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to girlfriends past

Posted by cgcopy on February 27, 2026 in heartfelt, life connections, relationships

Next week, B. and I are having lunch with a woman who was his girlfriend in his second year of law school. Although I have never met her in person, we certainly have communicated over the past nearly-thirty years, for as long as B. and I have been married.

Incredibly intelligent (with a brilliant legal career to back that up) with a beautiful family, she is gracious, generous (a gorgeous crystal bowl arrived as our wedding present), and just plain nice. An important part of B.’s history, she had the good taste to date him and the good sense to know that someone else was her true love. (She also loves to bake, something that endears her to me right off the bat.)

I know that there are those of you out there thinking, “Really? You’re going to meet an ex of his? Won’t that be weird?” Yes, I am, and no, it won’t. There are lots of decades between then and now, lots of roads not taken (or taken in a different direction), and lots of contentment in knowing that everyone is exactly where they should be. So I look forward to our lunch and to filling out more of the picture that is my husband.

This lunch brought to mind another woman who was pivotal in B.’s life – someone he lived with for a year in his early 30’s and remained friends with – and someone whom I came to know quite well during the course of our marriage. From the moment I “met” D. – because she now lived in Texas, our relationship was based on emails and phone calls and stories B. told me about her – I, myself, was literally swept off my feet. She blew in like a refreshing whirlwind of energy with a million things going on, all creative and all sort of out there.

A singer by profession and a healer by choice (she was a licensed massage therapist), D. was unique – and far from traditional in many ways. She was always looking for the next “natural” healing breakthrough, always pursuing her singing while following all kinds of unusual paths, always bringing her signature warm Texas drawl and warmer heart to every communication. With every holiday card, we looked forward to hearing about what was new with her – whether it was the next “alternative” adventure, the next arty pursuit (painting became a passion), the next adorable photo of her and her puppy.

Both B. and D. knew that they were not MTB (i.e., meant to be – check out Sleepless in Seattle for a cute explanation), not each other’s lobsters (see Phoebe’s description in Friends), and not meant to be taking life’s road-trip of an adventure together. One of D.’s biggest contributions to B. (aside from that fact that life with her was never boring) was telling him that, while she was not the one, he was destined for a great soul-mate kind love (“You still have some lessons to learn, but boy, when it hits you, it will be like nothing else you’ve ever felt.”)

And how did she know this? Okay, here you have to allow for a bit of whimsy on D.’s part. She had read B.’s astrological chart (of course she had) and told him that “Saturn conjunct with the sun in the seventh house” appeared there. And, apparently, to her, that was a very big, very real, very soul-mate deal. (While I don’t know if her reading was accurate – upon looking it up we decided it doesn’t seem quite like us – I do know two things: a) that she was not the one, and b) that when it hits, wow.)

When I first moved out to California 30 years ago, it was without a ring on my finger. And of course there were those who had something to say about that – nothing nice, but something nonetheless (e.g., How do you know he’s serious about you? What if you give up your whole life back in New York and he doesn’t marry you? What if you go out there and he breaks up with you? What if he doesn’t really love you?). What if you all just trust me to know this man, to know his heart, and to know that this is probably the best decision I will ever make. Fortunately, their advice bounced off me. Whether Saturn and the sun and their seventh house had anything to do with it didn’t matter. The “wow” factor did – and it still so does.

Because D. was so full of life and so eager to fill it with joy, it came as a complete shock, a few months ago, to learn that she had passed away. In true D. fashion, the way we learned about it is so out there – and almost funny in a way I think she would have appreciated.

About a week after sending out our holiday ecard, B. mentioned that he thought it was unusual that we hadn’t heard from D. – we always heard back from her immediately, thanking us for remembering to include her (how could we ever forget?) and bringing us up to date on her life. “That’s odd,” he said. And right before he said the next words I thought them: “Do you think she died?” The only difference between us having that same thought at the same time (it happens to us regularly) is that B. was joking (as in “Right, the only reason we wouldn’t have heard from her would be because she had passed. Seriously?”) With me, however, whenever I don’t hear from someone for a while, I think the worst – and I’m almost always wrong.

Oy. In true neurotic-Jewish-girl-from-New-York fashion, though, I googled D. And found an announcement from her church group saying that yes, she had died suddenly, in her sleep, just a week earlier. What are the chances I would be right?

I can hear D. laughing at us – as we do, with tears in our eyes. I can remember her buoyant personality and her all-out happiness at finding the life she wanted. And I can feel sad that she is gone.

Somewhere up among the stars, Saturn and the sun are laughing along. Whatever guides us through our lives, whatever destiny is ours, whomever we meet and bond with along the way – it’s all part of what makes us who we are.

So here I raise a glass to the women in our lives – bringing those from the past back to the present and remembering those who have passed with extraordinary fondness.

L’chaim. To life.

©2026 Claudia Grossman

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in defense of scarlett

Posted by cgcopy on February 22, 2026 in strong women, movies, empowerment

The arguments against Scarlett O’Hara are far from few and very far from far between. Selfish, petulant, demanding, spoiled – and that’s even before we get to Twelve Oaks for the barbecue in the very beginning of the movie. (The fact that she has an 18-inch waist doesn’t help her case either, but those are my issues, not hers.)

There’s the man-stealing part. Like marrying Charles Hamilton just to spite the man she loves but can’t have – Ashley Wilkes. (Don’t even get me started on Ashley. A man that weak in character and resolve is not nearly worthy of Scarlett – more important, he’s nowhere near worthy of his wife, Melanie, a paean to worthiness. The fact that Scarlett wants to throw away her life for him is a major – and uncharacteristic – lapse in her endeavor to find happiness.) Then there’s the fact that she marries her sister’s, Suellen’s, beau, Frank Kennedy, out from under her, not because she loves him but because she needs the financial security. Let’s face it, a few bats of those eyelashes and he’s toast.

There’s her trifling with the heart of Rhett Butler – the only man, in my opinion, who can match Scarlett’s intelligence and strength, understand her, and truly make her happy. But of course, Scarlett manages to undo that relationship with her headstrong stubbornness and more than just a little bit of self-centered shallowness. Not that Rhett doesn’t have his faults – the man is a scoundrel – but he’s the perfect match for Miss Katie Scarlett O’Hara if ever there was one.

And, of course, there’s Scarlett’s ongoing scheming to win back Ashley from the story’s aforementioned beacon of goodness, Melanie. There are few (if any) purer souls in literature than Melanie – she sees only the good in people, she thinks Scarlett is incredibly loyal and loving (and maybe a bit “high-spirited” – really?), and she defends Scarlett to anyone who would dare speak against her. Personally, I find Melanie a tad boring, boring, boring with all the goodness, goodness, goodness (Scarlett’s brightly burning flame is so much more interesting) but the fact that Scarlett thinks to steal Ashley away from such a person is, well, shameful, of course.

But.

If you put all of Scarlett’s shortcomings aside (and it’s a lot, I know), what you are left with is a brave, unyielding, passionate, stubborn survivor of a woman – a relentless force of nature worthy of having a hurricane named for her. Someone who will stop at nothing to defend her family and home in the days just after the Civil War; someone who will drive through fire to get an in-labor Melanie out of burning Atlanta to return to Tara; someone who will swallow her pride and turn a pair of living-room drapes into a gown, in order to fool Rhett into thinking she is not desperate for money, when all she has left to feed her family are scraps. (Okay, that gown thing might not stand up to the two former examples, but it’s a great example of ingenuity and scrappiness – also great fodder for an extraordinarily hilarious parody by Carol Burnett.)

Scarlett is fortitude personified, not always dignified, and certainly not sanctified. Kindness and grace may not be Scarlett’s descriptors, but she is a tough, empowered woman who, I believe, does learn some life lessons along the way. No shrinking violet, but more of a brilliant, fully-thorned rose, she learns how to take care of herself when her world is ripped up and thrown away (and looks exquisite while doing it). No one throws Scarlett away.

Do I believe in Rhett and Scarlett reuniting? Hopeful romantic that I am, I do. I do give a damn about what will happen to Scarlett (and I believe that, secretly, so does Rhett).

Not that Scarlett O’Hara needs me to make her case for her.

That belle rings loud and clear.

©2026 Claudia Grossman

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where ya been?

Posted by cgcopy on February 3, 2026 in a writer's life, empowerment, finding myself, inspiration

Yes, I know it’s been a while. It’s been several months since my last blog post and, while I don’t flatter myself into thinking that it’s been noticeable to you, my readers, it has been noticeable to me. My reason for not writing? It’s been just too difficult to find something to write about – something lovely; something light or funny, perhaps; something joyful – in the midst of everything happening around us today.

But as a writer, if I can’t write … then what? I read; in fact, I read a lot (nothing too heavy these days). I try to limit my exposure to the news (good luck with that one, but I try). And I worry. More than I read. More than I eat chocolate (and that’s saying something). More than is good for me. Somehow the imagination that fuels my writing had turned on me – what had been serendipitous, whimsical, and somewhat enchanting had turned far too serious. The magic of “what if” that sparks my signature storytelling had lost its, well, magic.

And so.

Not an excuse for my absence of blog posts but, rather, an explanation (although that might be a distinction without a difference – I’m not certain).

In describing this situation recently to a dear friend (I believe she got it out of me by simply asking how I was), I realized how lost I sounded as a writer. It’s one thing to be lost while trying to work your way through writing a novel (believe me, it gives new meaning to the term “lost and found”), but it’s another to feel too empty to find the words that feed your soul. Stringing those words into sentences, and then those sentences into paragraphs, and then those paragraphs into a story, an essay, a blog post – well, it brings a feeling of satisfaction, of completeness, and of worth. A feeling I had all but forgotten.

If you’re born to be a writer, you pull your words around you like a soft, (insert favorite color here) blanket and draw on them for strength, for warmth, and for comfort. Imagine trying to capture fireflies in a jar but having those fireflies flutter by so quickly that they just won’t be caught. Rather than a jar full of luminescence, you’re left with an occasional twinkle in the night – achingly beautiful but achingly out of reach.

But then. Remarkably, this very wise, very sensitive, very perceptive friend (call her a fairy godmother, perhaps? – ah, there’s a bit of the enchantment back again!) offered me the possibility of a way back in. A chance, perhaps, to reclaim the joy of writing by finding a way to try to write again – this time through her suggestion of journaling (not something I’ve ever found appealing). I’ve always avoided journaling because I perceived it as “writing on demand” without an assignment attached to it (unlike writing an ad, for example, or writing a brochure or a press release, or writing a list of product names). How would I find direction? But then again, what did I have to lose?

As it turns out, once I began journaling (and beginning was the most challenging part), I felt a door opening to me. A door leading from the pain of not being able to write with any real feeling or authenticity or heart to the chance – the chance! – to find the words again. It has started me on my way to discovering the words that work and, most important, to finding the colors, the music, and the love that those words evoke, instill, and express. I’ve discovered that, for me, journaling is the most personal and freeing of art forms. And in that freedom lies its power. Since beginning, I – saying this here with bated breath, too tentative to utter these words aloud – hope that this will be terra firma for finding my way all the way back to writing.

When creativity lies dormant, an energy, a purpose, a life force feels like it’s missing. When it raises its head again, like the very first buds of spring emerging a bit recklessly but so hopefully from the winter snows, it is a burst of beauty for the soul.

So there you are. That’s where I’ve been. It’s one word at a time, one thought at a time, one hour (or even a few minutes) at my computer at a time. Some words dazzle. Some just sit there. Some flow. And some chug uphill very slowly but with determination, sort of like the little engine that could.

I think I can. Here I am.

©2026 Claudia Grossman

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on my dishlist

Posted by cgcopy on November 6, 2025 in finding the joy, very vintage, wish list

There’s a line from the movie Love Story, said by to-the-mantle-born Oliver Barrett IV (Ryan O’Neal) – the preppiest of Harvard students, so wealthy that his family has a hall named after it – to his poor-in-money-but-rich-in-style, brilliant, Radcliffe girlfriend Jennifer Cavilleri (Ali Macgraw): “See Jenny – you can dish it out but you can’t take it.”

(Not the most memorable line of the script, that being the oft-quoted but always – in my mind – ridiculous, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” Really? I’ve always thought that the line should have been, “Love means knowing when to say you’re sorry” – which is pretty much whenever you’ve hurt your partner’s feelings. But I digress.)

Anyway. Back to dishing or, more specifically, dishes. (See how a creative’s mind works? In a completely non-linear, but not necessarily nonsensical way. There is a line here, it just curves, loops, and ends with a flourish.) Usually, I spend about five minutes a day thinking about dishes. And that’s when I’m loading or unloading the dishwasher. But occasionally, when I’m on a step stool trying to get down the “good glasses” from the cabinet, I’ll find something in the way back that I’d forgotten we even had; or sometimes, a movie or TV show that takes place in an earlier time will feature a piece of my childhood table history; or, once in a while, a memory of past dishes even inspires me to create (this post included). To wit:

I grew up with a pattern of mixing bowls made by Pyrex – in fact, everyone I knew at that time seemed to grow up with that same pattern. The bowls came in a set of four graduated sizes and featured a design of a farmer and his wife surrounded by sheafs of wheat, ears of corn, and roosters. The set included two bowls with an opaque white background and turquoise print and two in the reverse. Imagine my not-exactly-surprise when I moved in with B. to find that he had the same set (this one was acquired at a yard sale along the way of his single life).

B. and I kept those bowls until the last one, a white bowl with the design pretty much worn off, broke (an end to a kind of era). Happily, I was reminded of them just a few days ago, when we were watching The Way We Were. There, as Katie Morosky (Barbra Streisand) was making a brisket dinner in her late-1940s-early-1950s kitchen, a farmer-and-wife bowl made an appearance. “Did you see that?” we said at the same time. Bowled over.

Another dish-upon-a-star memory? Corningware was famous for its signature white casserole / baking dishes adorned with a simple blue pattern of three cornflowers (that cornflower blue is still my favorite shade of blue to this day). The simplicity of blue in varying shades against white – long a classic pattern on everything from world-famous Delftware from the Netherlands; to centuries-old Chinese porcelain, featuring a rich cobalt blue design on a white background; to contemporary tableware with a French Country motif – always appeals to my eye. But that adorable triple cornflower, my first real memory of what was cooking in the kitchen (the pattern made its first appearance when I did, in 1958), will always have a special place in my heart. The same way that my cornflower blue Crayola crayon is always the first one worn down to a nub in the big 64-count box. (Don’t judge me – I’m a creative.)

One more for the dishlist: My fascination with mermaids – and my inspiration for writing a novel about them – dates back to my childhood of reading storybooks with wonderful illustrations of these enchanting beings. But another inspiration came from a set of dishes I remember from when I was a little girl. These plates and cups were my grandmother’s set and were actually made of inexpensive (at least when she acquired them) Depression glass. They were a clear sea-blue in color with a bubble texture, and I loved to look through them and imagine I was seeing the world through a mermaid’s eyes. Looking glass, indeed.

These days it often seems as if dishes have just become a means to an end (hurry up and grab something to eat and go – or let’s just eat directly from the takeout containers), but taking the time to look back at these pieces, if only in my mind, reminds me a little bit of where I came from. Not only taking the time to look back but maybe taking the time to slow down and enjoy.

On that note, my dish wish for you all, as we approach the holiday season, is that your table be filled with good friends, good food, and extra portions of love and laughter.

Dish it out.

©2025 Claudia Grossman

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dodging the blues

Posted by cgcopy on October 23, 2025 in a tribute, baseball, finding the joy, magic

“When all the world is a hopeless jumble,” goes the seldom-heard intro lyric to Somewhere Over the Rainbow – well, that “when” appears to be now. In these days of uncertainty (to say the least), all we can be certain of is how important it is to hold on to our hats and our hearts. And speaking of the latter, finding and nurturing whatever bits of joy we can goes a long way to bringing some Technicolor to a sepia world.

Enter LA’s blue crew, aka its boys in blue, aka the Los Angeles Dodgers, heading to their next World Series tomorrow night. The joy that emanates from this team as they embrace the postseason in all its glory is reflected back by the fans. And there is no better example of that exuberance and utter exhilaration than what anyone who saw the game, which propelled the Dodgers to win the National League pennant a few nights ago, witnessed and will never forget. The sheer force of nature that is Shohei Ohtani.

If you are one of the lucky ones who saw the game (either on TV or – gasp! – in person), I don’t need to tell you about Ohtani’s remarkable six innings of pitching – no runs, only two hits, and ten – count ’em ten – strikeouts. Nor do I need to remind you about his three homeruns, the second one blasting right out of the stadium.

The man had the eye of a winner that night, all determination, all business, all champion. Not unlike Kobe Bryant when he took to the court and made it his own (no small wonder that Staples Center became known as The House That Kobe Built). Ohtani’s focus was laser-like, his athletic prowess not to be denied, his talent and skill surely a gift from the gods. The man would have torn the roof off Dodger Stadium if it had one.

But equal to the extraordinary, otherworldly talent was the pure joy that accompanied it – the joy of someone who loves what he does, whose heart is completely and passionately in his game, and who seems to relish the breathlessly exciting moments he gives to the fans. Joy reflected in his smile, in his acknowledgement of the crowd, even in his humble acceptance of the pennant-series MVP award.

That joy is contagious – in Max Muncy’s ability to turn and deliver on a dime; in Mookie Betts’ unflagging agility and speed; in the bit of mischief in Enrique “Kiké” Hernandez’s grin when he singles and lands on base. The entire team has managed to capture the imagination and the spirit of our city and carry us all high above the everyday, to a place where, even if happy little bluebirds may not be singing, the boys in blue are coloring our town with hope. The fact that this moment in baseball history took place in Dodger Stadium, an aging but undeniable cathedral of baseball royalty, made it all the sweeter.

There’s no place like home (plate).

©2025 Claudia Grossman

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drumroll, please

Posted by cgcopy on October 10, 2025 in music & lyrics, passions, pure joy

Today is Hug a Drummer Day, the perfect occasion for me to salute my own once-drummer, B. – and to rerun this post from a couple of years ago about how I married an “almost” rock star. (Okay, he was just a little kid with big dreams, but you gotta love the heart.) Two, three, four …

So I married a rock star … whose career went no further than the middle of seventh grade. But still.

B. was little as a kid, born in December when all of his classmates and buddies were born earlier in the year and, as a result, went through their growth spurts sooner. As such, his two goals before reaching his bar mitzvah at age 13 were a) to be 5 feet, and b) to weigh 100 pounds. (Little kid, big dreams.)

But, small as he might have been in stature, he more than made up for it in personality, energy, and his never-ending ability to make himself known. (FYI, for those who don’t know him, he is now average height and weight but still has a big personality and a lot of energy – the uncaffeinated kind.)

But I digress. Back in fourth grade, B. wanted to be part of the school’s recital band, and drums were his instrument of choice. To the percussion section he was assigned. But given that there were fifth and sixth graders who were already the named drummers, he was designated to – wait for it – the cymbals.

The cymbals. Two huge disks that were almost as big as he was tall, that he held in both hands and crashed together with huge enthusiasm – and volume. Not the focus of the band, but certainly stealing the spotlight with a grand gesture each time it was his turn to play. The picture of him in my mind (tiny and adorable) with this big, big sound coming from his corner just cracks me up.

My favorite part of this story is when B. and his fourth-grade buddies formed their own band – just three kids playing in the living room for the love of music. Their name? Get ready for it – Nitro and the Dynamites. I kid you not.

Me: Who thought of the name?

He: Me.

Me: Who was Nitro?

He: (a bit indignantly) Me.

Me: (trying not to laugh) And did you have a special drum set at home?

He: (looking at me pityingly) Of course. It was a gold sparkle drum set that said Nitro and the Dynamites across the bass drum. Like the Beatles.

Me: You had a customized bass drum?

He: Well …

Me: (thinking this is too good to let go of) You had a bass drum printed with the name of the band?

He: Not exactly.

Me: Then what exactly?

He: I customized it. (Proud of himself)

Me: How?

He: Remember oaktag?

Me: Of course.

He: I cut out a big circle from black oaktag, wrote the name of the band on it in gold glitter, and attached it to the front of the drum.

Me: Wait – you used Elmer’s Glue to write the name and then sprinkled it with gold glitter and shook off the excess?

He: (looking uncomfortable) Yeah. I was a kid.

Me: (kissing him) That is the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.

He: Really? (looking both suddenly shy and pleased with himself) I even had a boom mic over my drum set.

Me: Stop. You’re killing me.

B. finally had the chance to play the drums in band in fifth and sixth grades (“I brought my own drumsticks from home,” he says proudly), and it looked like his rocker career had taken root. At friends’ bar mitzvahs in mid-seventh grade, the event bands would let him sit in, and my husband (first a lawyer and now a college professor) would wail away on the drum solos to “Wipeout” and “Hawaii Five-0” like nobody’s business. “Did you have any groupies?” I’ve asked him jokingly. “I was a little kid,” he responds, as if I’d asked a silly question (which I had). But his answer has always been accompanied by a little dreaming-of-being-a-rock-star smile.

But junior high (seventh grade in those days) had combined several elementary schools with lots of drummers, and B. lost interest in being one of many. His interest was channeled instead into growing to love rock music and its very best drummers – Charlie Watts and Keith Moon at first, the incredible Max Weinberg a bit later on (evidence of the latter being our five forays to see the E Street Band in concert). It expanded to a love of so many kinds of music (jazz and big-band, anyone?) and to a wide range of musical artists – musicians, songwriters, and vocalists.

His passion for music and his admiration for those who create and perform it is an absolute joy to see and to live with. (“I’m just in complete awe of anyone who can sit down and make music,” he says not infrequently.) And for those who might be curious, yes, Nitro still exists – each time B. breaks out into that opening riff from Five-0 (using his hands) on the dining room table.

The beat goes on.

©2025, 2023 Claudia Grossman

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dear little birthday girl

Posted by cgcopy on September 15, 2025 in circling the sun, finding the good, little bits of joy

To everyone who follows my blog: You may notice that you’ve seen this particular post already, in March of this year, in fact. I’m reposting it because I inadvertently deleted it from WordPress and I wanted to put it back as part of my writing adventure and history. In reposting, though, it is automatically sent to you again. I apologize for the repetition if you’ve read it before. If you haven’t, I invite you to enjoy it now. Thanks for your indulgence – and for following!

It’s hard to believe that my 67th birthday will be here this week, given that it seems that 40 – okay, 45 – would be more appropriate (as long as I don’t look at myself in the mirror while wearing my reading glasses).

But time marches on, and 67 trips around the sun is certainly noteworthy (that’s a lot of rotation and revolution). Even though things tend to move farther into the rear view mirror as I spin along, I can still remember what it felt like to be 6 or 7 years old – my life stretched out ahead of me, cute smile, pinchable cheeks, bashfulness personified, neuroses already firmly in place (who knew?). If I could offer advice and comfort to that sweet little girl, what would I say? Here then, a letter to myself, dreams included, sealed with a kiss:

Dear 6- or 7-year-old me:

No, it’s not possible to flush yourself down the toilet.

No, you won’t always be painfully shy.

No, boys won’t always be gross (although men will, from time to time, act like gross little boys).

Yes, you will always be really smart (it will just take you about 20 more years to stop apologizing for it).

No, you won’t acquire the gracefulness of an athlete, but yes, you’ll develop the kind of grace and graciousness that will make you stand out.

Yes, you’ll always worry everything to death and drive everyone to distraction doing it (but in an appealing, adorable way).

Yes, the most important word you’ll ever learn is “kind.” And yes, the most satisfying word you’ll ever learn is a well-placed “f**k.” Use the first one generously; use the second one with great discretion.

Yes, people will always tell you that you resemble Barbra Streisand (but no, you will never learn to sing on key).

Yes, the boy you’ll meet when you’re 17 will break your heart (but he’ll become your heart – and your husband – 20+ years later).

No, boo-boos do not become bubonic plague, nor will you develop every disorder you’ll read about in your Abnormal Psych text (although you will diagnose yourself with a new one each week).

No, life is not necessarily fair. Nor is it always pretty or easy or malleable to your will. But yes, it is always yours. And the possibilities to change it, to learn from it, and to follow your heart have no age limit.

No, you won’t be a mermaid, a ballerina, a princess, a movie star, or a Rockette (but yes, you will write about all of them).

Yes, hold on to your belief in fairy tales. You never know when one might come true.

Yes, you’ll develop a sophisticated, wry sense of humor, but slapstick – and trying to make someone laugh hard enough so that milk comes out their nose – will always be dear to your heart.

Say yes whenever you can, say no whenever you have to, and say you’ll try whenever you’re challenged.

Yes, every birthday is a special one. And yes, you’re entitled to the piece of cake with the pink-frosting rose. (But no, don’t let anyone take that glittery, birthday-girl crown away from you.)

Yes, a lot will happen in the next 60 years, but it goes by quickly. Make sure the tires of your pink Schwinn (with the basket) are always inflated.

And yes, lose the training wheels.

© 2025 Claudia Grossman

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notes to self

Posted by cgcopy on September 10, 2025 in life stages, music & lyrics

Time is a funny thing (strange funny, that is; ha-ha funny, not so much). We see it pass in our own faces and in the faces of those we love, in the faces of the places we used to know, and on the face of things in general. Feeling those passages seems to leap out at me when I least expect it. Like today, for example. To wit:

B. and I have lots of friends who have retired (we’re at that age and it’s not that uncommon). I will even (very reluctantly) count myself as one of those people (only sometimes, though, when my writing is not exactly flowing and I’m not exactly feeling filled with purpose). Retirement is not a word I’m comfortable with, and until I figure out what exactly I want to do with it, I try to ignore it. Besides, do writers ever really retire if they keep on writing? (Define what you mean by “writing,” because a Target list isn’t it.)

What happened today was a confluence of things, actually. First, a post from a former college friend celebrating the joy of her retirement. A bit of a shock (not at her joy, but at her retirement itself) because the last time I was in this friend’s presence, she was just a college kid, hanging out on the quad, lining up in the dining hall, pulling all-nighters while cramming for finals. Retirement? Not possible (although, of course, I know it’s more than possible). I think it’s the disconnect between remembering her in the world I knew her in and seeing her, figuratively speaking, in today’s world. When exactly did those two collide?

Then there’s the soundtrack of today’s errands. Cat Stevens’s “Oh Very Young” played while I drove (when did I become the singer and not the very young person – and when did those faded jeans with the patches become mine?); followed by “Father and Son” (when did the father’s point of view suddenly start making sense?); capped off by “Peace Train” (yet again, when did that song, talking about the hope of potential global peace, suddenly start sounding as if it were also a yearning for peace of mind?). When did the paradigm shift?

More? Carly Simon. (I know, I know, I was caught in a maelstrom of ’70s classics and I couldn’t get out – by my own choosing.) The opening strains of “Anticipation” reminded me of when I first heard that song, remembering how it felt to be 13 years old and anticipating a life of endless possibilities. Hearing it now, I laughed to myself, adoring the innocence of that young girl and her unjaded belief in Tinkerbell. Learning that everyone’s life does have its limitations is part of the growing-up process, I suppose. And, if you’re very lucky, learning how to turn those limitations to your advantage is a true art. In that regard, I consider myself a struggling – yet still hopeful – artist.

Giving up the CDs for the car radio (yes, I’m old-school on both counts) unearthed Ed Sheeran’s “Thinking Out Loud”, which almost did me in as I parked. The lyric about “loving you till we’re seventy” – echoing Paul McCartney’s question about “Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four” as well as Paul Simon’s “Can you imagine us years from today … how terribly strange to be seventy” – actually shook me up a bit. When did I go from being on the singer / songwriter’s side of the perception – young and self-assured, with the age he or she sang about being so far down the road that the mile markers were still invisible at that point – to being on the older, albeit (supposedly) wiser side of things? When exactly did the traffic patterns switch? Somewhere between AAA road maps and GPS, I imagine.

Changing lanes is inevitable, it seems – but the proverbial music we listen to along the way? That remains constant.

Duly noted.

©2025 Claudia Grossman

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can you keep a secret?

Posted by cgcopy on August 18, 2025 in books, movies, suspense

There are some people who love to be kept in suspense. Whether it’s as tame as taking a chance and deciding to serve guests a recipe you’ve never made before, not knowing how it will turn out; as adrenaline-fueled as daring to take on the very next wave that rises up, sight unseen, not knowing if you’ll get to shore in one piece; or somewhere in between – e.g., “let’s just keep throwing away those jury-duty summonses and see how that turns out,” not knowing if the proverbial verdict will be in your favor.

Me, not so much. The recipe? I’d try it on B. first. The wave – well, you won’t catch me anywhere near the deep blue sea anyway. And the jury-duty stuff? I’m the one filling out the requisite form and responding immediately, well before the “reply by” date. What can I say? In my life, the less suspense the better. Yes, that may make for a less exciting time of it, but I’m a firm believer that “uneventful” can often be highly underrated.

But (and here’s a big one). I want suspense when it comes to finding out the endings to books, to movies, to TV shows, to theater. I don’t want to know what happens until I read it or see it for myself – and I draw the line at people who spill the beans. In my imagination, there’s a special circle in entertainment hell for these oversharers (no, not fire and brimstone, certainly, but obstructed-view seats to any screening and only dog-eared, coffee-stained copies of books to read in the afterlife). In short, please don’t take away my joy of discovery. To wit:

Just yesterday afternoon, as I was browsing online for books, I found one that I thought I would really enjoy. The description was captivating; the other-people-who-bought-this-book-also-bought-this-book selections were ones I’ve read and enjoyed; and the cover art was intriguing (I know, I know, you can’t judge and all that, but it draws my eye and my instincts are usually pretty good).

I checked the number-of-stars ratings and those were impressive. The book went into my cart. And then I made the mistake of looking at individual readers’ reviews. And here’s where the problem came in. While a good number of the reviews were harmlessly descriptive, giving away no more of the plot than in the book listing itself, it didn’t take long for me to come upon one where the reviewer felt compelled to share all the secrets the book had to offer.

She wrote about how touching it was to read how the other characters supported the main character as he dealt with [big shocker in the storyline], how she never saw [pivotal plot point] coming, and how thrilled she was that the novel ended with the unexpected twist of [go ahead, just give the whole thing away]. Sheesh. One click and the book was out of my cart. And I was out of sorts.

Imagine if you knew how Psycho ended before having the chance to see it and having the wits scared out of you. Or maybe Sophie’s Choice – remember when you discovered what that choice was? (I was reading it while on a commuter train and gasped aloud, grabbing the arm of the person next to me, when I realized it.) And, in one of the best twists I can remember, how about when you watched The Sixth Sense – wouldn’t knowing the unexpected (to say the least) reveal beforehand be a huge letdown? (Feel free to give me credit here for using these classic examples, most of which you are probably familiar with, and still not giving away the big secrets. Yay, me.)

So here’s my point – and a plea to those who just can’t seem to help themselves from oversharing. Observe the spoiler-alert protocol (here’s an idea – maybe even use the words “spoiler alert” to preface your comments). Don’t tell it all and ruin it all for everyone who may yet want to have the reading / viewing experience. Don’t try to be in the know and, as a result, unknowingly (or knowingly) take the air out of everyone else’s balloon. Don’t be a killjoy and kill the suspense for those of us who want to commit to reading the entire novel, sitting through the whole movie, or binging on countless episodes of streaming to find out what happens. Please, please practice safe sharing until you know that everyone within earshot (literal and metaphorical) already knows how it ends.

Share. But don’t share alike.

©2025 Claudia Grossman

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got game?

Posted by cgcopy on July 16, 2025 in fun and games, little bits of joy

I’ve often said that because B. and I chose not to have kids, we ourselves often act as if we’re five (okay, I act as if I’m six). My point being that playing is a priority these days. So on our most recent vacation, we thought we’d up the fun quotient and take a stash of classic games with us. Perfect for evenings after coming back from dinner instead of watching TV; fun in front of the hotel-room fire; a guaranteed good time for all. What could go wrong? You’d be surprised. To wit:

When I say we brought games, we brought games – a ton of them. Trivial Pursuit, Mastermind, Outburst, Yahtzee, backgammon. (No Scrabble though. Surprisingly, given what I do and my love for words, Scrabble isn’t something I enjoy. Go figure.)

First up, Trivial Pursuit. The original Genus Edition. The original as in it’s been sitting in one closet or another for close to 40 years. What you may not know about me is that decades ago I worked on the introduction of Trivial Pursuit at the public-relations agency that put it on the map. The game was credited with bringing about the so-called board game revolution, when people returned to the simple of joy of getting together to play games as a form of socializing. It was the hottest thing on the market.

The last time I (or B.) played Trivial Pursuit was back when it first came out in the 1980s and I guess our tastes have changed. (Not our love of trivia – we watch Jeopardy every night – but maybe this way of pursuing it.) First, lots of the questions seemed way out of left field. Second, going around and around the board trying to land on the six exact spots needed to receive the color wedges was just too tedious. And third, we just didn’t care. No excitement, no laughs, no nothing. Interest level: trivial.

Next up, Outburst, another entry from the 1980s. To play, one person from each team pulls a card and reads the topic aloud – let’s say, Things You Find in a Classroom. The card lists 10 items. Team members then shout out (outburst, get it?), their guesses for those items and the team who gets the most right overall wins.

Except, like everything else in our life, B. and I choose to play differently. One of us pulls a card, tells the other the topic, and then gives rapid-fire clues to each item, sort of like the first round of $100,000 Pyramid (or $25,000, if you remember the Dick Clark original). The other person then has to guess as many items listed on the card as possible before the one-minute hourglass runs out. It’s a lot of fast talking.

We love our version – the only problem is that we both have the propensity to out-talk the timer and not care. For example, if one correct answer to Things You Find in a Classroom is “stapler,” I’d give B. a clue like “the thing that you press down on to hold pages together” and then veer off into talking about the time one of my classmates grabbed the stapler off the teacher’s desk and then stapled his own pants to his chair. (While he was still wearing them. Seriously). Which might lead B. to go on about the time he stapled his finger and has the scar to prove it to this day. Which might lead me to tell B. the story about the time a copier machine where I worked went crazy and stapled 500 reports in record time. Out of sequence and upside down. Which reminds B. of … you get it. Out of control. But very fun.

Mastermind. What I wouldn’t give not to have to play this game. Mastermind is a game of pure logic, something B. excels in. When he first taught it to me in 1985, it was so agonizing that once I finally got it and won, I planned never to play it again. Until now, because he’s been asking since then and he really loves it.

To play, one person sets up a row of 4 colored pegs. Through process of elimination, try by try (you get six tries) the other person then attempts to guess the exact order and colors of those pegs. It is pure agony. It hurts my head to follow the path of reasoning. I would rather do almost anything else than play this tiny torture tool of a game. Of course, being the Type A personality that I am, I would not rest until I won a round. (B. kept winning his rounds all evening long.) And once I did, I made a beeline for the fireplace to destroy all those f*****g, finicky, fall-between-the-couch-cushions pegs. (Not really, but still.) Once we got home, I insisted B. store it somewhere I’d never see it again. For at least another 40 years.

Which leads me to Candy Land. Yes, you read me right. While we don’t own that classic, first game for kids, I insisted on buying it the day after the Mastermind nightmare, with several more vacation days to go. I remembered the game for its colorful board and gingerbread men game pieces and candy castle – no brain twisters, no logic, nothing to think about too hard. But, after looking at the box, even I had to agree that it was just too juvenile (sigh). Calling a candy-colored audible, I moved on to purchase a different classic – Sorry!

Sorry! also has a colorful board, but is certainly more challenging (the fact that you have to be able to read in order to play was a good start) and there’s some strategy and gameplay involved. Plus, it’s got those bright red, green, blue, and yellow plastic game pieces (love those!). “Really?” B. groaned. “You’re going to make me play this? I stopped playing this when I was 10!” “Oh, I’m, SORRY,” I said a bit wickedly. “Is this game too simple for your master mind?” And then I beat him, two games to nothing. Sorry, not sorry.

Other highlights? B. retaught himself backgammon and attempted to teach me (I’d played it in college but didn’t remember how). And Yahtzee went well, especially when I rolled – count ’em – not one, not two, not three, but four Yahtzees in one game! Score.

Now that we’re back home, game night is on the weekly calendar with a few exceptions. No Mastermind (my edict). No Sorry! (B.’s). But yes to playing the other games in our closet (I’ve particularly got my eye on you, Parcheesi). Yes to cracking each other up. And yes to rolling the dice or spinning the wheel and joyfully jumping in.

Yes to the game of Life.

©2025 Claudia Grossman

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