck at...so they were able to tell me which hotel my reunion was actually at.

We hopped in the car and raced over to the other hotel. I walked in and people were immediately recognizable to me. A few actually came over and greeted me too.

I met up with a group of girls I had known, even from junior high, and had a great time.

Better than I expected.

Mr. Cruisin sat back, and watched as I talked and laughed about days gone by.

In this one night, I would live through a rush of many familiar feelings...

At the first hotel, I was the young girl, all dressed up and hopeful, only to find that not one person wanted to talk to me.

At the second hotel, I was the young girl, who, for a brief moment in time...felt like she fit it.

I didn't attend my 30 year reunion 3 years ago. I didn't feel the need. There was really no one I wanted to see. I no longer felt curious. Perhaps I no longer had anything to prove.

I had come a long way in those 30 years. No longer shy and wondering why anyone would want to be my friend, or date me. I knew I'd have a better time eating icecream and watching t.v. in the warmth of my home.

Reunions are strange really. Why do we have a need to reconnect with people who were a part of our lives for one fleeting moment in time?

For some, it was the only good time in life, the only time that made sense, hence, the need to go back and relive it. For others, it's simply a time of wonderful memories to reconnect with. But for others, it may have been a difficult time of life, creating the need to go back and prove that they're okay now.

For me it was the latter.

That, and the fact that I no longer had...

zits.

Hold the chicken salad

2006-08-06T12:50:00.000-07:00

Addendum: I cannot possibly do the job that other bloggers are doing in their amazing reporting of the war. So, perhaps, if I can add a laugh or two to someone's day, in the midst of the horror...maybe that's not such a bad thing.

A scene from the movie "Five Easy Pieces" with Jack Nicholson as Dupea:
: Dupea: I'd like a plain omelette, no potatoes, tomatoes instead, a cup of coffee, and wheat toast.; Waitress: No substitutions.; Dupea: What do you mean? You don't have any tomatoes?; Waitress: Only what's on the menu. You can have a number two - a plain omelette. It comes with cottage fries and rolls.; Dupea: Yeah, I know what it comes with. But it's not what I want.; Waitress: Well, I'll come back when you make up your mind.; Dupea: Wait a minute. I have made up my mind. I'd like a plain omelette, no potatoes on the plate, a cup of coffee, and a side order of wheat toast.; Waitress: I'm sorry, we don't have any side orders of toast...an English muffin or a coffee roll.; Dupea: What do you mean you don't make side orders of toast? You make sandwiches, don't you?; Waitress: Would you like to talk to the manager?; Dupea: ...You've got bread and a toaster of some kind?; Waitress: I don't make the rules.; Dupea: OK, I'll make it as easy for you as I can. I'd like an omelette, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no mayonnaise, no butter, no lettuce. And a cup of coffee.; Waitress: A number two, chicken sal san, hold the butter, the lettuce and the mayonnaise. And a cup of coffee. Anything else?; Dupea: Yeah. Now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, give me a check for the chicken salad sandwich, and you haven't broken any rules.; Waitress: You want me to hold the chicken, huh?; Dupea: I want you to hold it between your knees.; Waitress: Do you see that sign, sir? Yes, you'll all have to leave. I'm not taking any more of your smartness and sarcasm.; Dupea: You see this sign? [He sweeps all the water glasses and menus off the table]

This is, perhaps, one of the most memorable cinematic scenes in movie history. Partly because of the great dialogue, but mostly because of Jack Nicholson's delivery. Anyone old enough to have witnessed that scene...has it etched in their mind.

Is it just me, or does restaurant service seem to be deteriorating? Perhaps this is just a Los Angeles phenomenon.

I'm not a particularly picky person. Just because I rival Meg Ryan in When "Harry Met Sally" when it comes to ordering on the side, doesn't mean I'm picky...just means I know what I like and I'm not afraid to ask for it.

I remember having my own little "Five Easy Pieces" scene in a restaurant many years ago. I was with a group of friends in a coffee shop, late one night, to get some dessert. One of the men ordered a hot fudge sundae, with the fudge on the the side.

The waitress informed him that the only way she could bring a hot fudge sundae was with the fudge on the sundae.

He again repeated that he wanted the fudge on the side. She again repeated that she could only bring it on the sundae.

This went back and forth several times, until someone screamed out: "Does the fudge already come on the sundae, or does it come in a bottle on the side, and if so, why not just put the fudge in a bowl on the side, rather than on the sundae?"

She offered to bring over a manager. The manager came over and informed us that...Yep, you guessed it...the fudge could only come on the sundae.

We were all quite sure that we had just fallen into the movie Five Easy Pieces... except this was no movie...this was REAL!!!

A few weeks ago, while dining in a Los Angeles restaurant with two friends, one of them ordered chicken parmigiana. When our order arrived, the waiter sat down a plate of something entirely different in front of this friend. When she inquired, the waiter told her that they were no longer serving the dish she ordered, and just brought out something else he thought she might like.

HUH?...you don't inform the customer that the dish she ordered is gone, and give her another choice? Another in our party found saran wrap in his food, another's was cold, and the waiter never came back to see if we wanted anything else.

Another restaurant I frequent, brought out half a salad rather than the whole one (okay, so maybe this was the restaurants subtle hint to me to lose a couple pounds off my J.Lo derriere) that I ordered. I really didn't want to be charged for a whole one without reaping the benefits of stuffing myself with a full salad.

Well, that's two restaurants off my list.

Now, when dining at my favorite restaurant, In and Out Burger, I don't expect a romantic ambience. Therefore, little children screaming, is perhaps a bit annoying, but to be expected.

BUT, if I go to a fancier restaurant, ready to spend a bit more than the $3.00 for a full In and Out meal, I kind of expect a more subdued atmosphere.

But what seems to have erupted from this generation is complete entitlement. That means that little children rule the restaurant world. Apparently, it is no longer the obligation of parents to make sure their children behave in a manner appropriate to a "nice" restaurant.

Personally, I do not think it's the children's fault. First of all, why do parent's insist on taking small children to restaurants with white tablecloths and a chalkboard stating the specials of the evening?

When our children were young, we stuck to "family" restaurants, where if a kid acted up a bit, it wasn't unexpected. (When our kids began acting up, one of us would walk out of the restaurant with them until they calmed down, thereby not subjecting the other patrons to tantrums of my children...bad enough I had to hear it!).

And the owners of the restaurants are stuck between a rock and a hard place. If they ask the parent's to corral in their children...the parent's will most likely:

leave in huff and be sure to spread the word about this "unaccepting restaurant",
do absolutely nothing,
or allow the children to step up the behavior. (yes, I've seen this happen...the parent's actually urge their children to run around the table a little faster, and scream a little louder).

So while the rest of the patrons watch in sheer horror, these families take over the restaurant, and essentially win.

But, what do they win? Tell us Don Pardo...

These parents win children that are spoiled, obnoxious, and argumentative. They win children that won't understand why no ones wants to date them, and why bosses want to fire them.

Oh well.

Sounds like I'm picky? Well then, you try taking your well deserved time out on a Saturday night, spending your hard earned money, only to have small children running through the restaurant while screaming right next to you.

When I was a kid, going out to dinner was mainly reserved for special occasions. And we would go out to some pretty fancy restaurants. Otto's Pink Pig was reserved for anniversaries and special birthdays. What a nice Jewish family was doing at Ottos Pink Pig, is beyond me...but, hey, who was I to question a free meal.

We would dress in our best clothes, and knew to act polite and quiet. If not, I wouldn't be able to order a Shirley Temple. I knew my limits.

My only question today is this...

Do you think the lack of restaurant service I seem to be receiving these days has anything to do with the fact that whenever we went out for one of those fancy dinners, my brother and cousins, and I would sit (but very quietly, mind you) and make "concoctions" with our drinks?

You know...pouring all the salt, pepper, sugar, ketchup, mustard, and anything else we could find, into our drinks...and then asking one of our poor, unsuspecting parents to take a sip?

KARMA :)

Weighing in on Mel (why not, everyone else is)

2006-08-03T08:32:00.000-07:00

So, a fifty year old white guy steps out of a bar, gets into his car to speed down Pacific Coast Highway, in a bit of a drunken stupor.

Just his luck, he's pulled over by a Jewish cop. Eureka! What could be better for an anti-semitic, rich, drunk, white guy, than to be pulled over by a Jewish Cop...perhaps, a female Jewish Cop?

The rich, drunk, white guy unloads on the Jewish Cop in an anti-semitic tyraid...it hits the papers...the t.v. and anywhere else the story can make it's way to.

Now, mind you, rich, drunk, white guy realizes he's f*#ked up royally, hires every p.r. person available to write up an apology, and moves swiftly to make sure those words are conveyed to the media.

Not only does rich, drunk, white guy decide to cleanse his body of the evil alcohol, but realizes that his spiritual soul needs a good talking to by none other than some of them evil Jews, you know, the ones who started all the wars? Wow, we really are the chosen people! Cool!

Well, it seems that this one rich, drunk, white guy, has completely tilted the world's axis. News media, talk show radio and t.v. is all a flutter with this news.

I mean, afterall, rich, drunk, white guy is from HOLLYWOOD...what could be more important than HOLLYWOOD? Really...what?

So every talk show host has to weigh in on rich, drunk, white, guy...

"when you're drunk do you say what you mean?", "do you mean what you say", "are you revealing the real you?", "are you revealing things taught to you by your holocaust-denying father who you won't denounce while publicizing your latest works on God himself"?

Everyone from Dr. Phil to Geraldo Rivera have had something to say.

Dr. Phil wants to know "so how's that an-ti-sem-ee-tism thing workin' for ya, Mel? Why don't cha come on my show, and I'll completely humiliate you like I did Pat O'Brien?"

Geraldo said that if the world can forgive him for four divorces and finding nothing in Al Capone's vault, then the world will probably forgive Mel. Nonetheless, the Jewish half of Geraldo was quite pissed about the whole incident.

Hmmm, funny, haven't heard from Dreamworks yet...

Thank goodness this rich, drunk, white guy has given us such a story (and such a surprise) to focus on these last several days. Because, Lord knows, we don't won't to focus on those nasty little terrorists half way around the world.

Now don't get me wrong...I think rich, drunk, white guy was out of line too. Especially a rich, drunk, white guy who holds himself out as someone important enough to teach us the history of Jesus Christ.

But, quite frankly, the joke is on Mel...now he has to go spend all of this time, cleansing his soul with none other than a whole bunch of them Jewish spiritual leaders. They'll probably have him dancing the horah, and eating lox and bagels in no time.

But don't worry Mel, Geraldo is right...we'll all forget about this real soon and move onto the next important Hollywood story...because afterall, that's what it's really all about it...

WE worship and put people on pedestals, people who don't deserve to be there, and then go crazy when they fall off.

Maybe we need to think about who we are worshipping and why...maybe that is the real crux of the problem.

Should we support Israel going after terrorists? Just ask a mouse.

2006-08-01T07:37:00.000-07:00

Mouse Story ...

A mouse looked through the

crack in the wall to see the farmer and his wife open a package.

"What food might this contain?" The mouse wondered -

he was devastated to discover it was a mousetrap.

Retreating to the farmyard,

the mouse proclaimed the

warning.

"There is a mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap

in the house!"

The chicken clucked and scratched, raised her head and

said, "Mr. Mouse, I can tell this is a grave concern to you

but it is of no consequence to me.

I cannot be bothered by it."

The mouse turned to the pig and told him, "There is a

mousetrap in the house! There is a mousetrap in the house!"

The pig sympathized, but said,

"I am so very sorry, Mr. Mouse,

but there is nothing I can do about it but pray.

Be assured you are in my prayers."

The mouse turned to the cow and said, "There is a

mousetrap in the house!

There is a mousetrap in the house!"

The cow said, "Wow, Mr. Mouse.

I'm sorry for you,

but it's no skin off my nose."

So, the mouse returned to the house, head down and dejected,

to face the farmer's mousetrap-- alone.

That very night a sound was heard throughout the house --

like the sound of a mousetrap catching its prey.

The farmer's wife rushed to see what was caught. In the

darkness, she did not see it was a venomous snake

whose tail the trap had caught.

The snake bit the farmer's wife.

The farmer rushed her

to the hospital and she returned home with a fever.

Everyone knows you treat a fever with fresh chicken soup,

so the farmer took his hatchet to the farmyard for the soup's

main ingredient.

But his wife's sickness continued,

so friends and neighbors came

to sit with her around the clock.

To feed them, the farmer butchered the pig.

The farmer's wife did not get well; she died.

So many people came

for her funeral, the farmer

had the cow slaughtered to provide enough meat for all of them.

The mouse looked upon it all from his crack in the wall with great sadness.

So, the next time you hear someone is facing a problem and think it doesn't concern you,

remember --

when one of us is threatened,

we are all at risk.

We are all involved in this journey called life.

Pink Elephants

2006-07-29T16:54:00.000-07:00

It's back...the dreaded writer's block.

Not that I'm some great writer...au contraire.

But writing has become, for me, what yoga is to others. It is relaxing, releasing, and puts me in another state of being.

I have gone 12 days without writing, and I feel like a junkie coming down from a high.

Crazy...who would have ever thought that I would become addicted to writing. But, I am.

What does a junkie do, though, when they can't find their drug? When they can't steal it, purchase it, or borrow it?

This has been my experience for the past 12 days. I haven't figured out what to write about. Nothing has hit me.

Perhaps the following plays a part in my blockage:

It's been hotter than hell here.
There is a raging war in Israel.
Things continue to worsen in Iraq.
Gas prices are not what they were when I first started driving.
Mel Gibson is an anti-semite (ha! big surprise).
Lindsey Lohan should be spanked (although, come to think of it, she'd probably enjoy that).
American Idol won't return for way too long.
I still haven't had a vacation this summer (and won't)
Mr. Cruisin' is still working on rebuilding our patio overhang.
There isn't a good movie to go see.

Okay, rant over.

Can these be the causes of writer's block? Hard to know.

I only know, I miss my drug of choice. I wish I could find it again. I am willing to beg, borrow, and steal just to find my ability to write again.

I guess I'll just have to sit by and wait patiently.

In the meantime, I hope I don't get the shakes, or start seeing little pink elephants.

Two for the road

2006-07-17T19:53:00.000-07:00

Being that it's my mother's birthday this month, (since a girl never wants her age exposed, we'll just say she's somewhere between 75 and 77) I wanted to do something special with her.

Spending time, creating a memory together, is really the best gift I know of. Since my mother and I both love the music of her generation, the standards, I knew that Michael Feinstein and Linda Eder at the Greek Theater, would be just the right memory to create.

And, boy, was I right!

The Greek Theater, in a word, is magic. It is an open air theater, like the Hollywood Bowl, but on a much smaller scale.

I have seen my share of concerts at the Greek, starting with my very first concert, back in 1973...CHICAGO.

Talk about a girl in heaven. Not only did I see them once that summer, but twice. The second time, my boyfriend and I took a chance, drove down there, and purchased front row tickets that someone hadn't picked up in willcall. We sat in the front row...watching them sweat...it was glorious.

Also, in the 70's, I saw the amazing Carol King...it was the release of her Tapestry album...a flawless album, that still remains one of the best selling of all time.

Neil Diamond performed his famous "Hot August Night" concert there as well.

Last year, Mr. Cruisin surprised me with tickets to Chicago and Earth, Wind, and Fire...holy crap, it was like being in high school all over again. (But in a good way).

Last night, we arrived early and watched as people poured into their seats. It was a warm, still night...you couldn't have ordered more perfect weather.

The guy selling water...was having a field day...four bucks for a bottle of water...OUTRAGEOUS!!! Why, I spend that on an entire box of water! We refused. Better we should faint in our seats, then pay that ridiculous price for water.

Now, of course when the candy guy came along pushing his wares...we didn't blink at paying the same price for peanut m&m's. Know your priorities.

The evening was filled with the beautiful voices of Michael Feinstein and Linda Eder...singing Judy Garland, Frank Sinatra, Gershwin tunes, with a smattering of Rogers and Hart.

They both have an ease about them, music and words flowing effortlessly, with a down to earth way of humor and expression, that made those of us in the audience feel as though we were sitting in our best friend's livingroom.

My mom and I soaked up the music, the words, the voices, and humor.

Linda Eder sang a song called "If I Could", that just blew me away. These two verses sum up everything a parent must come to terms with as their child grows:

If I could
I would try to shield your innocence from time
But the part of life I gave you isn't mine
I've watched you grow
So I could let you go

If I could
I would help you make it through the hungry years
But I know that I can never cry your tears
But I would
If I could

The part of life I gave you isn't mine...I've watched you grow so I could let you go...

Those words just about knocked the breath out of me.

My mother and I thoroughly enjoyed the evening...hopefully a memory we will take with us for many years to come.

I thought about the concert all day today. I'm not sure why. In the midst of the world turing upside down, perhaps a little escape, a little humor, and a little magic...is necessary for the human spirit.

All I know is, it's just what these two old ladies needed last night.

Did someone say: "Nobel Peace Prize"?

2006-07-13T15:53:00.000-07:00

( inspired by a comment left by Sweettooth in my purple post)

Let's face it...as awards go, the Nobel Peace Prize is certainly prestigious.

I mean, really, if you're going to win something, why not go for the big cheese, the head honcho, the top banana. Do I have any idea how to win the damn thing? Of course not (ooops, I hope I didn't say that out loud).

The other day, I began to think about awards I've won in my lifetime. I didn't play sports while growing up, so certainly no plaques or trophies for me. I have earned degrees. I've received letters congratulating me. But quite sadly, I couldn't think of one award I had received in all 50 years of my life.

Now before you pull out the violin and kleenex, let me tell you about my epiphany.

I was strolling through my family room, head hanging low I might add, realizing that I had not achieved what most people do at some point in their lifetime...an award...for something, anything.

When suddenly, I was struck by a vision. Hiding behind a stack of video tapes and dvd's was It!

My one and only award. Having put in on display 13 years ago, the years had gobbled it up with video tape and other various chachke's, leaving me to forget about it.

But there it stood, proud and erect; shiny, like the day I received it.

When my children were very young, I had been coerced into joining a "mom's" bowling league.

Of course, we never rolled on Shabbos (if you know the origin of that statement, I'll send you a bag of jelly belly's).

Every Friday morning, I 'd rush to Starbuck's for my caffeine fix, shine my ball, dust off my shoes...and bowl the hell against other mom's like myself.

We would bowl and bitch for two hours straight.

No kids (they were stuck in school), no husbands (just us girls), no obligations.

Admitting you bowl, is kind of like admitting you like Barry Manilow (which by the way, I do). It's one of those things when I was single, I never would have admitted on a first date...if I intended to have a second one, that is.

By that point, my husband had seen me give birth to two kids...I don't think joining a bowling league was going to faze him much. (Barry Manilow, maybe).

Each team was comprised of three women. We paid a fee, pooled money, and winnings were distributed at the end of the term.

Well, wouldn't you know, my team was amazing!!! We bowled our butts off. We went around kicking bowling ass. We were hot, bitchen...the "Belle's of the Bowl". Our team was appropriately named "the Ballbusters".

The season ended a few weeks before school let out...bringing to a halt a sense of weekly independence, power, and prowess. Each year, it felt a little sad to know, that our little corner of the world had to come to an end.

For eight months, we felt athletic (bowling actually uses muscles and burns calories...don't kid yourself), had a place to commiserate about child rearing, relationships, the latest neighborhood scuttlebutt, and where the next In and Out was opening.

I guess you could say, bowling was bonding. Who knew?

The season ended with a luncheon banquet and the passing out of awards for best bowling team, and of course, the monetary earnings.

We "Ballbusters" sat patiently as the awards were given out. First place, not us...but that was okay...second and third were within our grasp.

Second and third place were called...no Ballbusters.

We were devasted. How could it be? We had bowled our butts off (no easy feat for two Jews and an Irish woman).

We sat... our hearts pounding, our palms sweating...while there seemed to be one more award to be given.

"...and now for the worst team of the season...the award goes to...

"THE BALLBUSTERS!!!"

Cheers and applause consumed the room. I had done a spit-take with my diet coke.

What a moment. I had won an award. I could return home to my family that day, knowing that their mom was finally someone to be proud of.

The above picture is my award, my trophy, my Nobel Peace Prize...

...a woman bowler sitting atop a roll of toilet paper.

What I learned that day is this:

Bowling is all about getting the s#*t beat out of you by the other teams...

Apparently... we did just that.

Jelly Bellys

2006-07-10T09:07:00.000-07:00

I suppose it's no secret by now, that I love candy, icecream, and, well, just about anything sweet.

But, (in my humble opinion) there is no candy quite as perfect as JELLY BELLYS.

For a bit of history about Jelly Belly's you can read here.

Jelly Belly's even made it all the way into space on the shuttle carrying the first female astronaut, Sally Ride. (who, by the way, grew up in the San Fernando Valley...who said a valley girl couldn't amount to much?).

What is it that makes the jelly belly so perfect?

Let's discuss:

First of all, they are FAT FREE. Yep, you heard me right...let's say it together: FAT FREE.

Secondly, they are only 4 calories each. YAHOO!

Thirdly, what other candy comes in 50 different flavors? NONE

And, there are recipes for mixing flavors to acquire a delectable taste sensation.

Fourthly, for all of my kosher readers, get this: THEY ARE KOSHER! oy vey.

They are perfect for parties, adding just the right amount of color to any hostess's table.

Why, it was even good enough for one of our greatest actors of the 20th century (oops, I mean President of the United States).

I can't remember exactly when I tried my first Jelly Belly...I'm guessing it was in the early 80's.

I quickly became hooked. In fact, if all that was left to eat in the world were Jelly Belly's (and In and Out Burger of course) I would be quite satisfied.

If the world ended tomorrow, I believe this quote I once heard, sums it all up:

"After a nuclear holocaust, all that will be left are cockroaches and Cher".

I would like to add, and Jelly Belly's.

The Color Purple

2006-07-08T08:43:00.000-07:00

Purple combines the stability of blue and the energy of red. Purple is associated with royalty. It symbolizes power, nobility, luxury, and ambition. It conveys wealth and extravagance. Purple is associated with wisdom, dignity, independence, creativity, mystery, and magic.

And, it's my favorite color.

When I was 5 1/2 years old, we moved to a new home. My room was softly painted in lavendar and white. I'm not sure if I picked the color, or if my mom picked it for me.

I only know...I loved it.

If a room can make you feel a particular way, then my room knew just how to gently remind me that I was pretty, and delicate, and special.

The moment I entered, I felt transformed. Safe. Secure.

I cared for and nurtured my room like a best friend. I kept it clean and neat, and respected every inch of my special space.

Children can sense what is going on in a home, like radar. They can see movement, the blink of an eye, the tone of a voice...and know that something has changed.

My brother and I were not told of my father's illness, but as all children do, I imagine we could sense the turn our destiny would soon take.

I look back now and wonder if my drive to maintain an orderly room, was really my attempt to calm the chaos I could sense going on in our home.

Nonetheless, I would fondly remember that lavendar room for the rest of my life.

We moved when I was 12, leaving behind the room that had wrapped itself around me, caring for and soothing me through my life turning upside down.

I no longer had a lavendar room.

The years went by, living in various apartments, until I married Mr. Cruisin. We lived in the house he already owned.

It was the '80's...mauve (just a fancy way of saying muted pink) was the color of choice. My husband, being the good sport that he is, agreed to redo the master bedroom in mauve. Can you imagine? Prior to me showing up on the scene, it was he and his cat...living the "manly life".

A few years later, we would move to our home we live in now.

When it came time to decorate the master bedroom, color decisions had to be made. The '90's were quickly approaching and mauve was on it's way out. A new color for the bedroom was definitely in order.

In my quest to pick an appropriate color, I could feel a wave wash over me.

PURPLE

I could, once again, have a purple bedroom!

I brought this idea to my husband, who had just finished living with a mauve bedroom.

He agreed to the purple bedroom. It was as if this man could sense my need to have a room that would once again, wrap it's arms around me. Not many men would go along with a purple bedroom. But my husband did.

For the last 18 years, we have lived in a bedroom that is predominantly purple.

When I walk into my bedroom, I'm reminded of what it feels like to be pretty and delicate and special, even if it's momentarily.

I'm not quite so neat and clean anymore. I suppose I no longer have to hold so tightly to calm and order. Having children certainly changes all of that.

Creating order in my pretty lavendar room did not change the sorrow that was to follow.

But now, my purple room beckons the memories of a time when my world was safe...

in a room softly painted in lavendar and white.

Summertime, and the living is...BLAH!

2006-07-03T08:07:00.000-07:00

I begged this magazine to not use my picture on the cover...

It's summer.

Time for vacation.

Time for...beaches...sun...swimming...sunburns.

It's all I've heard anyone talk about this past week. Everyone, and I mean everyone I know, has some fabulous getaway planned.

We, on the other hand, do not. We didn't plan anything...and truthfully, I'm not complaining. Sometimes getting ready for a trip, and even the actual trip, aren't worth all the hassles you run into when travelling.

Who needs rest and relaxation...the tropics...balmy beaches...palm trees swaying...some silly blue drink with an umbrella in it.

Not me.

I'm all for smog, humidity, the smell of dead skunk.

Why, who wants to stop: answering phones, opening bills, scooping dog poop, and cleaning toilets?

Not me.

Who needs snorkeling, sailboating, shrimp cocktails, and a Swedish massage with Sven?

Not me.

Don't get me wrong, we've had plenty of great vacations. Although many years ago, we did venture out on a cruise from hell.

The very first day, poor Mr. Cruisin took ill. He couldn't get off the damn ship, joining us for dinners only.

The second day, both of my children took ill, acquiring a new symptom each day thereafter.

What started as a simple cold, quickly turned into sinus infections. From there, a brutal cough developed for both my offspring. On to double ear infections, and ending with a rousing case of conjunctivitis, better known as a lovely shade of "pink" eye, for my youngest.

The bulk of the vacation was spent in the cabin watching a John Travolta movie called Phenomenon...not once, not twice, but close to 20 times. You see, when you're rocking back and forth on a ship in the big, big ocean...you have but two choices:

To watch the movie they run over and over and over again, or watch a video tape of the festivities taking place on your ship from the prior evening. Tough choice.

So much for cruising (you'd think with my name, it would have been a perfect fit). That was the first and last time we tried that.

But, we've had some wonderful vacations through the years, that hopefully left a lasting positive impression on my children.

Alas, this won't be the year for a vacation.

I'll have to settle for a brown drink (diet coke, of course) in my backyard, watching the rose bush sway in the sticky summer eve...

...while Mr. Cruisin takes the place of Sven.

Those summer nights

2006-06-30T20:48:00.000-07:00

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles in the 1960's was magical.

There was nothing like the valley nights. The air stayed warm and still until it was time to be safely tucked into bed.

I remember the first year we lived in the valley, we had no air conditioning. We all slept downstairs just to stay cool.

We didn't have a pool, so finding ways to stay cool was the the ultimate goal each and every day of those childhood summers.

We ran through the sprinklers any chance we could.

The sprinklers were our ocean...the slip n slide, our lazy river.

I can still remember the song of the ice cream truck and the dripping rainbow popsicles.

A nice long walk to Van Nuys Blvd. ended with a double feature of Elvis for 65 cents.

Cupid's Hot dogs were the way to go. If you had some extra money, Bob's Big Boy was the way to spend it.

Outside for hours (no computers, or cell phones, or dvd's to buy) playing anything we could think of.

Statue, tag, hide and seek, cowboy and Indians, Barbie's, Mystery Date, Twister, roller skates with keys...

If you're a baby boomer, some of this might sound familiar.

Each generation holds memories that burn an unending pathway to the heart, soul and mind.

It was 101 here today. Maybe the heat is getting to me.

Or maybe it's just the memories of summers gone by.

You never forget your first

2006-06-21T10:51:00.000-07:00

http://cruisin-mom.blogspot.com/2005/06/first-blog.html

This is the link to my very first post one year ago.

Hard to imagine I had so little to say, isn't it?

In fact, I had so little to say, that I would not make another post until six months later.

But isn't that the way with most firsts? You begin slowly, awkwardly, unsure of yourself.

You practice, get more experience, become more proficient, and suddenly you're not so bad.

Some may say you're actually pretty good.

First job, first kiss, first interview, first...uhem, well, you know, first time behind the wheel of a car, first taste of icecream.

Nothing imprints itself into your heart and mind quite like a first.

Thank goodness for firsts.

DAD'S DAY

2006-06-17T10:55:00.000-07:00

This is one of the last pictures my dad would take of me.

It is symbolic of the kind of photographer he was. My dad loved taking pictures. He would make us pose, then snap...pose, then snap...repeat.

He'd drive us CRAZY!!! The picture above, is the result of taking several pictures in a row of me with my parakeet. The sun was shining...I could no longer gaze up.

SNAP!

My dad would have loved digital photography. He could have snapped, scanned, created, shaped, cut, and posted to his heart's content.

Tomorrow being Father's Day, I can't help but think about my dad and all that he had missed. He would never know the technology that comes so easily to my children. To him, it would have sounded like something from a sci-fi movie or an episode of the Twilight Zone.

Imagine describing computers, and digital cameras, and cell phones, and answering machines, and ipods, and blackberries, and dvds, and tivo, and cd's to someone whose life ended in 1966.

And yet, these are all things we can't seem to live without 40 years later. Our lives revolve around this technology. How is it that life could be so different just 40 years later?

How could life NOT be so different 40 years later?

Several weeks ago, I took my husband by the house I lived in until my dad died. I pointed out how the brick walk he set 45 years ago, was still there. My husband, being the do-it-yourself person that he is, seemed quite impressed.

For just one moment, I had a glimpse of what the relationship between my father and my husband might have been. Perhaps they would have helped eachother with home projects. Maybe they would have shared a diet coke and a laugh, while building a project or two together.

I like that image...I think I'll tuck it neatly into my heart.

Being a dad is not a position for the weak. How do you balance being "the man" of the house, with being "sensitive"? How do you teach your children what you know is right and yet, let go just enough to let them grow and conclude what is the proper fit for their own mind and heart?

I would like to pay tribute today, to two men who have helped shape my life...my dad, who you can read about here, and my husband, who you can read about here.

If my children become dads one day, I hope they will find their own way to father within the context of their unique personalities, discovering what works for each of them.

And, I hope they will remember, and come to know and embrace the the roots of loyalty, humor, and hard work from which they came.

Happy Father's Day.

Did you know I'm a Princess?

2006-06-13T08:37:00.000-07:00

Recognize this picture? Unless you were born yesterday, it's hard to imagine you don't know who that is. But just in case you were born yesterday...I'll elaborate.

That is Princess Leia, aka, Carrie Fisher.

Twice in my life, I have been told that I resemble her. And you know what? I can see it.

Look at the babkes on either side of her head. Notice the gun. It's easy to see how someone could mistake her for me.

The first time I was told this, many years ago, I was dining in a restaurant called Ed Debevic's...a 50's diner that I believe no longer exists, where the servers dressed up and took on the character of someone in the 50's.

Toward the end of the meal, the waiter excitedly announced, "hey, I know who you look like... that girl in Star Wars".

I immediately blushed. Of course my kids and husband thought the guy had lost his mind...but I could tell, this guy could really get his "Hollywood" on. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that it was "tip" time, and the guy just wanted me to feel like a, uh-hem, princess.

A couple of days ago, I was told that I resemble Carrie Fisher, for the second time in my life. Now, I figured it had to be true...I mean, to a be told twice constitutes...a pattern...a validation, if you will.

And these people know what they're talking about. They are fellow bloggers that I had the pleasure to meet, who shall remain nameless, unless they choose to name themselves.

There was a bit of a twist to it this time. They said I look like Carrie Fisher from "When Harry Met Sally" days.

Why of course, why hadn't I seen it myself? This is my absolute favorite movie in the world. I've watched it at least 25 times. I realize now, the similarities between Carrie and I are endless.

Let's compare, shall we?

Carrie Fisher is hysterical. I'm hysterical.

She has brown hair. I have brown (gray) hair.

She is half Jewish. I'm Jewish.

The father of her daughter left her because he was gay. Mr. Cruisin is a happy guy.

She's a brilliant writer. Well, we all know, I'm a brilliant writer.

She's had a successful movie career. I have home movies dating back to the 50's that are quite entertaining.

Her mother danced with Gene Kelly. My mother, well, didn't.

And so there you have it...Carrie Fisher, my virtual twin.

And so, next time you see a gal walking down the streets of L.A. that you think is Princess Leia, just remember, you are probably looking at moi.

But, please don't approach me...you can have your people call my people, and perhaps we'll do lunch sometime.

Hooterville

2006-06-06T20:56:00.000-07:00

The lovely garment above is called a mammography cape.

Little did I know that while undergoing a mammogram, you could actually make a fashion statement.

And...a fashion statement representative of not only one, but two different decades. I first wore ponchos way back in the '70's when I was a hippie wanna-be.

A few years ago, I thought, why don't they start making ponchos again...they're cute, easy to put on, functional, and will make every baby-boomer feel young again.

Well, guess what? That's exactly what happened. Two years ago, I found a poncho. It was fantastic, freeing, youth-inducing.

So when I found this picture, I thought...perfect...just the thing for women in their 40's, 50's, and 60's to make getting a mammogram a nostalgic experience.

Little over a week ago, I had my yearly mammogram. I am diligent about this, and have been doing it every year for the last 10 years.

Today, while driving home, my cell phone rang. (well, I should say, played the happy little tune from Sex in the City).

I answered only to hear:

caller: "Is this Cruisin-mom?"
me:" Yes, it is...who's this?"
"Well, this is your doctor's office calling, you'll need to come back in to retake your mammogram".

My heart sank. I knew this couldn't be good news. I quickly asked why, and here's what she answered:

"We need to take another "view" that we were unable to get the first time".

me: "Is anything wrong?"
caller: "Oh, we just need to get another view...can you be in today at 5:00?"
me: "YES, I'll be there".

How many different things go through your mind when you are asked to repeat a mammogram? Too many to mention.

My kids, what about my kids? Who will yell at them, and nag them, and tell them to clean up, and love them more than the ocean is deep?

And Mr. Cruisin...he comes across indestructable, but I know he'd be lost without me. (shhh, don't tell him I said that).

How can I possibly do this to my mother with all that she has lived through? And my brother...who has always protected me?

Ice cream, what about ice cream? Who will win the next American Idol?

What about my dog, who follows me wherever I go?

I could go on, but as I said, there was to much to mention.

A wave rushed over me...I couldn't breath.

As I was driving home...I just so happened to see Mr. Cruisin driving down the street...I honked and had him pull over. I told him about the call. He said, "I'll come with you".

I can only imagine what he was feeling. My husband is not a "mushy" person. But I know how deeply he feels. He is a man of action, much more than words. He will do anything for a friend, no questions asked. And being his best friend, I knew he'd be there for me.

We drove to the doctor's and as we drove, I burst into tears. I admit, I was scared.

I entered the mammogram area, and asked the tech, what was really wrong. I knew it couldn't just be "the view". She told me that something had "changed", since a prior mammogram and they needed to get a better view of the area. She said a doctor would look at it immediately for determination.

Now, as any woman who has had one knows, mammogram and the flattening, stretching, cranking, and picture taking of one's breasts, is not the most pleasant experience...but you do it, because it's just what we have to do. It's well worth the early detection, and prevention, that is hopefully the result of a yearly mammogram.

I sat and waited, all the while still thinking, what will I tell my husband, my children, my mother, my friends.

Mr. Cruisin sat patiently in the waiting room.

The tech came back out, and told me everything was okay.

I quickly got dressed, came out to the waiting room and told Mr. Cruisin the good news.

He hugged and squeezed me. We both...breathed. I'm not sure who was more relieved.

I had been given a gift. All I could think about was how quickly life can change in the blink of an eye. I thought about all the women who did not get this reprieve, and bravely set out to do battle with breast cancer. I thought that perhaps, I needed to think about what was really important, and worth getting upset about.

So I came home, saw my son, and yelled at him for leaving dishes in the sink...

and I knew, that everything would be okay. At least for today.

(for another viewpoint on mammogram, read Sweettooth's post here)

They don't build 'em like they used to

2006-05-31T16:34:00.000-07:00

Yes, that's my husband. Not bad for a man in his 50's. I think he needs to work out a bit more, but, I really can't complain.

Mr. Cruisin is a remarkable man in many ways. This is not the first time I've written about my groom, and of course, won't be the last.

That's because he continues to provide me with excellent fodder for my blogging journey.

Now, unlike most Jewish men, my hunk can swing a hammer, climb a ladder, manuever a drill, tote that barge, lift that bail...yeah, yeah, you get my drift.

He must have somehow been blessed with a mutant gene, that allows him to set a plan in motion...fix, build, and just about do anything.

Thing is, he really CAN do just about anything he puts his mind to. He spends time reading and educating himself, until he knows the ins and outs of whatever it is he sets out to accomplish.

He has taken on woodworking...building two beautiful wall units, a kitchen table, and various other projects involving wood.
He can fix leaks, solve electrical problems, build gates, install broken windows...you name it...he can do it.

The main thing is, he's not afraid to try...

anything.

So, when he discovered that our wood patio cover of almost 20 years was rotting away due to termites (hey, I actually understand those little guys...they go after wood like I go after icecream) and rot in general, he pronounced that he was going to rebuild the entire patio cover.

Now, mind you...this man is well into his 50's. This is no easy undertaking for a guy in his 20's. It means tearing down all of the existing wood, moving beams, climbing up and down a ladder, bringing in new wood, painting the wood, and climbing up the ladder and carefully placing the wood to form a new patio cover.

Whew!

My theory, of course, is to F*#KING HIRE someone.

Which he did actually think about doing. He even had someone come out to give an estimate. Of course the guy never called back, which set my man in motion.

Every day for about two weeks, Mr. Cruisin would walk outside...

and look up. Yes, that's right...look up.

Gaze, contemplate, think, gaze some more and think some more. If I didn't know better, I'd swear there was a Hooter's waitress sitting on top of the patio overhang that he was looking at everyday.

Truth be told, I could deal with that. Makes alot more sense to me than watching my husband look longingly at a patio cover.

But that's how I knew...I saw it coming. Each day his head would tilt just a little more. The drool became more and more prominant.

Until finally, about one week ago...he came to me and said "Cruisin-mom...I'm fixing the patio...by myself".

"Oh crap" I thought. (or said out loud, I can't remember which).

Before I could take a breath, he was hammering, pounding, and in general, ripping it up. The cover was "goin down". And that was that.

Now, I don't mean to sound ungrateful...because I'm incredibly grateful. He has saved us more money over the years, than even I can figure out what to do with.

But, it's worrisome. I worry about him climbing up and down, and straining himself. This is no easy undertaking...but can I stop him?

Pu-leeze. Of course I can't.

I tell him what I think, (you shouldn't do this, pay someone, what if you fall off the ladder, it's too much for you, blah, blah, blah) while I watch the words breeze in one ear and out the other.

And then, I surrender. I stock the fridge with plenty of diet coke, and the cupboard with plenty of chips (to keep him nourished of course) sit back, and watch my man go to town.

I married a man who is not afraid to work hard and create.

He inspires me everyday.

As I walk through my home, if you look closely, you can see my heart beaming, (remember E.T.'s heartlight?) while I spy the numerous projects that are the exquisite creation of my husband's two hands.

Like, Oh ma gawd

2006-05-25T07:54:00.000-07:00

You are looking at a picture of Westwood Theater. Westwood is home to U.C.L.A.

And home to my teenage years.

Growing up in the San Fernando Valley in the 60's and 70's, there were only a smattering of things you could do on a Friday or Saturday night.

And, yes, cruising down Van Nuys Blvd. was one of them. It's true, no cliche. It was like a rite of passage. We'd start at one end, and work our way down to the other...to an Italian restaurant with the best garlic rolls imaginable. We'd go inside, buy the rolls, and gather in the parking lot.

We were actually pretty good kids...just wanted to eat and flirt. That's it. Innocent really.

But, what if you wanted to see a movie? Back then it was actually referred to as a "first run" movie. A brand new movie.

No such thing in the Valley. If you wanted to see a first-run movie, you had to go into Westwood.

Going from the city to the valley (or vice versa), is referred to as a trip over the hill. No, there's no passport required, no toll booth collecting money, no border patrol. You just get in your car, and make the trip. But the difference between valley folk and city folk continues to be a sort of war of the classes. The city folk maintain a sense of culture and sophistication. While valley folk, remain tasteless, know-nothings.

So, the trip to Westwood was essential, if you wanted to see a brand new movie. I can remember waiting in line for hours to see "The Way We Were"...in the rain, no less, because that's just what you did.

When the Exorcist came out, I had a part time job doing "marketing research". This meant, that at the age of 18...I actually got paid to go into Westwood, interview people coming out of the Exorcist, to garner the opinion of the masses.

Now, that was a tough job! I even recruited a couple of friends to do this with me. So there I was, doing what I would normally do on a Friday or Saturday night, and getting PAID for it. Not a bad gig.

After seeing a first-run movie, the rest of the evening always went the same way...you'd promenade around Westwood, going in and out of shops.

There was Wherehouse Records. There was Stan's Donut shop. And a little swapmeet that was paraded out every Friday and Saturday night. We'd stroll the streets, laughing, eating, but mainly, and most importantly...looking for boys to flirt with.

When we had eaten enough donuts and flirted with enough boys, it was time to make the trip back over the hill.

But when you're in your teens, hunger is the operative word. Donuts was just an appetizer to what would come to be our staple for the late night hours.

DUPAR'S...the evening would end with a trip to the home of the best pancakes, this side of the Mississippi. And coffee...had to have lot's and lot's of coffee.

Dupar's still exists, although not the one that I frequented. That has become a deli. Not the same.

Now, you can see any movie you wish in the valley. In fact, the truth is, you never have to leave the valley. There are plenty of restaurants, and movies, and malls.

I suppose that's good for people dwelling in the valley. Less driving. Less time wasted on the freeway.

I have lived in several cities since those days of growing up in the valley.

But I'm grateful for where and how I grew up...for those drive's over the hill,

and the memories of my youth.

(this post inspired by a seemingly innocent comment on Wanderer's last post...go read it and see if you can discover the inspiring comment)

SOUL PATROL

2006-05-23T07:20:00.000-07:00

Who will you be voting for tonight?

Oh, so you think I'm shallow, because I LOVE American Idol?

Me and 50 million others...I guess I'm in good company.

I will be voting for Taylor, my favorite from day one.
(well, I really don't vote, I do have a life, you know).

He just exudes joy.

He has a great Michael McDonald type of voice.

You gotta love a guy with gray hair.

So, what do you think?

Will you still need me, when I'm 64?

2006-05-21T16:10:00.000-07:00

Update to my last post.

This is what happens when you don't grow old with someone.

You suddenly notice their wrinkles, age spots, and not so smooth and silky skin.

How did this happen to my Paul?

Thank goodness this hasn't happened to me ;)

CHOICES

2006-05-12T09:30:00.000-07:00

1966

What I would have given to be That Girl!

I loved Marlo Thomas. She had everything an 11 year old girl could possibly dream of.

I thought she was beautiful. She was funny and smart and wanted to be an actress (well, her character did. She had already made it).

Her boyfriend in the show (Donald) was so nice and sweet; caring and attentive; and willing to put up with all her bubble-headedness. She was making it on her own and on her own terms.

She was the original Mary Richards (MaryTylerMoore show).

She was perfect!

As far as I can remember, she was the first female television character to strike out on her own.
She had not been married, widowed or divorced. Just a single woman trying to make it in the big bad world.

This was a time when women were ready to burst at the seams and become all they could be.
My role model had been my stay-at-home mom...until becoming a widow, when she had to go back to work. A few years later, circumstances would allow her to stay home again.

It gave me a chance to experience both worlds...stay-at-home vs. working mom.

I liked it better when my mom was home. It felt warmer, safer... especially at a time when things in my life had been turned upside down.

But I understood that she needed to work. It was necessary for our well-being. Children have a great capacity to understand more than we think. But because of that, sometimes we expect more out of them than they are really ready to handle.

In a sense, my mother had become "That Girl" at the same time as Marlo Thomas. But certainly not because she wanted to. She was widowed at such a young age...all her dreams shattered. Believe me, she had no desire to become "That Girl".

The feminist movement was gaining momentum, offering to bring choice, opportunity, and independence for women.

That was 40 years ago. Where are we today?

Women are often demeaned if they choose to stay home...just the opposite of the 1950's. Women who stay home, often criticize those who work outside the home. And yet, we are supposed to be able to choose.

It seems there is always a price to pay with choice.

Maybe we have too much choice today. Maybe it was better when roles were carefully defined and layed out for us. Maybe too much choice causes too much confusion.

Subsequently, male roles have changed as well. Men are not always sure how to behave. Should they be strong and independent? Should they be emotional and needy?

Of course, if they're too strong, we accuse them of being uncaring, unemotional, non-communicative. If they're too emotional, we accuse them of being weak, wussy, whimpy.

Oh brother, how can a guy win?!

I suppose the answer regarding choice is this (in my humble a opinion)...

No matter what the outcome...no matter the discomfort or hostility it may bring...I believe choice is better.

Without choice, you can't grow. You can't reach your potential. You can't spread your wings and fly.

My fascination with "That Girl" was probably just that...I saw in her the chance to become something different. I saw that it was possible to spread my wings and fly.

I know most women today, do not have the luxury of choosing to stay home. Supporting a family can rarely be done with a single salary.

But my parent's generation was much more willing to go without the luxuries that we baby-boomers will not do without. (so much for anti-establishment, anti-materialism, and a general distrust of people over 30)

My mother has often told me how dinner in a restaurant was a rare treat. Going out on a Saturday night?...have you heard of a blue moon? One t.v. was all you needed. Vacations, which were few, were a ride in the car somewhere, certainly not on a plane.

My parents stretched a teacher's salary farther than you can pull silly putty. All because my mother's dream was to stay home with her children.

So is it by choice that women work outside the home? Or is it out of necessity? Do women work to fulfill a need for independence and identity? Or is it because they cannot make ends meet otherwise?

Whichever way, I commend all of us. Because there is no harder job than being a mom. No job can tug at your heart, or fill it up more.

And whether there is a right or wrong way to do it(stay-at-home or work outside the home)...who knows. I'm sure there are studies and statistics that will prove the validity of either side.

So, where are we 40 years later?

Well, when it was my turn, I decided (being a woman of the 60's and 70's), I would avail myself of all the opportunities.

I went away to college. Acquired two degrees. Began a career. And then married and had children. My wings had significantly spread. I knew that I could be the *architect* of my own life.

The funny thing is, even after all the *blue prints* had been drawn, and I had spread my wings...

I stayed home to raise our children...

By choice.
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If you are a mom, I wish you a happy mother's day...
Whether you stay home or work outside the home...you are special.

Here is what I believe: When your child comes to you, whether by giving birth or through adoption, a little piece of your heart gently breaks off and goes to that child. For the remainder of your life, you will never again feel or think just of yourself. You are forever changed.

To my mom...thank you for the piece of your heart that you gave to me.