Courtesy of The Daughter
Category Archives: Holidays
Let Freedom Ring
If it doesn’t rain tomorrow night, I’ll gather with friends for a barbecue and fireworks display. Everyone will bring a dish to share, which means that I’ll find at least one new recipe that I can’t live without.
What will I contribute? Appetizer, snack, side, salad, or dessert? Last year, I took Red Velvet Cupcakes, reflecting the patriotic colors. Although the grilling will be continuous, the food, wisely, is served indoors, but, since the event lasts from the dinner hour until the last rocket explodes after dark, I want to take something that holds up. Mayonnaise spoils easily. Salad wilts after it’s dressed. What could be more American (U.S., I mean, with apologies to my friends in Canada and the rest of the Western Hemisphere) than corn? The other hemisphere may think of it as fodder for animals, but we know how scrumptious it is in so many different ways.
With friends, we once rented the cooking school LaVarenne at Château du Feÿ in Burgundy for a grand week of eating, cooking, and drinking wine with four other couples. One evening, the doyenne herself, Anne Willan, invited us for a glass of wine and tour of the grounds. She showed us the gardens and told us that when she instructed her French gardener to plant sweet corn, he was appalled to learn that they intended to eat it. Happily, as food missionaries, they converted the Frenchman to eating corn!
Simple, grilled veal chop marinated in lemon, olive oil, and rosemary, a perfect foil for the spicy corn pudding.
So, I think I’ll make this savory corn pudding, which works wonderfully with grilled food. Over the years, I’ve adapted several recipes into this one. In its most elegant version, I make a sauce and garnish with okra, which won’t work for a barbecue buffet, but the spices in the pudding make it appetizing, even at room temperature. I use Silver Queen corn, which makes my pudding a creamy color with bright spots of red bell pepper, tomato, and green herbs but golden yellow corn works, too.
Summer Corn Pudding
Ingredients:
3 Tablespoons butter
¼ cup minced sweet onion
3 cups of fresh corn kernels (about 6-8 ears)
1 ½ cups half-and-half
3 eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon sugar
¼ teaspoon allspice
½ teaspoon cumin
⅛ teaspoon freshly ground pepper
¼ teaspoon cayenne
1 ½ teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons fresh lime juice
1 red bell pepper, roasted, skin removed, chopped
1 Tablespoon fresh flat leaf (aka Italian) parsley, chopped
2 Tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped
Garnish:
¼ cup seeded, chopped tomato
1 Tablespoon snipped chives
Preheat oven to 350°. Butter a 2-quart round or square baking dish; set aside.
In a medium skillet, melt butter over medium heat. Add onion and sauté until soft. Stir in 2 cups of corn kernels, lower heat and cook for two minutes. Remove from heat and set aside.
In a blender, blend together eggs, half-and-half, sugar, nutmeg, cumin, ground pepper, cayenne, salt, lime juice, and remaining one cup of the corn kernels until smooth. Stir in bell pepper, parsley, and cilantro.
Pour hot water into pan underneath the casserole dish.
Place an oblong baking pan on oven rack. Place the buttered casserole dish in the pan. Pour the corn mixture into the casserole. Pour hot water into the oblong pan to a depth of halfway up the outside of the casserole dish.
Bake in the preheated oven for 1 hour and 15 minutes, until almost set (meaning that the center barely wiggles). Remove from oven and leave in the hot water. Let sit for 15 minutes, during which time, the center will finish cooking. Garnish with chopped tomato and chives.
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Not in My Easter Bonnet!
c. 1955 with my cousins in our Easter finery
Many years ago, when no woman left her house without a hat and gloves and purse, when head coverings for women were mandatory in some churches, when women still wore stockings, when men knew when to wear a necktie and polished their shoes, dressing up was fun. Now, everyone acts like it’s elitist or sexist or pretentious. Except on Easter Sunday.
You can count on seeing hats on women and girls and even a few men in church on Easter Sunday. People you don’t see the rest of the year will show up looking as if they stepped out of a Doris Day movie.
If you dressed up in an elegant hat to go shopping at the mall, your fellow shoppers would look around for the hidden
Easter 1959
camera. If you wore a cocktail hat to a restaurant, people would snicker over their martinis. If you wore a hat to a wedding, you’d surely lose it when dancing to “Uptown Funk.” (Unless you’re Bruno Mars, whose fedora appears to be anchored to that bandana beneath it, but I don’t think I’d wear a bandana to a wedding.)
Hats are sexy. You can flirt demurely from beneath a brim or boldly behind a veil or avert your eyes entirely. A well-
placed flower or feather screams romance, although I once bought a straw hat with the palest pink flowers and a pale pink and sage checked ribbon. The Veterinarian said that all I needed was a price tag dangling from the front, and I could be Minnie Pearl’s clone.
White for Easter 1962? Rules be damned in the go-go 60s.
Some people complain that they don’t look good in hats, but I think they just aren’t used to wearing them. You need to go to a store with lots of different hats and try on every
single one of them to figure out which hat looks good on you. I, for one, look spectacular in a large-brimmed hat but ridiculous in a baseball cap. I just don’t have the right shaped head. The last time I wore a baseball cap, to an actual baseball game, I stuffed the interior to give it some shape. I’m much happier in one of my sturdy straw hats, which I always wear to the beach for sun protection and to pretend that no one can see me in my swim suit.
Google hats and find out how to wear them. Don’t assume that they’re only perched on the back of your head. And make sure your hair is styled to go with the hat. The smaller the hat, the smaller the hairstyle. A pony tail is great with a baseball cap. A chignon (low bun) or French twist works with a fascinator. Flowing hair works with a broad-brimmed hat.
I won’t be wearing a hat this Easter. When you sing in a church choir and are covered by cassock (black robe) and cotta (the white thing), a hat
Easter 1968 – I didn’t get the memo about hats on the back of the head, but I’d still wear that outfit, if it fit (which it wouldn’t).
looks pretty stupid. I guess I could wear it into church at 7:45 when we rehearse, but, by 8:30, I’ll be wearing my choir dress until 1pm, which defeats the purpose. No one will see it, anyway. After singing Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus at two services (9 and 11, historic St. James Episcopal Church, Monkton, if you’re in the area), I won’t much feel like showing off. And an Easter bonnet needs an Easter dress (which no one will see under the choir robe) and high heels (which you can’t stand in for four hours of singing).
I won’t be wearing my beautiful black straw with a black straw bow, attempting to channel my inner-Audrey Hepburn. (Of course, Audrey was tall and elegant, and I am short and a pretender.) I won’t be wearing the beautiful black velour felt that I got in the mid-60s, which remains wearable. I won’t be wearing either of My Mother’s vintage 1950s hats, one black velvet with a sassy feather and veil and the other brown felted wool with a brown veil. (It would take a lot of nerve, even for me, to wear either of them out in public, much less to church.) Nor the navy cloche nor an azure and lime green straw nor an ivory straw with a fine cloud of dotted tulle circling the crown. Geez, I wish I had somewhere to wear any of them. sigh
Easter 1971, right after spring break — too tan, too much white pearlized eyeshadow
Come on, let’s bring back hats! In the cause of sun protection. In the cause of beauty. In the cause of romance. In the cause of civilization. Hats. They’re not just for Easter any more.
Sugar Plum Fairy Tales
This morning, Kelly Ripa described a burlesque, “sexy,” nude version of Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker. I’ve seen countless versions of this Christmas classic; traditional, contemporary, jazz, tap, swing, macabre, and even on ice. I am completely bored with it, so nudity might make it more interesting. This all reminds me of a story that, unlike some of my stories, doesn’t involve my own nudity but probably should.
Once upon a time, there was a little girl who had a curl right in the middle of her forehead. She was captivated by everything theatrical. She grew up in a middle class family, in a middle class community that didn’t quite understand how to develop a career in the arts. The family visited museums of all kinds, had dozens of books and records, followed movies old and new, attended the theater, and excelled at decorating and dressing up for all occasions. It turns out, those are the very skills needed for a career in the arts; a passion for the new, the exciting, the different; the telling of the story of our common life.
The family had a movie camera, purchased to record the parents’ wedding in 1951, as well as every event that occurred thereafter, until it finally died in 1967. The little girl relished any opportunity to dress up and prance in front of the camera, especially in crinoline petticoats with a plastic tiara and “magic wand”, like the ballerinas she saw on television and in the movies. Or she clumsily would toss around a baton or attempt a soft shoe, like Judy Garland. In reality, she wasn’t trained to do any of those things, but, in her mind, she could be just about anything she wanted.
When she was four, she cajoled her mother into sending her photo into Detroit’s version of “Romper Room” and spent two weeks on the show, rehearsing songs, playing games, showing off her naked baby doll (nudity!), and munching on Awrey cookies, while drinking Twin Pines milk from thick white mugs. She watched what the hostess did, how the cameramen moved, how the lights were set.
At church, she learned that Sunday School is the place where frustrated adults are desperate to get children to sing or recite onstage boldly and with aplomb, wearing all manner of ridiculous headgear made of paper plates and construction paper. With loads of experience hamming it up for the camera, she could be counted on to belt out her lines with feeling, and singing “Away in a Manager” under a spotlight on a darkened church stage with the attention of family and friends added fuel to her theatrical fire.
Throughout elementary school and high school, while other children studied ballet and tap and baton and singing, the girl read and watched everything she could. She could be counted on to paint sets, make puppets and costumes, be the unseen narrator, produce plays in garages and basements, and write countless short stories and plays. She attended every professional and amateur production she could. By day, she studied drama, speech, creative writing, and journalism in high school and, by night, lived a fantasy life of acting, song, and dance in her basement.
Eventually, she was found by her life’s ambition. An English Major in college, she added acting and theater electives. She ushered at a community theater and, at age 20, took her first dance and piano classes.
At age 27, she took her first ballet class at a community college in her adopted hometown, where an enormously talented ballet dancer had started a dance company. The teacher invited the fledgling dancer to join the company. One of the group’s first presentations was Tchaikovsky’s “Waltz of the Flowers” from The Nutcracker Suite. With her talents for organization, the young woman assisted with costumes and
Community dancers
staging, and, having no fear or shame, performed “Waltz of the Flowers” dozens of times for all audiences, at libraries, nursing homes, and elementary schools, wearing a tiara made of silver pipe cleaners. Later, choreography for more experienced dancers was added, and after four short years, the artistic director decided to leave to form a separate ballet company. She spoke to the young woman.
“I think you should be the next artistic director,” she said. The young woman laughed.
“I don’t know anything about dance.”
“You know enough to know what is right and what is wrong. You know how to produce a show and tell a story,” the artistic director replied. “You’ll hire choreographers to carry out your vision of The Nutcracker.”
With the encouragement of faculty, parents, and dancers and a promise from the college to pay her $1.00 for every ticket sold, she reluctantly agreed to take on the job. At the last performance before she took over, the young woman stood in the wings, crying and trembling in fear, feeling totally unqualified and terrified of failure. It was one of the times that she clearly heard God say, “This is the job that I am giving you. Just do it.” Well, it was a little more involved than that, but, as she always said, when God tells you to do something, you don’t ask questions.
Under her first year of direction, she persuaded her husband to engineer the giant “Mother Ginger” dress, from under which about a dozen children spring to dance. He constructed it from PVC pipe, and she used parachute material for the skirt.
“Who’s going to wear this thing?” her husband asked cautiously, trying out the painter’s stilts that were required to lift the dress high enough off the floor for the children to stand up.
Always a good sport
“Well…” She lifted her eyebrows at him. He looked smashing in the wig, bonnet, and falsies.
In the second year of her reign, they added the “Waltz of the Snowflakes” scene, which completed all the choreography except the Sugar Plum grand pas de deux. Unfortunately, there was no capable young male dancer in the company capable of partnering a dancer.
In the spirit of a community dance company, everyone pitched
One of the best dancers in the Spanish variation.
in, sharing their individual talents. The dancers ranged in age from talented youngsters to willing adults, some of whom had never taken a formal dance class in their lives. All of them had a place in the corps, even an 80-year old grandmother who played—what else?—the grandmother. Some of them had only studied tap or jazz, acting or gymnastics, and one enormously talented young man, who did a wicked imitation of the singer Prince and could jump like he had springs for legs, became an audience favorite as the Nutcracker, himself.
All ages, all abilities
Behind the scenes, local parents and high school students learned to run light boards and follow-spots, call shows, make costumes, sell concessions, and fundraise. After the third year, about 100 people participated in each year’s show. The director enlisted her mother as costumer and house manager and her sister as stage manager.
One year, one of the college-aged dancers brought her good-looking boyfriend, a music student, to watch a rehearsal. The director seized her opportunity.
“Do you dance, too?” she asked.
“Um, no,” he shyly answered.
“Oh,” she paused to consider his level of gullibility. “You know we could really use a Prince in this show. You wouldn’t have to dance or anything. Just kind of stand there and support the Sugar Plum Fairy while she turns. Yeah, it’s not really dancing.” Surprisingly, he agreed. A dancer was born.
What happened to all those people who participated? Many of the students have gone on to obtain degrees in theatre and dance. The jumping Nutcracker has become a fixture as a popular choreographer and performer in the Baltimore area, and the Prince is an Assistant Professor of Theatre and Dance at Seton Hill University. Others are dance teachers, children’s authors, communications directors, children’s theater directors, and advertising executives. The youngest are now in their 40s, and some even have grandchildren. They stay in touch through that miracle of memories, Facebook.
That’s my story. Really, that’s my story. That’s how I parlayed a love of story-telling and performing into my life’s work. I no longer dance because I’ve lost all cartilage in my knees, and my hips don’t bend like they used to. There aren’t many roles for older women, and I gave up playing the ingénue at the age of 47, when I was paired with a 25-year old actor. It may sound exciting, but I found it creepy. I’m holding up well for my age, but I’m no cougar. Although, I’m thinking that a trip to NYC for a burlesque Nutcracker may be in order. Anyone care to join me?
DATE UPDATE: My Our Time account finally expired, and my last date was yesterday. A man who said he was “currently separated” had been pestering me for four weeks to have lunch with him. Supposedly, we had common interests in sailing and travel, but I had my doubts and kept putting him off. Finally, in a moment of boredom, I agreed when he asked, “What have you got to lose?”
Apparently, 90 minutes (including travel time) and 16 ounces.
He asked if I would join him at Panera or Olive Garden for lunch. I chose Panera, because I have given up pasta. From our email exchange, we clearly agreed on the location of the Panera (ubiquitous everywhere but near my home) and the time, 11:30. I thought it was a good location to complete my Christmas shopping, so I arrived at the mall early enough to shop and to be at the Panera by 11:28.
Since it was pouring rain, I stepped inside the restaurant and looked around. It wasn’t very crowded, and I saw no one matching the profile photo of my date. I stood just inside the front door and waited. And waited. And then waited some more. I kept checking my email. Nothing.
Finally, at 11:45, I stepped up to the counter and ordered a cup of Autumn Squash soup and half of a smoked turkey sandwich on country white (hold the mayo, tomatoes, and lettuce, please). When my order was called, I sat in a corner of the restaurant where I could see everyone who came in. Oh—and it was next to the rear door, so I could make a hasty escape, if needed. Some middle-aged couples came in and lots of young shop and office workers. No single 65-year old men. Not by a long shot.
At 11:54, I finished my soup, wrapped up my sandwich, gave one last look around the restaurant and at my email, and headed back out into the pouring rain. Periodically during the day, I checked my email, but by 11 pm, when I fell asleep, I had not heard from my erstwhile date.
At 1:30 am, my lunch decided to part company with my body, hence the lost 16 ounces. I was too nauseous to look at my email until this morning, when, lo and behold, there it was. He wrote:
“I should get the Bozo Award and won’t be surprised if I am deleted. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I went to [insert other location]. Wish you would have called me.”
WISH I WOULD HAVE CALLED YOU? You don’t contact me for 12 hours? No “sorry” for screwing up our date? I sent the D*bag (as I now think of him) straight to the “Trash” folder for eternity, because I think he’s not quite as “currently separated” as he claims, unless it’s his common sense from his brain.
I won’t let this bother me because other people have greater problems than meeting nitwits online to provide funny fodder for blogs. There may still be hope that I will find Mr. Right soon because I still belong to match.com for the next two months, although my profile now starts with “Not for the faint of heart.” And it’s almost Christmas. You know? Peace on earth, goodwill to men, whatever their dating status? So, who am I to complain? Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!
Christmas Past
My First Christmas
My Mother and I were sitting around looking at old photos, which is always a source of amusement, wistfulness, and horror, simultaneously. I have pulled out the Christmas ones that have held up the best to share with you, since I sincerely believe that the best humor is self-deprecating, and these all tell a whole lot about who I am today. I hope that they (and that cup of “Christmas Cheer” that you’re enjoying) bring your own fond memories of Christmas past to this Christmas present.
My Mother says that my dad always carried this dog-eared photo of my first Christmas in his wallet, even after I was married and gone. I remember nothing about it, except that I still have the Teddy bear stored away. Check out those metal icicles on the tree behind me. Every year, My Mother personally hung each one, strand by strand, because she didn’t trust anyone else to hang them properly. I must admit, I’ve never seen anything come as close to the dazzling effect that she created.
My First Visit with Santa
Several things come to mind when I think of my first visit to Santa. First, this was taken at the flagship store of the J.L. Hudson Co., in downtown Detroit, the only place that had the Real Santa waiting to listen to your wish list — well, I think there may have been about 10 of them, carefully hidden throughout an elaborate display of animated dolls, toys, and figures. Second, it is apparent from the intense look that I am giving Santa that I learned at an early age to control stage-fright. Third, I see that the jowls I had in 1953 have made a return appearance 61 years later.
Christmas Carols
As we looked at the photos, My Mother remarked, ruefully, “Homemade dresses. You girls always had to wear homemade dresses.” I reassured her that I thought it was pretty awesome that I had a new outfit for every major occasion and holiday, AND I designed it. Nothing shameful about these pretty red cotton velveteen outfits from Christmas 1961, and, yes, My Mother sewed all those rows of lace onto the blouses. That’s what the mothers that I knew used to do, and I am ever so grateful that she taught me to sew, too.
Christmas Snark
Now, we move into the snarky teenaged years. This is probably 1965. 50 years later, I am still appalled that my naturally brunette hair is not flipping crisply on the ends like Marlo Thomas’, but that’s a subject for another blog (“How I survived an Adolescence in the 1960s of Really Bad, No Good Curly Hair”).
On to college, in my trendy midi skirt from Christmas 1970. You will note that the icicles continue to hang perfectly from our tree, although, as I recall, they had become plastic, which My Mother grumbled about for two weeks, trying to keep the static electricity they generated from clumping them together. I, on the other hand, note that, just as the jowls from my childhood have returned, my recent surgery has restored some other body parts to their former glory. wink, wink
It seems that there are no Christmas photos of me post-marriage in 1972. Actually, I found one from 1984 that’s too dark and mostly out-of-focus that you would find hilarious. I am glamorous in a Joan Collins-style bouffant coif, pink angora sweater with HUGE shoulder pads, ivory wool slacks, and ivory suede boots. It’s such a shame that I can’t reproduce it for your entertainment. Paint this picture in your mind’s eye and run with it: “Dallas” meets “Dynasty” at a party hosted by Dolly Parton. If you graduated from high school anytime before 1990, you’ll get it, and I’m gonna guess you have a similar photo lurking in a shoe box in the back of your closet, too.
Finally, here’s the most recent photo of me taken at Christmas, and it is easily my favorite. Trying to recreate the Christmas memories of our youth, when everything was bigger, shinier, and more fun, the Veterinarian and I visited NYC at the holidays almost every year. We gazed at the glittering displays in the department store windows, ate roasted chestnuts on the street corner, and skated at Rockefeller Center. Here we are in front of its famous tree in a photo taken by The Daughter. Do you recognize me now with the blonde hair?
Yes, Scrooge, Christmas present is very much like Christmas past. May your days be merry and bright!
My Sister and I 1957
With Every Xmas Card I Write…or Not
Advent starts on Sunday, so I guess I’d better finish those Christmas cards that I started on October 13, 2011. Yeah, I’m slow but not that slow. I took them with me to North Carolina on the ill-fated scuba trip and never got around to finishing them. Gee. I can’t imagine why.
Happy Thanksgiving from my nutty family!
Actually, I understand why I didn’t finish them in 2011, and I thought I could stretch the pity-factor into 2012, but by 2013, I had immeasurable guilt because I hadn’t written the two previous years. Last year, I noticed that I received fewer cards than in the past, which saddened me, realizing that you reap what you sow, or in this case, you get what you send.
Unfortunately, I can tell from last year’s cards that three old friends still think that the Veterinarian celebrates the holidays on Earth, and I can’t quite figure out how to break the news to them. Christmas is a brutal time to tell people that he celebrates with real angels now. Of course, when would be a good time to tell them? The bleak midwinter? Easter? (Possibly.) Halloween or All Saints? OK. I’m going to bite the bullet and send those grim messages prior to December 1. No, really, I am. I swear. I’m going to send them. Cross my heart and hope to —- well, that’s a bit inappropriate, don’t you think?
I love Christmas cards. I even love Christmas letters. I don’t care if you send me one of those ridiculous, snarky letters about your genius kids (grandchildren, now, I guess), adventure travel, luxury beach house or ski chalet, or even your yacht or motorhome that’s probably bigger than my house and sucks up more oil than my furnace did last winter. I just want to know that you are alive and thinking of me, because I am absolutely thinking of you. Perhaps we haven’t seen one another in 10, 20, even 30 years. I don’t care. I remember that you touched my life for good in some way. If you treated me poorly, then I don’t remember you at all, but it still would be entertaining to hear from you. Selective amnesia? Perhaps. But, as we age, we may not remember each other at all next year.
And if you aren’t as verbose or as attention-hungry as I am, don’t worry about not sending a letter. Your signature in a pretty card celebrating any of the many holidays will do. I’m happy to celebrate any occasion with you in any language, although I must admit, every year I eagerly await a Christmas letter from a certain dog from New Jersey. Yeah. You know who you are.
My cards will have the word “Christmas” in them, for sure, and probably wish you a Happy New Year, too. You can’t get people to agree on peace and goodwill any other time of the year, but you can for a couple of weeks in December. I’m happy with “Christmas” or even “Xmas,” as the early Christians did, or “Hanukah” or “Chanukah”. Just don’t bother with “Season’s Greetings” because winter is not a season that I celebrate. And really, no one puts up a “Seasonal Tree” (at least, I hope not).
Xmas Shrubbery in the shape of the United Kingdom
Ah. The Christmas tree. I do like a pretty tree. For many years, the Veterinarian had a client who raised nursery stock and always pruned one tree especially for us. They were about 10 feet tall and stunning. Then, the poor man had a tractor accident and gave up tending his nursery stock entirely. We still went to his farm every year to cut down a tree. By 2010, they were all well over 20 feet tall, so the Veterinarian would brazenly cut one down and remove the top 12 feet for our tree. Can you imagine how that worked? In 2010, the Daughter and I complained that we had moved into “Christmas Bush” territory.
For our first Christmas without him, in 2011, we went to a local nursery three days before Christmas and acquired a beautiful 9 foot spruce on sale for $30. It was stunning, and it shed needles like crazy. The next year, I bought a 9 foot artificial Douglas fir, which I can put up and take down by myself without hacking off limbs or trunks or wrestling with lights. It’s every bit as pretty, doesn’t shed needles, and doesn’t need watering. By the time I’ve wept over every ornament, from my grandmother’s ornaments c.1935 into the 21st century, it doesn’t matter what they’re hanging on. Christmas has arrived.
I’m not a Black Friday shopper. My favorite shopping day is the last Saturday before Christmas. The sales are even better, if you aren’t shopping for the latest electronic toy, and the first spring clothes (aka “resort wear”) are already appearing. By that time in late December, I’m ready to start thinking of balmy breezes and palm trees and rum and Coke, not rum and eggnog. I get to the mall just before it opens, when there’s plenty of parking and few shoppers. I always leave by 11am, when the unruly hordes appear, i.e., men who left their shopping until the last minute. I hope their significant others enjoy tropical prints, perfume, or Hickory Farms. Of course, the wives of recalcitrant shoppers get good jewelry, because that’s all that’s left.
Well, I’d better put down the box of Puffed Wheat and get my yoga pants off the sofa. The Zumba Gold dvd calls. My Fitbit complained that I overate yesterday. Shouldn’t have had that third slice of pizza just because I had wine left in my glass. I recently finished off the Halloween candy and am facing Thanksgiving carb overload while the specter of eggnog breathes down my neck. I’d better start shaking off the fat.
A prospective online date asked if I like to work out. I said, “No, I don’t like to work out. I hate it with a passion, but, even more, I hate Spanx and can never remember to suck in my stomach, so I work out.” All of these dates want a woman “who keeps herself in shape.” Have a look in the mirror, guys. Speaking of which…
DATE UPDATE: Last week’s date was interesting. I quite carefully measured how long it would take the conversation to turn to me, and, as usual, it never did. I’ll give him this, his stories about war, politics, and religion were entertaining, and our conversation was interesting. Of course, I am almost never at a loss for words on any topic. After 90 minutes, he stopped in mid-sentence to comment, “You’re really smart.”
I smiled and said, “Oh, I know a little about a lot, just enough to make me dangerous.” It went right by him, as he resumed his lecture.
When lunch was over, we took a turn around the adjacent art museum, which almost made it worthwhile. Wandering through the museum’s world-famous collection of Impressionist and Expressionist art, amassed by a pair of Baltimore sisters, I commented, “Don’t you think it’s fascinating to see paintings collected by young women from Baltimore who just happened to make the acquaintance of the most renowned artists of their time?” (For the sake of brevity, I paraphrase.)
He just shrugged and continued to talk about the state of the papacy, until, finally, an Andy Warhol canvas entitled “Rorschach” brought to his mind a peculiar story about being tested by the NSA (i.e., the National Security Administration) with ink blots. Some of you may see where that went. He was too matter-of-fact to be salacious, so I had to turn away to stifle my laughter, when I realized he was unaware that the young museum guard was startled by our graphic conversation. Yeah, kid, some of us old folks are still aware of our body parts.
Last night, I had a lovely date with a man who also has interesting stories, and — are you sitting down? — he wanted to know all about me! So, who am I to complain? Happy Thanksgiving! Life is good (mostly). Soli Deo Gloria!
every girl needs a greek chorus 