Snow Bored

Although she spends a large portion of her day traveling back and forth between a couch and a comfy chair, my retriever Gracie is by no means your garden variety potato. The jingle of a leash brings this sassy senior to her feet in seconds; the human equivalent of 61, the golden girl is in standby party mode and ready to rock at a moment's notice.

Mounds of snow, bitter temperatures and sloppy, salty roads have kept the diva indoors and put a serious dent in her social life. You would have thought she had made the call when the cable guy arrived to check our service.

 "Hello- I'm experiencing an interruption in the transmission of butt rubs and head pats. May I please schedule an appointment? Between 8 and 11? Yes, someone over the age of 18 will be here."

Understanding that no one thinks your dog is as incredibly cute as you do, I did my best to keep the socialite at bay so the technician could do his work. Although he didn't seem to mind when she opportunistically nosed her way underneath a free hand, I lured her away with a bag of pita chips and hummus. When our issue was resolved, Gracie followed her new best friend to the door, made him promise that he would call and bid a wagging farewell. I looked into her limpid pools and said, "You need to get out more, girlfriend." She agreed.

The list of places to take a dog on a chilly weekend night in January pretty much begins and ends with Petco. So off we went to the pet-friendly superstore so the queen could hold court with her subjects.

Her anticipatory whines rose to a fever pitch as we pulled into the parking lot and she couldn't get through the store's automatic door fast enough. She did a quick survey of her kingdom, planted her lanky front legs and went into a full body shimmy, smiling at the highest setting. "Well, well... Hello Dolly, well, Hello Dolly, it's so nice to have you back where you belong..." Stock boys danced through the aisles, accompanied by cashiers on their registers, while the manager served up a glittering silver platter of  the finest canine haute cuisine. "Bridge that gap, fellas. Find me an empty lap, fellas. Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away again!"

The music faded into the background and the spotlight shifted from our heroine to the Petco piece de resistance- the Treat Bar. "We feel the room swayin', for the band's playin', one of your old favorite songs from way back when..."   Brightly colored plastic scoops rest atop mounds of biscuits and cookies spilling forth from their bins. I decide that it is a contemporary still life worthy of the old Dutch masters; Gracie decides that it is an open invitation to petty thievery.

 Subtlety is not one of our girl's strengths; she shoots toward the bar like a heat-seeking missile and scores a mouthful while a nearby group of boys  can hardly contain their laughter. I assure them that there is no charge for the entertainment and I attempt to redeem my dog-training credentials by demonstrating one of Gracie's brilliant tricks. A small crowd gathers, and in no time at all, the bandit is the belle of the ball. Perfect-yet another felon catapulted to celebrity status. Pretty soon she'll be
headed to rehab.

Mistaking Grace's audience for a potential onslaught upon her register, the lone cashier called for reinforcements. Basking in the oohs and ahhs of a
 few teen aged girls, Gracie snapped out of her trance long enough to see a familiar figure scurrying towards the front of the store. Darlene, our favorite Petco employee hurried to the aid of her coworker, stopping when she recognized the center of attention. "It's Graaacie!" She stooped down to greet her highness, who immediately demanded a massage. Darlene happily conceded,  golden curls running  through her fingers as she kneaded Gracie's shoulders. "I love this dog-she's my favorite." Like a sidelined stage mother, I smiled in agreement.

Darlene returned to her duties and we finished our shopping. Our social mission accomplished, we made our way to the checkout, where Gracie racked up a few more head rubs and earned a couple of treats. The lights dimmed, and we exited stage left. "Wow, wow, wow, fellas, look at the old girl now, fellas... Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away, Dolly will never go away again."                                 



"Money, pardon the expression, is like manure. It's not worth a thing unless its spread around, encouraging young things to grow." ~ Dolly Levi















Top photo- Gracie with Petco employee extraordinaire, Darlene. She is warm, professional, and a huge fan of Ms. G.
Bottom photos- No explanation necessary. 

Literary Grace

 I'm honored to be part of the virtual blog tour for "Storm of the i", an extraordinary memoir by Tina Collen. Her struggle to make sense of an unfulfilled relationship with her father weaves throughout her creative and personal life, speaking to the unanswered questions we face everyday. Please stop by on February 4, 2011 for a guest posting by Tina.
                                                                                                                                                                              




Virtual Book Tour Announced for

STORM OF THE i: An Artobiography

Her father didn’t speak to her for 15 years and she never knew why.
Then she wrote the book she needed to read.

BOULDER, CO -- January 21, 2011 -- Author-artist Tina Collen will begin a Virtual Blog Tour on Jan. 31 to promote her award-winning memoir, Storm of the i: An Artobiography. This virtual book tour will take the author around the country via ten blogs that include book reviewers, literary commentators, fellow artists and even a Los Vegas stand up comic(!).

"A project five years in the making," Clay Evans wrote in his review for the Boulder Camera, "Collen’s slick, clever, refreshingly unpredictable labor of love, is like no other book you’re likely to read any time soon." Going a bit further, Sara Davidson, TV producer, and New York Times best-selling author describes STORM OF THE i: An Artobiography as "a fabulous hybrid, a memoir that's alive with foldouts, paintings, drawings and a surprising lift-up flap. (There's even a pop-up that hands the reader a fortune cookie with a message inside!).

Beneath the playfulness, however, lies the story of an artist trying to understand her father's lifelong anger towards her. At the pinnacle of her career, an exhibition of her work in Paris, Tina Collen finds herself inexplicably weeping. It takes courage to probe a father's lifelong rejection, but Collen has wonderful tools: her humor, memories and the trail of art she created. (I discovered Collen through her Fleurotica collages. At first glance, I thought I was looking at lush paintings of wildflowers, but on closer examination, I was in the world of the Kama Sutra. Based on the idea that flowers are simply sex organs, Collen created her wildflowers from risqué magazine scraps. She took something forbidden and transformed it into something witty, beautiful and acceptable.) In Storm of the i, she takes a heartbreaking story and transforms it into something witty, beautiful — and unforgettable."

"A reminder—vivid and visual– that the parent-child bond is the bedrock on which lives are built," wrote Stewart Oksenhorn, book reviewer for the Aspen Times.

After receiving an EVVY (1st prize for autobiography) and a 1st place Tech Award (for layout & design) from the Colorado Independent Publishers Association, Collen went to the Benjamin Franklin Awards in NYC—and with her book #3 on the best-seller list at the Boulder Bookstore back home, she walked away with a Silver medal for memoir. The next night she collected a bronze IPPY.

Demand for Collen’s multimedia presentations has been growing steadily. Her most recent author event in Denver was for an audience of 250. At these events, Collen concludes with a shocker—the story of what transpired between her and her 93 year old father after she finished writing the book he never read.

Excerpts of this remarkable work can be seen at http://www.tinacollen.com/

If you're curious about Fleurotica, Images in Erotic Montage you can also see some of the collages there.

Please join us on our tour by clicking the links on the days each review will appear. We hope you'll stop by with a question or comment.

TOUR SCHEDULE

Week 1

1/31/11 - James R. Ament - http://www.jamesrament.com/
2/1/11 - Book Fetish - http://bookfetish.org/
2/2/11 - Found Not Lost - http://jmomfinds.amoores.com/
2/3/11 - Sandra's Book Club - http://sandrasbookclub.blogspot.com/
2/4/11 - Doing it with Grace - http://doingitwithgrace.blogspot.com/


Week 2

2/7/11 - Minding Spot - http://mindingspot.blogspot.com/
2/8/11 - CIPA Bookshelf - http://booksatcipa.wordpress.com/
2/9/11 - Faye Quam Heimerl - http://fayequamheimerl.wordpress.com/
2/10/11 - Thoughts in Progress - http://www.masoncanyon.blogspot.com/
2/11/11 - Linda Lou, Live from Las Vegas - http://www.vegaslindalou.blogspot.com/


For ongoing blog tour information, go to Tina's blog at http://www.tinacollen.com/bookselfpublish/#

Artist/author Tina Collen begins a virtual book tour for her book Storm of the i: An Artobiography on Jan 31, 2011. Collen's book has been described as a fabulous hybrid, a memoir that's alive with foldouts, paintings, and a surprising lift-up flap.

Get It Off Your Chest

A few years ago, my friend's sister and her family made a trip from their home in San Fransisco to New York City. Primarily a baseball pilgrimage planned around a game at Yankee Stadium and a trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, the ladies decided to meet in the city to grab some "girl time" in an otherwise chock-full boys' adventure. Somewhere between the cheesecake and the observation deck of the Empire State Building, they hopped into a cab and made a trip to Linda's Bra Salon on Lexington Ave. Though not on the general public's list of tourist attractions, the salon pampers its clients with personal service and attention to detail. Two very important details, to be exact.

Linda "the Bra Lady" Becker and her bra-fitting team have  matched thousands of women with the proper foundation garments for over twenty years. While attending a mastectomy bra fitting class hosted by the American Cancer Society, Linda was shocked to find out that most women were wearing the wrong bra size and operating under the medieval notion that an uncomfortable fit was acceptable. She has since built a business committed to helping women of all sizes find bras that look and feel great.

My own bra epiphany came in the form of an e-mail lingerie advertisement which contained a sizing calculator much like the tool used to figure out a mortgage payment. By entering the measurements around the rib cage and across the fullest part of the breast, the correct size magically appears with the press of the button. I had become frustrated with my 34A riding up my back, and decided to see if this Internet Ouija board would give me an answer. Note to tiny self- don't ask the question if unprepared for the answer.

Imagine my horror when 36AA popped up in the little box on my computer screen. While I realize we're talking about a bra size and not a jail sentence or cancer diagnosis, as a 50 year old woman I thought I had left the training wheels behind in junior high. A quick online search found few 36AA's that weren't decorated with polka dots or bunnies. I suddenly found myself breaking out in hives before the high school dance. Oh my God! Is that a zit? Really? He said he likes me? Really?

I yanked myself out of algebra class and eventually found an age-appropriate model made by Wacoal, ordered it and blessed them for their sensitivity to the smaller set. When it arrived, I tried it on, took it for a test drive and it's been smooth sailing ever since.

Last week my friend forwarded me an e-mail for Linda's Bra Salon. She and her sister had indeed found the perfect fit on their visit and received regular e-mails from the store. Teaming up with Bra Recyclers, Linda is donating gently used or new bras on the one year anniversary of the earthquake in Haiti. A discount will be e-mailed to all those who donate, the size of the discount depending upon the number of bras sent. Soon a box filled with 34A's will be on its way to Linda and Bra Recyclers, who will in turn make sure they reach the women who so desperately need them. If you'd like to help them reach their goal of 1000 bras, you can send used or new bras to:

Linda's Online
c/o Operation: Bras for Haiti
68 Jay Street Suite 401
Brooklyn, NY 11201

Be sure to include your name and email address so they can email the discount to you.

You can also drop items off at the store at 828 Lexington Avenue between 63rd and 64th streets in New York City. While you're there, you might want to treat yourself to a little attention from Linda and her staff.
Of course, you can always benefit from Linda's expertise by visiting her website at http://www.lindasonline.com/.
Believe me, there's nothing like a great fitting bra that knows its place and stays there. I'm proud to say that
soon my 34A's will find their place in Haiti.

Photo- Against the backdrop of my vintage childhood bedspread, Ms. Grace models one of my retired 34A's. I must admit it fits her better than it ever fit me.

Old Dogs, New Chicks

While working on my latest article for the magazine Caribbean Belle, titled "Old Dogs, New Tricks? The Art of Aging Creatively.", I found myself in search of  inspirational accomplishments by people generally considered to be past their prime.  As I added athletes, musicians and artists to my list, a friend asked, "How about Hugh Hefner?" The pajama-clad mogul's business savvy and apparent staying power aside, I laughed off the suggestion and decided not to go down that particular bunny trail.

A few days after I had finished and submitted my article, I fired up my computer, navigated to my home page, and found among Optimum Online's newsworthy items a beaming Hugh Hefner alongside a (surprise!) beautiful young blond. "Playboy's Hefner gets engaged to a Playmate again" headlined the Associated Press blurb. In a Twitter message the day after Christmas, he said that he had given a ring to girlfriend and Playmate Crystal Harris and that she had burst into tears. "This is the happiest Christmas weekend in memory," he wrote. Now if  he could only remember what he did with the last Playmate.

Largely regarded as the father of the sexual revolution, Hefner founded Playboy magazine in 1953 and over the course of the following half century built an empire with one of the most recognizable brands in history. He championed the "Good Life" and outlined his philosophy in an editorial of the first issue of Playboy.

"We like our apartment. We enjoy mixing up cocktails and an hors d'oeurve or two, putting a little mood music on the phonograph and inviting in a female acquaintance for a quiet discussion on Picasso, Nietzsche, jazz, sex... If we are able to give the American male a few extra laughs and a little diversion from the anxieties of the Atomic Age, we'll feel we've justified our existence."

Bring on the nuclear warheads, Hugh.

As the Internet blogs and tweets its disapproval of the May-December liaison, the 24 year old Harris has no problem with the disparity in their ages. "A lot of people talk about the age difference between Hef and I, but I don't see the age difference at all. If anything, I feel like I'm the adult and Hef's the kid," she said.

She'll get no argument from me on that one, but I would advise her to supervise his play dates and keep a close eye on his BB gun.

Up until about a month ago, Hefner had been dating twins Karissa and Kristina Shannon at the same time as his involvement with Harris. In an interview with Fox News, he described monogamy as "something that has been invented along the way to take care of children." Whether he recognizes his own need for daycare or he is simply a hopeless romantic underneath the bathrobe, "Hef" is offering an ironic stamp of approval to the institution of marriage for the third time. May I offer my sincere wish that this will indeed be the charm and that the happy couple will enjoy many loving years together. However, should paradise find itself in trouble, I'd like to direct Mr. Hefner's eye to the available leggy blond in the photo above.

Photo- "Is that a biscuit or are you just glad to see me?" Gracie lives out her boudoir fantasy.

Dream On

In a recent installment of "Green Monkey Tales", my friend and fellow blogger Shannon Kennedy laments her loss of the "Past Love Story" writing contest. Disappointment and denial of recognition have delivered a powerful blow; go to self-doubt, go directly to self-doubt. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.00.

 Grantland Rice, the great sportswriter once said, 'It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game.' Well Grantland Rice can go to hell as far as I'm concerned.
-Gene Autry

I'm with the Singing Cowboy on this one. Losing didn't launch his career, keep him on Forbes magazine's list of the 400 richest Americans, or pen "Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer". Yep, pardner, it's fun to win and it sure as shootin' pays more.

Contests are a double-edged sword; preparation and practice can lead to the exhilaration of victory or the embarrassment of holding an empty bag. Unfortunately there are a lot of empty bags out there. I'm pleased to report that by the end of her post, Shannon had come to terms with her defeat and decided that it wouldn't stop her from writing. Here's to looking at that bag as half full.

As competitive as I am, I'm not a great competitor. I can be totally undone by nerves and I'm not terribly receptive to criticism. My mother used to tell me, "You're thin-skinned, just like your grandmother." Apparently, "Ma'am" used to talk through television shows while remaining quiet during the commercials. No matter how gentle the reprimand, her beautiful blue eyes would fill with tears and she would clam up for hours. I guess you could say she was "Good to the Last Drop."

Genetic hyper-sensitivity coursing through my veins, I search for signs of validation as I now stand on the far side of the half century mark. Music and art have remained a constant thread throughout much of my life, though I haven't pushed either pursuit to its limit. Little victories aside, I, like Ralph Kramden,  have yet to "hit the high note". But I'm not dead yet and I'd like to think that the drill team competition I won in high school was not the apex of my creative accomplishments. Outside of reality TV, you can only go so far with white boots and a pair of pom-poms. Now there's a thought...

So while I prepare to take on the Kardashians as a banjo picking, dog loving, pom-pom waving mid life maniac, I'll keep reaching for the ring, brass or otherwise.

I know that Shannon will do the same.

Shannon Kennedy is the colorful force behind "Green Monkey Tales". Her writing is exuberant, poignant and hopeful. Please visit http://greenmonkeytales.blogspot.com/

Dear John

Your daughter Jenny called me yesterday. Memories and anticipation rode shotgun as she drove to the airport a day earlier than planned. After nearly two weeks in the hospital, the doctors are sending you home to end your eight year battle with Alzheimer's. In the arms of a remarkable and loving family, you are quietly slipping away as you say goodbye. I am brought to tears.

Imposing and brusque, you scared the hell out of me as a kid. Your wife Donna once described you as "a complicated man."; I accepted that explanation and played by its rules. Your opinions were iron-clad and your respect was hard won. You weren't easy.

I grew up alongside Jenny and, over time, became a member of your extended family. During your oldest daughter Holly's graduation party in the backyard, a contingency of underaged revelers sampled some Sloe Gin on the front porch. Bounding down the steps to dispose of the evidence, I found myself locked in combat with the fire of your steel blue eyes.  I don't remember the exchange of words as you took the bottle out of my hands; for that matter, I don't recall any major repercussions resulting from our antics. I do remember, however, looking for toilet paper in your bathroom many years later. As I searched through the cabinet under the sink, I found the empty bottle of Sloe Gin. Why you kept it, I'll never know, but I felt an odd sense of honor wash over me that day.

You walked your daughter Holly down a lovely makeshift aisle as she was married in your backyard. The spirit and warmth of that day so impressed me that I could think of no other place to have my own wedding. My own parents were surprised and somewhat concerned by my decision and didn't know you all that well at the time. Who in their right mind would want to host someone else's daughter's wedding? What will our friends think? Well, their friends wound up having such a wonderful time that they asked my folks if they had another daughter to marry off the next weekend. Your hard work and generosity resulted in one hell of a party and the beginning of a wonderful relationship with my parents. They loved you and made several trips to visit you when you moved south of Pittsburgh, to your beautiful "Booth Hill" in 1991. I have heard many fond recountings and will always be grateful that they were treated to the luxury of your friendship.

A farmer at heart, you approached life with a no-nonsense attitude. After giving many years of compassionate and intelligent service to the Pennsylvania State Game Commission, the farmboy from Mansfield, Pennsylvania has come full circle. "Booth Hill" fits you like a glove; you've taken good care of each other. I carry with me the memories of my own visits and a lifetime of love from you and Donna.

I texted Jenny today, asking for an update on your condition. She answered, "I am not gonna lie...this is rough, but there is a strange beauty to it..." Less than a year after my own father's death, it is not surprising that I should remember the nights I spent by his bed, with Gracie asleep at my feet. I watched as he stirred and sputtered in his sleep, his hands at times reaching in the air to capture morphine-induced hallucinations. There was a great deal of sadness among the suspense, yet I felt a singular sense of purpose and peace. All I had to do was be by my father's side; nothing else mattered. Nothing else was needed.

You are now surrounded by your family as they do their best to let you go. You won't be forgotten; your hand has touched them in ways that they have only begun to know. If there is an afterlife, I'd like to imagine it as a large sun-drenched porch complete with bottomless glasses of mint-laced iced tea. You are needling my mother as she bursts into one of her trademark giggles; my father and you enter into a lengthy mechanical conversation about tractors. Please tell them that I said hello and that I love them.

Thanks,
Joan

Photo:  John Booth  at "Booth Hill". Unidentified cat and  faithful pickup "Roger" are in the background.

John Ainsworth Booth, September 1, 1929 - September 1, 2010.
    

Better Late Than Never

I had every intention of publishing this post on July 25, the day my mother would have turned 86. Unable to pull it together in time, I came to the realization that a delayed posting was, in fact, the perfect tribute. My mother was always late.

She never caught the beginning of a movie. Accustomed to the out-of- breath whirlwind digging through her purse for money, the ticket vendor always allowed her to come back to watch the start of the next showing.

Dinner at 5:30 was out of the question, and the plates reached the table later with each passing year. While a moonlit meal in Paris brings to romance to mind, the same scenario in Trucksville, Pennsylvania brought only an empty stomach and gas pains. We knew she meant well and did our best to enjoy leathery steak sentenced to death by one of her many distractions. I often tried to rescue the meat while Mom bustled about the kitchen; my efforts were at best 50/50  as she chastised me for being impatient. So much for my career as an EMT.

The concept of an early start was elusive and seldom realized. A trip to the mall never began any earlier than 1:00 and ended with her Chevy Caprice flying up the hill  just in time to be late for dinner. "There's Dan Gurney," my father would say, making reference to the famous Formula One driver. "Do you know that she can back out of a driveway faster than most people pull in?"

Though governed by a skewed time zone, she managed our lives and schedules and was a loving hands-on mom. I may have gotten my behind into the dentist chair nanoseconds before the Novocaine hit, but I got there. She had all the time in the world while I agonized over the latest fashions in a fitting room. I didn't return the favor, fidgeting and whining before she could get one finger in a glove. She chauffeured my friends and I to the mall, where we would go our separate ways after determining when and where we would later meet. Manning our post well past the appointed time, we would eventually hear the screech of heel clatter as a five foot two inch bullet barrelled towards us like a bat out of hell.

While I can't lay claim to my mother's good nature and sweet disposition, genetics' sense of humor has kept this apple pretty close to the tree. I carry on my mother's tradition of dysfunctional time management while making a mad dash for the finish line. She recognized my gift and often told me, "You'll be late for your own funeral." God, I hope so.

Happy Birthday, Mom.


Photo- Rosemary Devine Harrison and unidentified beau.