The Courage to be a Good Friend

I have a wonderful, special friend who if asked to describe herself might fail to mention she is funny, whip smart, poised, giving, fair, wise, and a great decision-maker. She would, however, undoubtedly mention that she is obese.

I had her to dinner with a couple of our other girlfriends recently. We had a fun, fun evening, seasoned with some Katz time, which this special friend delights in. Katz is known for an acidic, witty humor that he uses well with people he likes, and she is quite good at giving it back. The ability to pull that off with someone like Katz can easily go badly; people sometimes take it one step too far, resulting in humor that unintendedly sounds bitter or mean. Katz nods approvingly when anyone can level the playing field, and in such cases, his funny quotient gets turned up a notch, often bordering on brilliant. My friend has that effect on him. All in all, it was great evening.

A couple of days later she told me one of her daughters was looking for her that night. When she told her that she was having dinner with friends, her daughter said in surprise, "But you don't have any friends."

I was offended for her, although she laughed it off, but I've been thinking about it ever since. She's close to her children and her siblings, and this circle of people does seem to be the core of her social group. Yet, she is so delightful I wonder how is it possible that she doesn't have tons of friends?

Not too long after, she admitted she might not follow through on joining me at the gentle yoga class I attend. Her health is not so great, and while she agrees that yoga sounds doable and is just what she needs, she confesses she would be embarrassed to be in a class with someone she knows. Of course, I will not push her or make her feel bad if this is her decision.

In the past, I've thought about asking her if she's ever considered bariatric surgery. For fear of embarrassing her, I've never followed through. And yet, isn't it worse to sit by silently as she endures her health difficulties? And now that I realize there are few outside her family that are lucky enough to be her friend, is it even more important for me to be bold and speak up? I would hate for any harm to come to our relationship, and I dread the thought of hurting her feelings or making her feel self-conscious.

The truth is, this friend does not read my blog or I would probably not be even brave enough to post this entry. Still, should I broach this subject with her? Could I find the courage to do it? And if I don't, am I just taking the easy way out . . . and can I live with that?

Catching the Lyrics

I bought The Police - Every Breath You Take - The Classics CD at a garage sale a couple of weeks ago and have had a great time listening to it ever since. I love a good song and there are plenty of them on this little disc.

While well written lyrics are sheer poetry, truth be told, they are often lost on me. I'm a superficial music listener. As opposed to my sons and husband--true music aficionados--I tend to get caught up in the musicality of a piece. A good melody goes a long way in my book, and being, I suspect, a little ADD, while my head may be bopping to the beat, my mind is often somewhere else.

So while listening to the song "Don't Stand so Close to Me" for what must have been the hundredth time in my life, I was startled to hear the word "Nabokov". I studied Vladimir Nabokov in college and it's the rare writer since who has inspired such awe. He wrote the infamous Lolita, which is a book of genius that strikes terror in the hearts of many. (This would include my former book club, two-thirds of who showed up at our discussion of the book without having read it--too unsavory, too immoral, too dangerous!) Who would use such a word in a song lyric, and what in God's name was this song really about?

My player does not allow me to jump back within the song--a feature I find invaluable on my voice mail at work--so I had to punch my way through the list and start the song again three times (ADD again) before I caught the phrasing. Only then did I understand the brilliance of the song.

Sting wrote the lyrics and I was surprised (again) to find out he'd once been an English teacher. That he went on to fame and fortune fronting the Police and then as a solo act shows what a musical talent he is. But those lyrics, aah, to a writer they say so much more. Only a sensitive, deep thinking, perceptive intellectual could have written those lyrics. I am in awe.

Decorating the Garden

It's been a brutal spring--wet, cold, restraining. My garden is finally in bloom, but having peonies in flower when it's almost July is topsy-turvey crazy. Except for the potatoes in my square foot garden and my potted tomatoes, even my vegetables seem to be intimidated by their weather experience.

Thank God for garden art. Katz and I have enjoyed "decorating" our yard for many years, and each year something new moves in. A local metal/welding artist we've admired for years recently had a sale at prices we could afford and we bought a pair of abstract reindeer with giraffe legs and tiny heads. They make us smile.

When I was a child, my siblings and I had two amazing women in our lives. Auntie Pauline was sweet and quiet and made us fudge and morning buns to beat the band. Auntie Jo had the imagination of a child and the skills of a journeyman carpenter. She made toys and filled a huge walk up attic with her creations--trains you could ride, paper mache animal heads to sit on top your shoulder and transform you into another being, beautiful tin wind up toys, tree stumps made out of old telephone directories . . . the list goes on. Going to their home was like a trip to Disney World for most kids--magical.

They had a small garden, too, and their sense of whimsy carried over there. I like to think that the surprises and whimsy in our garden comes from them. They enjoyed life and loved us, and the joy and abandon they conveyed was a wonderful gift for a child. As things grow and the vista changes day-by-day outside my window, the playful pieces that are woven throughout the garden give it some weight and anchor it, pinning my past and entwining it with the future.

Travel Fears

Thanks to Dick for commenting on my last posting and sharing his trip stories. One of his remarks did jog my memory when he said he had no interest in traveling outside of the US, including to Mexico.

Katz and I got to spend an extended period of time in the Sierra Madre Mountains in central Mexico in the 1970s, and it was one of the highlights of our lives. We lived in San Miguel de Allende for a winter, arriving by car. We rented an apartment, went to school, and grew to love this friendly little colonial town. We lived down the street from the bull fighting venue, ate the local food, learned to cook what we could buy in the local market, hiked the countryside, and took classes at the local Instituto. There I took my first formal writing courses since college (where a harsh professor had given me the notion that I had no future as a writer) and received an injection of all that was possible from an 80 year old former editor of True Confessions magazine. She loved everything I wrote and opened up my heart again to the sense I'd always had that I could put pen to paper and have some success.

I also got to ride horses under the tutelage of a retired Mexican cavalry officer, and Katz learned to throw pots on a potters wheel. We enjoyed poinsettias that grew 20 feet tall outside our window, slept entwined in each others arms because the old bed we shared shank so badly in the middle, bought fuel for the fireplace from vendors with wood laden donkeys in tow, got to know the locals, and made lots of friends. We dreamed of the days ahead and talked about retiring to San Miguel, or at least bringing our imaginary children back. It was a time of great promise, with our future in front of us.

San Miguel is out of touch these days. Although I hear no news of its decline, it is wounded by all that is scary in the streets of Mexico. I am glad we have our photos and our memories, but with killings in the street and violence a part of everyday life, I haven't the courage to go back. While my concerns are born of real fears, I do wonder: Is my lack of courage partly due to growing old? Did I really have more courage when I was younger, or did I just have no sense of caution?

My sons are getting to the age when Katz and I traveled to Mexico, and they have that same sense of invulnerability that we had. If they wanted to take the same trip their parents took 30 years before, I would be terrified. It is a different world, no doubt, and the thought of all that has changed makes me weep.

Travels Past and Future

On our recent visit to Charleston, SC, every local we met wanted to know if it was our first visit to the city (it was), and then without exception they added, "Y'all will be back."

Charleston was lovely. We enjoyed so much about it--the architecture, the history, the food, the people, the accessibility. We won't, however, be going back. Four days was enough for us to get the flavor of the city and see the highlights, and we are "did and done" as someone in my childhood used to say.

That whole "You'll be back" thing made me think about what places in all our travels could lure me back. Here's at least a partial list:

Zion, Arches, and Yosemite National Parks--especially Yosemite. I'd go there any day, any season, any weather condition. I'd go if I had to stay in the crowded, loud tents of Curry Village, even though the last time I did that I slept with my eyes open due to the noise of a thousand fellow campers and the thoughts of a thin sheet of canvas separating my children (and me!) from hungry bears padding through the campground.

Custer State Park--Love them buffalo! (No, really: The buffalo are awesome!)

The Badlands--Surreal is not a common feeling to experience and not at all unpleasant. The Badlands are surreal.

Northern Wales--A fairyland.

NYC--It's exciting and ever-evolving, I love theatre, and Central Park requires constant exploration. Truth be told, I'd go back anytime because we always have a free place to stay and that free place to stay comes with my beautiful sister Kathy and her much adored (by me!) husband, G. It doesn't hurt that her neighbor is Ed Doctorow (E.L. to you in the know) and that the their apartment is beautiful, close to everything Manhattan, and comes with the requisite doorman. I like having a doorman in my life.

New Orleans--The joint was jumping!

There's a couple of places I'd love to go back to but only with conditions:

London--If money was no object. Dang, that city is pricey.

Disney World--It's not as fresh as it was the first time we went, but someday I'd love to go back there with grand kids in hand. They would need to be 6 or 7 years old and have been raised by parents that expected them to be well behaved and adore their Nana (Noni? Grandma? MaMa? Lucky this grandparent thing is not just around the corner. I need time to decide what moniker fits me best.)

I know there are more places I'd go again, but it's time to post and get to work. How about you, faithful readers? Where would you travel to again--or not--and why. Post your comments and let's share!

Old Wounds

This picture was taken in front of the St. Peter's Basilica in Rome when I was 20. My friend Sharon and I were doing the backpacking-in-Europe thing with friends and she couldn't get in to the Sistine Chapel because she was wearing a mini skirt. I was wearing a mini skirt, too, but had the good fortune to have also worn a matching pair of pants (okay, so it was a top not a miniskirt, but it was the 70s and I was young and had good legs and could get away with wearing indecent clothing at the time.) The photo shows Sharon with her mini dress and my pants as we took turns seeing Michelangelo's masterpiece.

Within 24 hours of that picture being taken, I was groped on a crowded Rome street in broad daylight. It happened in a flash and as I stood there shocked the groper faded into the flow of people around me. I burst in to tears and as my friends comforted me a little old Italian lady stopped to ask what was wrong. She could have been anywhere from 50 to 80; short, she had a figure that only eating a ton of pasta can form--a typical Italian matriarch if there ever was one. I don't know how she understood what my friends told her but she did, and I watched anger darken her face. Her voice rose and she turned to the mass of humanity walking by, jabbed her finger in the air and launched into a verbal tirade , scolding them one and all for what had happened to me.

I still remember how much pain the assault caused. Absent any wound, bleeding or aggrieved nerve endings, it was surprising how raw the experience was. This woman who stopped soon melted into the crowd, too, as my friends carried me off, but I'll never forget how grateful I was to her for showing that she, too, was assaulted by what had happened to me. No matter that what happened was part of the Italian male culture, not only at that time, but to this day. She didn't once make me feel like I'd "asked for it" by the way I was dressed. She was outraged on my behalf. I felt taken care of by her defense and it helped me recover quickly from something that would otherwise go unpunished.

The press coverage of the assault by the head of International Monetary Fund on a maid last week in NYC reminded me of what happened in Rome. Reading about how rampant this sort of sexual predatory behavior is in France, how accepted it is in the European business environment, is truly shocking. Women, it seems, feel voiceless after such assaults. Many women, it appears, accept it as the cost of doing business; some, like Strauss-Kahn's wife apparently, seem to view it is as acceptable behavior.

So even though I can't say for sure what that very caring, angry woman said all those years ago, I'm gonna take a stab at paraphrasing her words: Shame on you, Dominique Straus-Kahn. Look what you've done. Look who you've hurt. You have money and power, yes, but you had no right. You had no right.

Language of the South

Just back from Charleston, S.C. and there was much to love about it. It was green, historic, fragrant, charming, and most of all during this cold, cold Wisconsin spring, it was warm.

Still, true to form, what I loved best was the language of the South. For instance, the words "civil war" are rarely if ever spoken by Charlestonians; instead those destructive years are known as "the War of Northern Aggression" or the less specific, more genteel "The Great Unpleasantness".

And then there's the singular, possessive and plural of the pronoun "you." They are, in order, "you all", "you all's", and "all you all". What fun!

So, go south when you get a chance and smell the jasmine, feel the warm sun beating down on you, enjoy fried green tomatoes, sweet tea and tupello honey, but at pain of a trip-half-done experience, don't forget to listen or you'll miss all the fun!

PS: Thanks for sticking with It Was a Cold and Stormy Night when I haven't posted anything for awhile. My excuse is mostly time, but I have written two posts that have not uploaded successfully. Let's see if we all can't get back on track with this post. I appreciate your support . . .

Reality Check

NOTE: Unsuccessful at posting this at the time it was written. Finally posted on 5/17/11.

Water for Elephants is now a movie staring Reese Witherspoon, and I caught the star talking about it on TV the other day. The film is set in a circus and Witherspoon is the beautiful woman who works with the elephant and the horses. She talked about how hard she trained with the animals and how, despite her fears, she actually did much of the handling and riding that was filmed. She spoke about Roman riding, where the circus performer has one foot on one beautiful galloping white horse and the other on another beautiful galloping white horse--very tricky when you think about it. And she did it, she actually did it. Very impressive.

And then, she added, the scene got left on the cutting room floor.

"I guess it wasn't very attractive," she explained.

I thought about that and conceded, yeah, of course, how beautiful can you look when you're trying to keep your balance on 2,000 pounds of fast rocking horseflesh running in tight circles? I could see it in my mind and it really wasn't very attractive.

The thought took me back to my youth.

I've always had a vivid imagination. I was a kid who used to think in the third person. Walking to the drug store as a 10 year old, my thoughts went something like: "She put one foot in front of another, avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk, avoiding the opportunity to bring bad luck on her mother even though she was mad at her." This kind of thinking made me realize I would be a writer someday. I found it very reassuring.

My imagination was only enhanced by the hormones that arrived with my teen years. I was boy crazy to the max and much of my imagining dealt with romance. I imagined being married, waking each morning in a beautiful silk nightgown, my hair flowing over the pillow, my arms gracefully akimbo on top of crisply folded sheets and fluffy blankets. I never tossed and turned, my hair never flattened, my nightgown never crept up, my face was flawlessly made up, my breath sweet as freshly fallen rain. I was a vision.

Well, I got the married part, but unfortunately poor Katz wakes up day after day beside a blurry eyed, snarly haired, blotchy looking wife with breath that smells like unwashed socks.

No vision for him.

Hearing someone as adorable as Reese Witherspoon talk about being visually compromised was reassuring. And it gave me hope to know that somewhere a writer, perhaps not too unlike me, imagined something he felt would be captivatingly beautiful, only to see if fall flat. Yes, it's nice to know reality touches those very successful people in the world, that they too find it can be rude and unkind.

Even for the beautiful people, reality's edges are sharp; there are no shadows to hide in. But, truth be told, reality is the hand we are dealt and fighting it is an exercise in futility. Learning to embrace life warts and all isn't easy but if you can learn to do it, it will prove very freeing.

Still, there's part of me that wishes that my body hadn't shape-shifted over the years, or that I could finish my book in the not too distant future, or that Katz could leave his difficult job and retire today. Part of me will always wish that every day was a perfect hair day or that a beautiful circus performer could stand on the back of galloping horses and look like a goddess on air.

Unselfish Certainty

I love my cousin, Debbie. She's a distant cousin who we didn't get to know until about 20 years ago, but she's a part of the family now.

Debbie is whip-smart, funny and down to earth. We played a question/answer game the other night when the family got together for a mid-winter gathering. The thought provoking questions made most of us pause and ponder to consider our answers. Debbie spit out her answers like rapid-fire bullets.

What would you try if you had no fear? Drugs.

Who would you trade places with for one month? Hilary Clinton.

If you could have front row seats to any concert who would you like to see? Elvis

Would you stop eating all junk food to live 5 years longer? No!

There are some smart people in my immediate family. Eight of the nine brothers and sisters have advanced degrees, and there is a doctor, a couple of lawyers, a couple of writers, an artist, and a few successful business folks. There's not a slouch in the bunch, but none of us can hold a candle to Debbie in the brains department. Being with her is stimulating and always entertaining; add the size of her heart into the equation and you've got a formidable force.

Debbie is about to launch her youngest child, who heads off to college in the fall. Yet her parenting days are not over. In early summer, she will take over raising three of her sister's children, ages 8. 10, and 12. These are children who have been brought up so differently than she would have brought them up--no formal schooling, little in the way of resources, fundamentalist parents--that it will be an adjustment for everyone. Her sister needs her help right now, and while Debbie is mourning the loss of her empty nest opportunity, she hasn't a selfish bone in her body. Of course these children will be welcome in her home. Of course she will love them and keep them safe and do her best for them. She's quite sure we would all do the same,she says.

She is probably right, but it is the certainty that she packs into her words that makes me believe it to be true. It is that certainty that she brings when she answers a question or shares an opinion, that she applied to her life when she went to medical school while raising two little girls with her husband, Jeff. Part of her success as a physician, wife and mother is due to her clear minded thinking, to her ability to see her way forward.

And so, with certainty, she is the one stepping up, rearranging her life and opening her heart and home for three more children.

I love my cousin Debbie. . .

The Perfect Word

I woke up whimpering. My body is healing (I hope!) slowly, but I've never had such long lasting pain before and I'm surprised at how challenged I am at managing it.

I'm at my best when I'm up and moving; sitting for even short periods of time causes painful stiffening and night times are difficult.

So why am I so pleased?

I love the word "whimper!" It so perfectly describes what comes out of my mouth throughout the night that the writer in me found an overpowering desire to share.

No need to feel bad about my situation. This is a "ta-da" moment for me; I get to indulge in a little catharsis by complaining to my faithful readers, and the writer in me gets to indulge in a little wordplay.

As always, things could be worse . . .

The Play Closes and Life Goes On

The end of a show is always bittersweet. A lot of effort, a lot of time, a ton of emotion goes into any play--the writing, producing, directing, collaborating, and performing takes months. There are the practical details--is the show too long or too short, can this actor or actress play a certain part, can you stage the play in the available space, how much is too much to charge for tickets, where are we going to get those tuxedos, when is your cast going to turn in their bios for the program, when are they going to finally memorize those lines . . . it goes on and on.

There are the creative details--have I developed the characters sufficiently, are they varied enough; can they be angry, or off-center, or silly, or unintelligent and still come off as approachable during the improvisational parts of the show.My plays are comedies and I have a good ear for dialogue, but after you've rehearsed a show for a month or more, after you've heard those lines done a million times with no audience to react, the doubts creep in. Who am I fooling? Will that line really get a laugh?

Having done this sort of thing for 25 years, having worked with many of my actors for almost that long, picking a cast is often the easiest part--and the hardest. I write parts with specific people in mind, I play to their strengths, I try my best to take care of them. Winging It was a recycled play, written a dozen years ago for a corporate event; modifying it to include my regulars was a challenge. I found spots for 4 regulars, 2 actors I'd worked with once before, and 2 new ones who answered a casting call. In the end, they came together beautifully. The chemistry I hoped would develop between the bride and groom--and there are no guarantees when it comes to chemistry--showed up beautifully about two weeks before opening night.

You hang your hopes on your cast; your work is in their hands. A play is a symbiotic relationship between the cast, the playwright, the director and the audience, but in the end, it's the cast that goes out there night after night and needs to bring it home. I always encourage them to adjust their lines for comfort, to give me their feedback. They bring fresh insight to something I've labored over for months and I always end up with some great new lines or a wonderful twist on one of my own creations. I always feel I give my cast some great material to work with; they pay me back every time!

Defined, the noun "cast" is a group of performers, brought together to put on a show. Of course, as with many words in the English language, other meanings exist, and there is one other meaning that applies nicely to those hard working, funny, talented entertainers who took part in Winging It. "Cast" as a verb, also means to radiate. And they did . . .

So, the hard part is over and we go on with our ordinary, non-performing, not-so-creative lives that exist when we are not in play mode. Katz (who played Enrique Schlimovitz--the worst wedding planner ever) and I are glad to have our lives back, but then, there is the bittersweet part: I miss Isabel and Philip de Vigny,the Reverend Joshia, Aunt Tootie, and the Kozinsky family--Bea, Max, Celia and Fitzwallace, and, of course, the actors who played them. Still, I'm catching my breath, regathering my creative juices, and looking forward to "casting" my net over them again in years to come.

Winging It in Pictures

It was great fun and I am exhausted. Winging It, my wedding-gone-awry story was brought to life by an outstanding cast. Despite being packed in elbow-to-elbow, our audiences laughed long and hard and loved the story, the players, and the beauty of seeing a show in a wonderfully restored historic home. Today I share the pictures; stay tuned for the insiders look at the effort and heart that everyone puts into pulling together an original show and making it a success. Part II to follow!

Two Too Awesome

We packed 'em in at Winging It last night. Tonight we close the show and we are still turning people away at the door. That's a good thing, both if you are a playwright hoping for an audience for your work and if you are raising money for a good cause, which in this case is our local historical society here in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin.

We seem to have a following of sorts. Last night's audience was full of old friends, neighbors, work associates, and people we only see every two years because they wouldn't miss one of the Hysterical Society Player's biennial shows.

Last night was special because my sons came to watch Katz do his shtick as only Katz can do. And they came to see what I do, too, what I have been doing invisibly pretty much since they were born. Writing plays is a lot different than writing a book or writing for a newspaper or magazine. A play only exists when it is performed. Of course, you can read a play, but that is an experience that falls far short of its intention. Unless a play is performed, it dies.

I've been writing plays since Ben, my oldest, was two and I was pregnant with Josh. Despite the twice yearly royalty checks that arrived in the mail, they had a hard time seeing any pay off in the work I do. For years, plays I wrote were produced infrequently in our area, or if they were produced in town, they were not age appropriate for my children.

Now they're grown with lives and careers of their own. When they came last night, they got to see me a little differently. As the children of Katz, a man many people consider the funniest person they know, I have a sense of humor that is completely below their radar; translated that means Dad is hilarious and Mom is not. Watching my play, they got to see that I am funny in my own right. On top of that, I also was proud that they got to see my bawdy side! I can do blue humor and I can do it well, and I love to see their surprise at the very idea.

But last night was a two way street. As they watched their father and me at our creative best, I watched them as the outstanding young men they have become. They've established careers and broadened their thinking; they even spent time protesting in Madison this week over Governor Walker's attempts to end collective bargaining, an issue that directly impacts Ben. Always they are firm in their beliefs yet civil in sharing their opinions with those who might not agree. Several people who have known my kids since they were little shared their observations with me: How like their father Josh is, how poised and articulate he can be. They also tell me how easily Ben shows his kind heart, charm and earnestness, and how both boys have turned in to such fine young men.

The boys spent a good part of the night hugging and talking with the parents of their high school friends and the neighbors whose kids they played with and whose houses they visited on Halloween. Ben was so happy to see them and to have the opportunity to introduce them to Kim, the lovely young lady who has touched his heart and filled his life of late. I said to Ben how fortunate it was that he came the same night so many people he knew were there, and I could tell he was moved.

"Mom," he said, "these are the people who shaped my life!"

I know it was my work, my words, my casting that packed the house last night. But having Ben and Josh there, having them laugh at the right time, seeing their pleasure in my work, and then seeing them reconnect with the history of their lives was so rewarding it made the spotlight just that much brighter.

Lots of hard work and good fun, our share of mistakes, and a ton of love went into raising our children, but just like with a play, you make your adjustments, you tweak your directions, you enter stage right instead of stage left, and in the end it all comes together. At the final curtain call, Katz and I are left with a successful production and two awesome kids. Lucky us!

Pain

I'm in a bit of pain these days.

I'm going on a year of blogging--a project I started for the purpose of keeping me honest when it came to writing my mystery novel--and I've got no novel to show for my efforts.

I seem to be dealing with some aging issues that include carpal tunnel syndrome, arthritis in my neck, back, and hands, a pinched nerve, and muscular pain in my upper arms that is a result of trying to use my computer too much for work and writing.

I've got some psychological pain from worrying about 1) keeping my job status when I can't work because of the pain, 2) the state of the State of Wisconsin (state union members in the family include a sister, a brother, and my son--and if you don't know what's going on with Wisconsin unions and our governor you are obviously not keeping up with the news!), and 3) a husband who is working too hard and coming home too stressed from an employer that is in no hurry to hire someone to take over one of the two jobs he is doing.

Oh, and did I mention that I tripped over my own two feet, launched myself into the side of my friend Linda's car head first, blackened my eye, and gave myself a dandy case of whiplash and a bum elbow all one week before my play opened for a two week run?

So, I'm existing on pain pills, going through testing procedures to assess the damage of injury and age, not writing or reading because I can't work through the pain sufficiently to concentrate, missing out on my daily workout at the Y and my beloved Yoga classes, not sleeping well because laying down is painful, and generally leading a pretty diminished and boring life.

The upside is that the play is going well (I'll share photos and reviews for my next post), everybody is being super supportive, my job doesn't appear to be in jeopardy, I'm not dying, and I like to think maybe my body is healing a little bit everyday.

The photo at the top was taken opening night of the show--8 days post the pedestrian hits car episode, while the one below was 24 hours post collision. Let me take this moment to thank my dearly departed mother for giving me the genes of good skin and fast healing. I got through opening night on adrenaline and Vicodan, and having just enough of a black eye to make people feel a little sorry for me while not ruining my opening night "glamour" look was a blessing. Face it (pun intended!): When you've been through a week like I had, you take all the blessings you can get.

Amen!

Super Bowl Party-less

I don't need to tell you the Green Bay Packers are going to the big dance this weekend. That's because everybody in the world already knows.

It's going to be wild. As we speak, fans are tinting Dallas green and gold, the local paper is talking nothing but football, football, football, and bar owners statewide are seeing dollar signs as they get ready for the beer to flow. Everybody in Wisconsin and beyond is party-planning for a day of eating, drinking, and game watching. Our sons will be with their friends, cheering on their beloved team and having a festive time. Even my sister Kathy, who lives in New York and has broken bread with the likes of famous writer E.L.Doctorow more times than she's watched a Green Bay Packer game (she even had dinner with Arthur Miller once . . . OMG!), is going to a Super Bowl Party (for the first time in her life) and dragging her poor Spanish born non-football watching husband with her.

Katz and I? We'll be home alone.

To Katz, the game is sacrosanct. It is to be watched with laser vision. Katz is one of those guys who has been a Packer fan, win or lose, for his entire life. He came from a family that didn't watch football, yet for as long as he can remember, even when they stunk (and they did!) he was in front of the TV watching every down.Going to the Super Bowl is the icing on the cake for all Packer backers, but for Katz, it's a religious experience. He's as devoted and knowledgeable as they come. He married me, I like to think, because he loved me, but having a father with season tickets to the Packer games didn't hurt.

I'd like to invite my sister Mary, whom Katz is very fond of, to watch the game with us. Despite a long-lived resentment towards the team (which got more undivided attention on Sundays from our beloved, over-worked physician father then any of his nine children could get in a week), she's come to feel at least a bit of that sense of ownership towards the team that comes along with being a Wisconsinite. But even having Mary over presents an insurmountable problem for Katz.

It's not like he wouldn't tell her to be quiet if she talked at the wrong time (which during a Packer game is just about anytime, and during a Super Bowl includes the commercials, so we're talking a non-conversational three to four hours)--he would definitely stop her from talking. It's not that he wouldn't yell at her if she--God forbid--got up and walked in front of the TV, because heaven knows he'd find the appropriate words to make her scamper faster than a frightened rabbit on amphetamines.

Katz has phenomenal language skills, an instinctive sense of humor, and enough good will built up to handle all of these hypothetical situations. Alas, what he can't control, what he has no ability to turn off or tone down, is his profanity. It is irreverent, x-rated, constant, loud, and heartfelt. Being in the room with Katz during a Super Bowl when the Packers are playing would be like being in a room with a shaken bottle of champagne and a loose cork; sooner or later, all hell is going to break loose and no one within 30 feet will be safe.

So, our Packer gear is laid out waiting to be donned, we've got a few tasty treats on the menu, and the good beer is on tap. I'm going to be watching the Packers play with nothing but some Johnsonville dippers and a couch cushion between me and a ranting, raving, leaping, swearing football maniac. No Margaritas or tables laden with goodies for me; no womanly chit-chat or male bonding to entertain me. Today, it's me, the guy who still makes my world spin, and the home team at the Super Bowl.

Curses!

Writing Funny

My job takes up about 20 hours of my week, so I'm home during the day not infrequently. That being said, I don't watch daytime television. I find daytime programming to be pretty pedestrian, and I figure I watch too much prime time TV as it is, so not watching from morning to evening is not much of a hardship.

Lately, however, I've stumbled upon a late afternoon showing of "All in the Family", that classic 1970s show that deftly dealt with a man, Archie Bunker, facing a changing world--and doing it kicking, screaming, and always political incorrect.

While Archie was the engine of the show, the soul was his wife, Edith. She was an optimistic, loving, simple woman, happy with her lot in life, which was not very much. Archie was the Alpha dog and king of his castle; Edith was the little woman who seemed to know her place. Lucky for the show's fans, Edith had an innate wisdom and kindness that gave us all hope for Archie; when mixed with her uncomplicated view of life and utter honesty, her words always made us think . . . and laugh.

I watch the show while I cook dinner, and I'm always surprised at how much I remember 30 years later. Last week the episode where Archie's insensitivity goes so far as to make Edith ask for an apology came up, and I knew there was a delicious ending coming my way . . . I just couldn't remember what it was.

The apology when it came was in the form of a gift. The small wrapped box Archie gave Edith could have held any treasure, and the prospect was as exciting as it was rare and unexpected.

"Go ahead, Edith; open it."

Edith opens the box, and her eyes grow wide.

"Oh, Archie! A Lady Gillette!"

Archie beams. "Do you like it?"

Thrilled to her very marrow, Edith exclaims,"Who wouldn't!"

I hadn't remembered what the gift was, but once Edith revealed her prize, it all came back, especially those last two lines. Brilliantly written, heartfelt while being funny, it was a bulls eye. Aah, to write like that!

I've got a show in rehearsal now, and it's going well and is pretty funny. Watching shows like "All in the Family" inspire me to keep writing. Thanks, Norman Lear! You done good.

Appreciation

I interviewed a man recently who told me he'd been working for the same company for 32 years.

"Wow," I said. "I don't talk to many people anymore who have such a long history with one company. Congratulations."

There was silence on the other end of the phone before he responded. I thought we'd been disconnected before I finally heard him speak.

"Do you know: You're the first person who's ever said that to me."

"Really?"

"In 32 years, no one's ever said anything about it. Not my family. Certainly not anyone I work for."

32 years is a long career, and I found his words shocking.

"Don't get me wrong," he quickly added. "I like my job. This is a good company to work for. But even on my 25th anniversary, no one said a thing."

This gentleman was in a supervisory role in a hard scrabble, blue collar business. He'd come up through the ranks from a Laborer position and earned his manager role because he worked hard, had good people skills, and was smart. Much of his work had been outdoors, which when you work in Wisconsin can be half Heaven and half Hell. He went on to tell me that in advocating for the people who worked for him, he'd often told his bosses that they had the power to create strong company loyalty.

"Say something nice to them, I told them. Tell them they do a good job or they make you proud. They will fight for you, die for you, if you do that, and it won't cost you a penny."

"And did it make a difference. Did they listen?"

Without any rancor, he admitted, "Not so I noticed."

I don't know if it was thoughtless, careless, or company policy to not recognize a man with such longevity in a job, but I did know it was wrong. The bigger lesson for me, though, was the man's resolution. After 32 years, he's probably not too far away from retirement, and his calm acceptance of his lot in life will serve him well. Hopefully all the time he put in will bear some rewards and he'll see a decent pension check in the monthly mail. But even more importantly, he seemed unlikely to leave his career behind with anything less than serenity.

To me, that ability to accept one's lot in life without bitterness, to ignore or diminish the slights we all encounter from day to day, that is a gift. The grudges we bear, the anger we feel, these are the norms of most people's lives. How freeing it would be to not go to the dark side when we are injured, to not carry around that baggage.

It was one of my lucky days when I had the good fortune to interview that man. He was one of those "bigger persons" you come across from time to time in life, the one's who teach you a lesson without even trying, and for that I am grateful.