Monday Reruns: For the Love of Rob

(original post-date: January 5, 2011)

Five or six years ago, I was working regularly with a nonprofit youth drop-in agency based in South Central L.A. Though my role was as a consultant, I was given a desk to call my own, and so I was there, on-site, about two or three times a week.

On one of my on-site days, Dick Van Dyke dropped by. He had learned of the agency’s work through some community event, and he had come by to discover more.

Once he entered the development trailer, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to approach him.

I emerged from the office I shared with Miki and extended by hand. “Hello,” I said to the venerable showman. “I’m Katie. And I’ve just got to tell you that I grew up with your show, and I had such a crush on you.

“But,” I added, “it was kind of a weird crush, because I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t know if I wanted you to be my father or if I wanted you to be my husband!”

“How about ‘Grampa?’” Dick Van Dyke replied, kindly, contorting his face to accompany his comment.

I raised my eyebrows teasingly and left him to his tour, realizing, as I headed back to my office, that his response had been a compliment: Younger than my Dad, he clearly is not old enough to be my “Grampa,” and apparently, I didn’t look old enough to be his daughter (or, for that matter, his wife).

So, that’s as far as our conversation went.

But it has stayed with me.

… More than a year ago, I ordered the entire Dick Van Dyke series on DVD (yes, there’s redundancy there), and I’ve really enjoyed watching the show that engaged me to such a degree when I was in elementary school.

Rob and Laura: the ultimate couple. Attractive and alive, they never fooled me or anyone when they climbed into those twin beds on Bonnie Meadow Road. They were in love and vibrant.

And I wanted him to be my dad…

But why?

I had a great dad… In fact, like Rob Petrie, my dad was quite funny.

Also, like Rob Petrie, my dad found ways to parlay his humor into creative pursuits.

So why would I want to replace him?

I don’t know. Maybe I liked the way Rob was at-one with his absolute klutziness. Maybe I liked the way he acted like a kid. Maybe, just maybe, it helped that Rob had a son. I know that my own dad would have appreciated having a son. It was apparent that Christmas morning when my sister and I entered the living room to discover Santa's delivery of… an electric train!

Insofar as I was elementary school age when I was developing my crush on Rob Petrie, it’s not surprising that I transferred my crush into considering his potential as a father. I mean, at that age, fantasizing about a husband?

Still, I couldn’t help but notice how he played that role so beautifully…

Especially in that era, Rob Petrie was a unique husband.

Sure, the household in New Rochelle was a sign of the times in some rather distinct ways. Laura was the housewife and mother. Rob, the bread-winner.

But: Rob worked with a professional woman (Sally Rogers), and he respected her. He respected that women could be bread winners in the world. Rob also respected Laura. She wasn’t just some “wife with an allowance.” She was a woman – a strong woman – who had opinions, dreams, talents.

And he adored her. That part was always clear.

And, regardless of what a woman expects from her man, being adored will probably always take the top of the list.

So, between the ages of six and eleven (or so), I regularly watched Dick Van Dyke. Loving the father, who was so much like my own, and dreaming about a husband…

I don’t know that most husbands these days adore their wives. I don’t know that we have a lot of time for that. With all the multi-tasking, it’s probably a bit difficult for anybody to feel adored. But, back in my pre-pubescence, that seemed like a pretty good deal. It seemed like a pretty good deal to emerge – either from a day of housewifery or from a career – to find a charmingly klutzy, extremely comic man opening his arms to my opinions, my dreams, and my talents.

When Cats Puke

Hmm… having spent New Year’s weekend reading the 2009 memoir, Homer’s Odyssey, I feel a bit tacky offering up this piece. Really, I kinda do.

Let me explain. If you haven’t read Gwen Cooper’s charming book, then here’s what you need to know: it is a remarkable account of a person/animal relationship. And in this case, the person happens to be a woman, and the animal happens to be a cat.

Reading Homer’s Odyssey, I was absolutely captivated. I mean, I gotta face it… admit it: my long-term relationships have always been with cats. And so I love the stories that describe those relationships.

Joy Adamson and Elsa (of Born Free fame) used to be my go-to when I thought of such relationships. But, last weekend, that story got supplanted. By Homer’s Odyssey.

Sorry, Joy and Elsa. Gwen and Homer are the deal. The real deal.

Never have I enjoyed crying so much.

But, oh dear, I’m getting maudlin. And we don’t want that, do we? I know how to fix that, and I’ll do it fast. I’ll return to my original intention. I’ll return to the story that earned the title of this post.

You should know, before you read further, that this piece is a bit graphic. (A “bit?” Who are we kidding!) I tried to share the story with my sister, over the phone. She wouldn’t allow me past what will be the first reference to puking.

(And SHE’S GIVEN BIRTH! Hello?)

Anyway, proceed with caution.

Which is to say, consider yourself forewarned.

… The weeks of December were tense for me, and on the night of Monday, December 18th, I had a major epiphany. I realized why the end of the year always feels so frenetic.

It isn’t the shopping, which I don’t do. (I give presents to people when I feel like it; not when some holiday tells me I should.)

It isn’t the December parties, which I avoid.

It isn’t some need to go to religious services, because… I just don’t affiliate.

No, it’s because I am a consultant. And what that means is this: I don’t work for one organization; I work for several. And what that means is that I am answering to about 6-8 bosses, all of whom are slamming to get work done before the holidays.

Not only that, but the work we are doing (grant proposals, mostly) is deadline-driven. Throwing something on the back burner just isn’t an option. Not if you want to get the money.

And this is money that is sorely needed. … It goes to afterschool projects, domestic violence shelters, and teen pregnancy prevention programs. It goes to the arts. It goes to educational curricula that help children think lovingly. This money makes a difference in our world.

… The morning after my epiphany, I was at my workstation (i.e., the southwest corner of my kitchen). I was anticipating the deadline-meeting day ahead. I’d just got up and made my first cup of coffee.

And, as is my routine, I traveled the internet while waiting for the caffeine to kick in (at which point, I would begin the all-important billable hours).

Within a few moments, I heard a retching sound behind me, and I was not surprised that it was Vesta, the senior of my two cats.

She was puking.

Just behind my wheeled office chair.

Which is when I knew I could not back up those wheels any time soon.

No, I’d need to wait at least 10 minutes.

I’d need to give her and Lotto time to gobble up the puke and make it go away.

(It’s what animals do, people. Regurgitation as feeding. If you’re not familiar, check out March of the Penguins.)

And so I waited, confident that when I eventually rolled back, my desk chair’s wheels would not spin up anything wet.

But as I waited, something else happened.

Lotto (younger, larger cat), who had partaken of Vesta’s puke, walked over to the middle of the kitchen floor and proceeded to do a remarkable impersonation of George H.W. Bush in Japan.

I’m talking projectile vomit.

I’m talking ICK.

And then he moved to a distance further away from me and puked a bit more.

I decided I needed to remain at the desk for at least ten minutes more.

… When I eventually arose from my chair, I was happy to see that the first instance of puke (the one that had been deposited directly behind my chair) was indeed pretty much gone. Sure, a few tell-tale signs, but mostly, gone.

Then, I moved closer to the area of the Bush impersonation, and looking at it, I started to gag.

I coughed in a choking way.

I started to wonder if I would puke.

And what made me gag/choke even more was my wondering: if I puke, will the cats eat it?

Oh my God, this is just becoming so gross, isn’t it?

… Yes, it is, and here’s why.

I don’t mind cleaning up cat puke.

But cleaning up cat puke that is puked-up cat puke is more than I can stand, and that’s why I had issues with the liquid piles that Lotto had left. It wasn’t his own puke. It was Vesta’s. Recycled.

(I’m gagging as I type.)

Fortunately and wisely, I just left large, multi-layered paper towel pilings where he had retched, and I waited a while.

I waited until my impulse to choke had subsided.

Once it had, I cleaned up the mess and met the day’s deadlines. Then, while telling this story to my mom over the phone, I had the best laugh I’d had in about two weeks.

Happy New Year.

(And speaking of 2012, with this being a major election year, I suspect we’ll have much to gag, choke, and puke about in the coming months. Should be fun. Keep paper towels in stock, folks!)

Monday Reruns: Grand Central Christmas

A NOTE BEFORE READING: This is actually a rerun of a rerun, but if you've seen "the Grinch" or White Christmas more than a few times, you'll appreciate that sense of precedence that comes with holiday fare. This also will be my last post for 2011. ...When windstorms lead to power outages lead to fried motherboards and the unexpected purchase of a new computer, a girl can get a little stressed, so... I'm giving myself a break. I will, though, try to resume my enthusiastic blog-hopping in the days and weeks ahead. And, I'll be back with a fresh rerun and a new post early in the new year! Best wishes to all, and to all a good week.

(original post-date: December 23, 2009)

My verbal skills include the ability to take an acerbic path. That's not necessarily a gift. It just is. And it is, among other things, potentially misleading. Contradicting that caustic edge is another part of me -- the part that is moved to tears by a profound sense of what I can only describe as universality.

That connection.

That feeling.

That “brotherhood of man” thing.

Although I claim no religious affiliations, Christmas carols have always pushed that special button for me. I don’t care if it’s about some little town named Bethlehem, a drummer boy catching Mary’s eye, or whatever it was that came upon a midnight clear… if you put me in a room where a bunch of people are singing those songs, I guarantee you, I’ll start crying.

(I might even embarrass you.)

Back in my New York years, I worked for a time at the Ford Foundation, and so my commute to and from the office involved walking through Grand Central Station. One December evening, I was in the main concourse area when I heard some familiar songs, and so I was drawn to a circle of people. Among them was a man in his late twenties (I’m guessing), dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His guitar was strapped on, and his enthusiasm in leading the group of carolers was charmingly genuine. As for the group, it appeared to have a core: young people. Specifically, teens.

I’ll never know the actual story behind the gathering, but I made one up on the spot, and I’m sticking to it. Here’s what I think was happening at Grand Central that evening: teacher man, who had grown up in the 60’s and 70’s, had an altruistic heart (quite different from his peers, who were – at the time – all wearing yellow ties and working on Wall Street). He successfully recruited about a dozen of the ninth graders from his Connecticut classroom, and together, they rode the train into Manhattan earlier that afternoon. Then, just in time for the rush-hour madness, they formed their circle. For anyone who joined the circle, they had prepared – and happily distributed – sheets of lyrics.

They were armed and ready – to promote joy to the world in Grand Central Station.

When I first approached the circle, it was simply out of curiosity. Once I realized I could do some caroling on my way home from work, I was more than happy to join in. I accepted a copy of the stapled collection of lyrics (though I didn’t need them for the most part), and I participated with enthusiasm.

But as we were into the second verse of Angels We Have Heard On High, I realized I had to make an adjustment. I had to hold the stapled lyrics a little higher. I had to hide my face. I was hard-pressed, at that point, to hold back the tears, and while I’m not ashamed to cry at anything, I didn’t want to disturb someone else’s good time…

I should note, though, that part of what compelled that maneuver was the observations I already had made. Before allowing that lyric sheet to hide my emotion, I had looked around. I had taken in the faces and bodies who had joined this circle of impromptu carolers. There were homeless women (at the time, we called them “bag ladies”); there were businessmen and women executives; there were local service workers and tourists just passing through. There was teacher man and his students.

There was, from what I could tell, everyone.

Everyone – singing together in a circle.

Everyone – creating a sound of joy.

The beauty of the noise emanating from Grand Central’s main concourse was so powerful. The familiarity there was so universal.

In that moment, all else seemed secondary or obsolete.

I hid behind the lyric sheet.

I sang and I cried.

And when I’d had my fill, I left the circle and caught the shuttle to Times Square.

From there, I transferred to the Broadway Local and headed home.

Happy Holidays.

Anagrams

During my childhood, a common classroom or camp “party game” tested our skills in unscrambling words, often from a thematic list. And although I won these games more times than I didn't, my victory during the 6th grade solicited a tease from my teacher.

It was this time of year, and so we were challenged with word combinations such as:

elds (as in sled)

eawhrt (as in wreath)

rreeedin (as in reindeer)

and, … well, you get the rpeicut (picture).

Presenting me with my prize, my teacher exclaimed, “Rats?!”

I smiled sheepishly, not yet understanding her reference.

“Rats?!” she said again, her grin toothy.

I don’t remember what the original scramble had looked like, but what the teacher was really looking for was “star.”

Hell, even “arts” would have been more seasonally appropriate.

I don’t know, though, can’t rats be part of Christmas?

In the ensuing years, I’ve made a mental note whenever I’ve considered a word that – when scrambled – creates another word of related significance.

My list is admittedly short, and I present it to you now in hopes that you’ll add a few more:

TEXAS and TAXES

CREATION and REACTION

PARENTAL and PRENATAL

NUCLEAR and UNCLEAR

Your turn…

Monday Reruns: "Get Glasses, Alice!"

(original post-date: December 15, 2010)

Back in the ‘80’s, when I lived in New York, there was a television commercial that came on quite frequently. The protagonist – a yuppy’ish, urban woman – kept running into things. And so her friends kept imploring, “Get glasses, Alice!”

Needless to say, the ad was for a glasses-making outfit.

It might have been LensCrafters. In fact, I think it was. (And who knew, by the way, that they’d make such bank – 25 or so years later – when a certain perky pitbull from Alaska took center stage at a certain convention, but… that’s another story.)

Lately, I’ve been remembering the ad. I’ve been hearing someone whisper into my ear: “Get glasses, Alice!”

I am desperately in need of a visit to the eye doctor. (So desperate in fact that my audio-hallucinations allow someone to call me “Alice.”)

But it’s not that I don’t already have glasses…

I have three pairs.

From front to back, they are: the reading and beading glasses, for those activities that take place about 9-12 inches from my eyes; the computer glasses (which I am wearing now) – recommended for a 17-inch or so distance; and the movie and driving glasses, which I’ve lately worn on occasion when watching TV in my living room.

So, yes, I have glasses, but it may be time to make the leap.

I love it that what were once “trifocals” are now called “progressives.” That is, dare I say, progressive.

And while I am also of that ilk (progressive, I mean), I dread the next step.

The last time I was at the eye doctor (which was more than a year ago), I asked if it were time to “go there.”

He didn’t think so. “As long as you go through part of your day without glasses, then it isn’t time.” Because, as he explained, once you wear progressives, you’re committed to wearing glasses. All the time.

So that’s my dilemma. When I’m not reading or beading; when I’m not at the computer; when I’m not driving or watching a movie… I am generally not wearing glasses. And so: I don’t think of myself as a person who wears glasses.

But then… there are times when I look very closely at a shelf in my bathroom.

YIKES!

Maybe I need bathroom glasses, I think.

Or, there are those occasions when I’m meeting with a new client for the first time, and because my purse isn’t all that big, I’ve not brought along the various glasses. The driving pair is in the car, but otherwise, I am free of corrective lenses… I ask my new client for a business card, and she hands it to me. I then look at it, and I hope that those blurry lines I am looking at include an email address and a telephone number.

Of course, if the meeting’s going particularly well (and they usually do), I can just make a joke as I stretch out my arm so as to view the card.

But… even that move is getting dicey. So I wonder… should I shop for a purse large enough to carry all my glasses or should I see if any stores sell arm extenders – in which case, I suppose, I’d still need a larger purse.

I guess the best next step is to schedule an appointment with my eye doctor…

Actually, I’d like to see him again.

We always enjoy talking about current events and so forth.

We respect each other’s views.

Which is to say, we share a vision.

Which is to say… he’s delightfully progressive.

Accolades ad Nauseum

Several years ago, my most tenured Los Angeles friend was questioned by her daughter, who was probably in the third grade at the time.

“Mom?” her daughter began, “Why don’t you put that sticker on your bumper? The one about my getting A’s in school?”

My friend was quick to respond.

“The car’s a lease,” she said. “I can’t.”

But even if my friend’s car had not been a lease, I know she would have resisted advertising her daughter’s academic achievement. And I don’t blame her. There are way too many accolades and rites of passage for kids these days, and bumper stickers are just the tip of the iceberg.

… I don’t have kids, but I also don’t live under a rock, and so I am aware of how things have developed over the years.

These days, kids seem to graduate from everything. Everything.

And those who participate in sports get trophies and certificates simply because they participated.

While it’s true that winning isn’t everything (after all, as the saying goes, it’s “how you play the game”), I don’t think losers should get trophies. Rather, they should be proud of their efforts, and they should be inspired to do better. They should be inspired so that, next time, maybe they will get a trophy.

… A year before my very first graduation (the one from prep school), I won the Intermediate Division of a horse show. My tangibles? A beautiful small sterling platter and a long, three-tiered ribbon. I was so proud of that win, and I loved holding that shiny platter and streaming ribbon as I rode out of the ring.

I wonder what that same event would look like today? Would everyone get a platter and long ribbon? Would I have no way to distinguish my achievement from that of the others who – on that particular day – simply had not performed as well as I had?

I don’t think I would enjoy that very much.

In fact, I believe it would probably squelch any desire I had to excel.

What’s the point of competition if no one really gets to feel as if they’ve won?

What’s the point of competition if it doesn’t inspire one to do better next time?

… I don’t know about what we’re teaching our kids. I don’t know if it’s a good idea for their little microcosm of society to provide them with tangible rewards for adequate performance. I don’t think a trophy is an appropriate accolade for simply showing up.

Given the current employment situation, the handwriting is on the wall. The adult world is becoming increasingly cut-throat, and it is unlikely that it will become less competitive in the years and decades ahead. Will your son expect that showing up is all he needs to do? Will your daughter expect a bonus simply because her colleague got one?

… My Child is an Honor Roll Student at Wilson Middle School, the bumper sticker says.

Cool. And if your child earned that status, even better.

But I don’t think you should invest too much in bragging.

I’m guessing, too, that 20 years from now, you’ll not want to drive around with a bumper sticker that says, My Adult Child is Living in My Basement with All His Trophies.

If that happens, though? If your grown-up kid shows up with such a decal and suggests you put it on the car? Just do what my friend did. Tell him that the car’s a lease.

(And don’t worry if it’s a lie. There’s probably a certificate for that, too!)

Monday Reruns: Charisma 101

(original post-date: December 8, 2010)

I attended prep school for three years, starting as a sophomore. And within just a week or two of that boarding school experience, I was aware of a student in my class whose energy was engaging.

Julie, who hailed from Alabama, was loud and fun and inviting.

You wanted to be her friend.

I got to know her during that year, and although I don’t remember specific times together when we were sophomores, I know we had a lot of laughs. I remember, too, that I always felt special in her company.

During the summer before our junior year, Julie sent me a letter. (This was back in the days of the pony express.) Having ended the previous year without a roommate lined up, she realized she was in the random sampling. She didn’t want to be placed with just anyone, so she wondered if we could room together.

When I received that letter, I was beyond flattered.

To have this remarkable person want to share a room with me?

Of course!

So, Julie and I were roommates junior year. And we had a lot of good times. But there also were challenges. We were at such different stages of growth.

Senior year, Julie and I no longer roomed together, but we continued to bond. In fact, it was that year that we discovered a common repertoire … One day, we both happened to be sitting in “the Smoker” (i.e., the senior hall lounge with ashtrays), and we were watching the film version of Gyspy on television. Until that moment, neither of us knew that the other had grown up with the lyrics.

But once we learned of that common knowledge, I scored the vinyl from my parent’s collection (Funny Girl, too), and Julie and I sung along at the top of our lungs, absolutely annoying anyone within earshot.

Everything’s coming up roses…

Don’t rain on my parade…

Boy, did we belt!

I can’t recall how well we kept in touch after graduation. I do remember getting an invitation to her wedding breakfast. And a few years after that, there was the 10th year reunion in Virginia.

I enjoyed seeing Julie at the reunion, but I also appreciated that we were living in different worlds and that our paths may never again cross. She had married a doctor and settled in Mississippi, where she would ultimately fill her days raising a daughter and doing remarkable work on behalf of charities in her community.

I was still (at the time of our 10th reunion) living wildly in New York. Settling did not then seem an option for me. (In some ways, it still doesn’t.)

…Three weeks ago, I sent out one of my occasional email blasts. When I do this, it is to alert people to recent blog postings, and I send it to fairly much everyone in my email address book. Julie has always been included in that list, as has been Kate (my veni vidi vici buddy from our prep school Latin class).

Just a few hours after that recent blast, I got an email from Kate. She shared with me that my missive had made her nostalgic, and so she decided she’d like to touch base with Julie. (She, too, had neither seen nor spoken to Julie in ages.) Since Kate was at work and didn’t have her address book handy, she decided to do a quick Google search to see if she could get Julie’s phone number online.

But what she got was an obituary.

Julie died in October.

… Since learning the news of the brain tumor that was diagnosed 14 months before Julie’s death, many of us who went to school together have reached out to each other.

By phone. By email. By Facebook. Whatever works.

And through the internet, we have gained access to written memorials from people who knew her years after we did.

It has been heartening to absorb their testimonials, and to recognize – in this woman they describe – the girl we all knew.

… In the 25 years that have passed since I last saw or spoke to Julie, I’ve been blessed to know – and to become close to – a small handful of people who possess what I call charisma. And when I think of someone with charisma, I think of this: you just feel so damned special to be in their company.

There’s something about them…

Something they quietly pass along to you...

A gift of joy, laughter, wisdom.

A generosity of spirit.

A magnetic inclusiveness.

That was Julie.

My introduction to charisma.

I will always be touched by her life.