The Beautiful Beaches of Minsk

My best friend/tormentor Andre, commenting on my mini-vacation, noted that I would never go to the beach.  This is because, against my wishes, the beach persists in being outdoors.

I feel about the Great Outdoors as I feel about Bears…both look very inviting from afar.  I am a devoted fan of the Great Indoors, particularly in the heat.  I define heat as somewhere above 65 degrees.  What Andre forgot is that I will venture out in the heat only if I am near a body of water in which I can cool off.  So beach and pool are OK.  Other than that I have a deal with Mother Nature; you stay out there, I’ll stay in here.

I come from a proud line of Eastern European Jews.  We’re short, we’re stocky, we’re pale and we’re seriously out of shape.  We’re built to withstand the extremes of cold weather, not hot.  We excel in eating calorie-laden food and watching TV.  If I’ve offended any Eastern European Jews, I want you to go to the mirror and seriously assess your state of physical fitness.  Also, check your mantle for trophies and awards based on your physical prowess.  Satisfied?

So I spend summers enjoying the climate controlled environments of home and office.  I come back out of my cave for fall and winter, once everything that was green and full of life is dead and gone.  I think that’s a fair deal.

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Mrs. Helen Roper

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.  Don’t say that you for a moment believed that I wouldn’t occasionally sneak in a Cat Blog.  I solemnly pledge that I will at least pace myself.  Can we agree on no more than one Cat Blog…a week?  A month?  I shall do my best.

Wait!  I was listening to Hits of the 70s as I wrote, and suddenly Al Green was in my living room crooning “Let’s Stay Together.” I had to take a quick break to dance around the living room.  I feel like I busted a few moves, but may have simply bust a lamp or stomped on a cat.

Oh yeah, cats.  I knew we were headed somewhere.  Tonight I bring you the life and times of Mrs. Helen Roper.  At 3, she is the old lady of the bunch.  She does not abide kitten shenanigans well, and one firm paw on a kitten’s head should send the message, but they just keep coming back for more.  Helen is what you might call “big boned.” It’s not her fault; she got it from my side of the family.  The Yiddish word for “big boned” is zaftig.  At 14 pounds, Helen’s just a tad zaftig.   Her tortoise shell fur is perfect because Helen stays in one place for a long time, and when she gets up for food or bathroom breaks she moves pretty slowly.

Helen also struggles with a licker problem, but I don’t think AA can help.  Helen loves loves loves to lick hands, feet, legs, other cats, etc.  She rarely sits on my lap, but she enjoys settling down with Dan and licking his arm raw.

Helen is a serious sort of cat.  She’s contemplative, often just staring at a blank wall for quite some time.  I can only assume she is doing Sudoku in her head to pass the time.

Is that all there is to Helen?  Certainly not, but I promised I would pace myself.

 

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Name That Tune

I grabbed a cab tonight to meet my friend for dinner.  To borrow a phrase, cab rides are like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get.  Tonight, I got a very nice young man, with a pleasant lilting accent of some kind, who did not drive like a complete maniac.  That alone would have been enough.  But after I got settled in the car, I realized that he was listening to none other than Ms. Barbra Streisand.

“People…people who need people…” But what else am I hearing?  Oh yes, he is singing along softly.  Without realizing it, I started singing along too, extra softly because I cannot sing at all.  I know everyone says that, but believe me when I tell you that at best I sound like an alley cat in heat.

Either way, I was really enjoying myself.  In the space of a 10 minute cab ride I managed to decompress from my typical stress-fest day at work, and get a pleasant song stuck in my head.  I was seriously overdue for a swap of stuck songs.  Since I listen to the groovy 70s channel in the morning, the song that had been stuck in my head earlier was that classic ballad, “Me and You and a Dog Named Boo.”*

All in all, a highly productive cab ride, followed by a lovely dinner with a good friend.

* please note that should you now have this song stuck in your head, the author is not responsible for any emotional distress this may cause you.  In the event that you need an emergency back-up song to get rid of this one, might I suggest “It’s a Small World After All?”

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Table For One

Many years ago I started traveling for work.  At first I took meals in my room, ordering ridiculously expensive and fussy room service food.  That got old quickly, and I started venturing out to restaurants—and trying to feel OK about asking for a table for one.  I was completely liberated by the concept that I was fine doing things on my own.  While I no longer travel for work very often, I am still drawn to mini-vacations spent all on my own.

So I just spent a few days solo at a resort and spa in Traverse City, Michigan.  Michigan?  Yes, I more or less closed my eyes and pointed at a map.  It’s like kind of a big state that isn’t on either coast, which confuses me.  I learned in school that there are a whole lot of states in the middle of the country, but I chalked it up to urban legend.  Michigan does exist, which means I might even buy that The Dakotas are real–both of them.

Anyhoo, when I got to this Michigan place, I rode the shuttle from the airport with a couple who were also staying at the resort.  The bus driver started describing all the activities that are just perfect for romance.  He asked me if I was going to have time to do anything fun since I was there for a conference.  I explained that I wasn’t there for a conference, but in fact was taking a “me time” vacation.  Silence.  The couple looked at me with that “how sad for you” expression, as they scooted closer to each other.  The bus driver started back pedaling about all the things that weren’t just good for couples, why who knows I might actually like them too.  If, you know, I planned on doing anything.

And so it went.  Three times a day announcing I would like a table for one.  At breakfast the first morning, the hostess seated me in a corner half hidden behind a wall that was clearly used most often for staff breaks and not guest seating.  The next morning, she tried steering me to the same table and I pointed to one right in the middle of the room and said I’d prefer to sit there.  Really?  There?  Yes, really.  There.  She was puzzled—but in fairness she seemed like the kind of person who puzzles easily.

At the spa, which surely should be a bastion of solitude, I relaxed in my fluffy robe until a group of giggly women sipping champagne started interrogating me.  In very loud whispers they discussed whether or not they should invite me to dinner, or do something.  Thankfully, I was called into the treatment room before they could decide what they needed to do with me now that I’d washed up ashore.

At the beach and again at the pool, I searched for an empty seat and found that the only available chairs were shoved in the middle of large families who had taken over an entire side or corner.  As I settled in among the families, mothers pulled their children away, presumably concerned that I was either a pedophile or contagious or both.  I will admit I did little to relieve them of their assumptions, possibly scratching a lot for dramatic effect.  I have to indulge in a little fun!

Meanwhile, during the entire trip I found only one drawback to my delightful me time.  I had my wallet and my iPad with me at the pool and at the beach, and I wasn’t sure what to do with them while I went into the water.  After much deliberation, I finally left them on my chair covered with a towel, which as we all know is the height of modern security.  Thankfully, no one touched them.  Maybe because I convinced them I really was contagious, and alone-ness could spread like wildfire.

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A Parody of Ourselves

I saw my 19 year old nephew recently, and he was surprised to hear that my husband and I now have 4 cats.  Sean’s deadpan response was “You do realize you’ve become a parody of yourselves?” Yes, we realize it.

It happened slowly.  First we decided we would be Childfree by Choice, but promised ourselves we wouldn’t be the weird couple with no kids and too many cats.  We started with one little cat.  When she died we went to the shelter and adopted 2 cats, sisters, that were about a year old.  Flash forward 17 years and they were both gone.  So we started again.  It’s a long and convoluted story, but we ended up walking away from the shelter with 4 cats.  It’s true that we are slightly more defensive when explaining that no, we don’t have children and yes, we have, umm, several cats.  OK, several plus one, if you really want to get technical.

And as long as we’re being completely honest here, Dan and I spend a lot of time talking baby talk to the cats; “who’s a good little kitty?” or “you’re just a precious little furball, yes you are.”, and talking to each other through the cats; “go tell daddy to get off the computer” or “go tell mommy it’s daddy’s turn for the remote.”  Parody?  Absolutely.

Of course, it goes deeper than the cats.  We are fully enmeshed in middle age.  We are constantly annoyed with the “what did you say?” response that comes with at least half of our conversations.  We both do it—yet still manage to be annoyed with the other for doing the same thing, and at the same time annoyed with the other for not speaking up louder.  On the other hand, when we make our “morning noises” it seems to come through loud and clear.  When did we start greeting each day with “how’s your back/knees/feet/headache?”  When is the last time I made it up or down the stairs without emitting involuntary little ache and pain noises?

Dan is at peace with getting older, but I’m feeling ambivalent.  In my 30s, I was desperate to still be “cool.”  I tried to watch MTV as much as possible, but started slipping towards “Where are They Now?” on VH1.  As I prepare to hit my 48th birthday (gasp!), I could not identify a single pop song on the charts if my life depended on it.

Along the way, we dove deeper into the heart of the parody.  Dan likes to really play up the whole grumpy old man bit.  Although honestly, he is grumpy about a lot of silly things.  He also spends a lot of time clipping coupons, and triple checking prices from one store to the next.  He goes to bed at 9 and gets bent out of shape if we stay out later than 10 on a weekend.  He grumbles, under his breath, incoherently, which in and of itself is kind of an old man kind thing to do.  Dan is itching to indulge in a few of those annoying eccentricities to which all seniors are entitled, but I’ve convinced him he’s not eligible for that privilege just yet.

Truth be told, I may be a bit of a cliché as well.  I like to rant and rave and express my moral outrage at nearly every news story I hear.  When April comes around I sometimes find myself bitching bitterly about taxes until Dan quietly tells me I sound like a Republican.  He really knows where to put the knife.  And once an avid rider of crazy roller coasters everywhere, the last time I was in an amusement park I heard myself saying getting on a ride wasn’t worth pulling my back out and missing work.  I toddled off for something more my speed these days; a nice ride on the carousel.  And not on one of those crazy up-and-down horses either!  Slow and steady.

So yes, Sean, we see the parody and we’re glad to offer you some comic relief.  We shall do our best to keep up the good work.

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Back in Action

From the time I learned to read, I read everything I could get my hands on for many years.  I can’t read very often now, but that’s a different story for a different time.  I absolutely love language in all its dimensions and permutations.  And reading taught me how to write, which I have also done for as long as I can remember.

I tried to write fiction for many years.  I come up with characters, concepts, a voice.  But my writing is flat.  I fabricate dialogue that is stilted and unnatural; my characters are one dimensional, my story lines zig and zag and never go anywhere.  In my mind, if you can’t write fiction, you’re not a writer.

And along came the internet, and with it blogging.  It appealed to me right away, but what would I write about?  Seinfeld had already beat me to the punch on my typical observational humor.  If I wanted to continue my gainful employment I couldn’t write about work, which takes up at least 75% of my time, and throngs of people were already writing about TV, which consumes the remaining 25% of my time.  So I went along, blogless.

Writing-wise, I hit the jackpot when I was diagnosed with breast cancer.  With a good dose of my usual sarcasm, I blogged my way through a mastectomy, chemo, and breast reconstruction.  It was my joy and my salvation.  And somewhere along the way, it finally dawned on me that writing non-fiction is writing too.

But all good things must come to an end. Before I knew it I was cured and patched back up, which was great for my health but lousy for my writing. I’ve wanted to start a new blog for a long time, but I was uninspired.

Several months ago I had the good fortune to reconnect with a friend and former colleague, a brilliant woman whom I have long admired for her array of talents, including writing.  As it turned out, she had retired from legal and become a consultant, and a hugely talented blogger.  Her blog, http://waitingforthekarmatruck.com is the very essence of Mimi, and a real treat.  Smart, funny, thought provoking, moving and a simply great read.  It was also just the kick start I needed to get me thinking about my own worldview and experiences and how I could express myself as a blogger.

So today, I officially kick off my blog.  I hope that my musings impart some form of wisdom, a good laugh, or just a change of pace.

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