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bleating hearts

Posted by cgcopy on September 20, 2018 in finding the good

In my ongoing quest for inner peace — because the outside world is so not peaceful — I’ve found something new. Baby goats. Sure, puppies and kittens are undeniably adorable, but baby goats have their own personality.  Sweet and mischievous, these pint-size pickpockets will eat anything they can get their teeth on, including cash, your driver’s license, or any other kind of paper you’ve got on you. I have no data on what they think of cell phones, but let’s assume that everything is fair game.

Our most recent baby-goat adventure occurred when we stayed up in the hills above Santa Barbara. The property had two baby goats that we visited every morning. Who can stay stressed when greeted by the “where have you been?” bleat-bleat followed by the “no, don’t leave me” bleats when it’s time to move on with the day. The smaller goat was a girl with green eyes; the larger, a boy with blue eyes. They loved our company — or maybe it was the pats and the hay — and we loved their baby-goat vibe.

Victoria, British Columbia (one of our favorite places on the planet), offers a baby-goat stampede. The city’s gorgeous Beacon Hill Park has a petting zoo, and, just before the zoo closes for the evening, all of the baby goats, after having spent the day outdoors enjoying the attention of tons of little kids, are led out of their area and into their overnight accommodations. But “led out” is tame; at the signal, the gate is opened and a crowd of baby goats tears down the pathway, lined on both sides by spectators, and into the barn. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen (and way calmer than Pamplona, even with all the joyful bleating and tiny hoofbeats).

One more baby-goat experience. Maybe it’s because we live in LA, but goat yoga is really big out here (I have yet to try it). Watching baby goats wander through a yoga class, occasionally climbing on people’s backs or shoulders through Plank Pose and Downward-Facing Dog, Child Pose and Warrior Pose — it’s a combination of community, communication, and compassion between living things. The perfect dose of namaste, even from the sidelines.

Who knew that something as small and endearing as a baby goat could pack so much peace into an encounter? Kind of gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “get your goat.”

No kid-ding.

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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i see london, i see france

Posted by cgcopy on August 15, 2018 in finding the funny, it's life, lucy moments

If you listen to country music, you may know a song called Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off, about a woman who manages to lose pieces of her wardrobe (her shoes, an earring, her jacket, a contact lens) whenever she goes out with her friends and drinks tequila. I, alas, have no such excuse. It just so happens that my clothes fall off, too (most recently, at a not very opportune time and place).

If you’re a longtime reader of this blog, you may remember a post from several years ago (Slip Service) in which I described my slip falling off as I crossed a busy New York street. I thought I’d handled the situation quite well; in fact, I think Carrie Bradshaw or Audrey Hepburn would have been proud of the dignity, grace, and “c’est la vie” attitude with which I proceeded. Also, I was in my 20s and looking quite chic in my little black dress at the time.

Not so this past weekend. So not so.

We were spending the weekend away at a house rental and, as is our routine, were at the supermarket, stocking up on breakfast essentials (okay and snack essentials) when it happened. And not just any supermarket. This was a très upscale store where money is no object (although we objected); we were there because it was the nearest market to our rental. Also in store — picture-perfect, Lululemon-ed lovelies; Maserati-driving men mired in a mid-life moment; trust-fund babies for whom a black Amex card was the norm.

In the midst of all this wealthy fabulousness, we gathered our provisions. I had on my very favorite pair of shorts — boyfriend-style, black faded to soft grey, loose, and comfy (the better to enjoy snack essentials, aka chocolate chip cookies). As we perused the aisles, I reached up, up, up on my tiptoes to grab a bag of pita chips while holding a container of milk in the other hand. But (uh-oh) reaching up caused me to stretch, causing some of my curves to flatten (I’ve always said that I don’t need to lose weight, I just need to grow a couple of inches), causing my shorts to have just a little bit less to hang on to, causing a Lucy moment worthy of its own episode.

I started walking cautiously toward B. who was only half an aisle away and trying to decide between two kinds of tortilla chips.

“Honey!” I called out nervously.

“Mmmm?” he responded absently.

“HONEY!” This time I shouted, alarm in my voice.

“Wha-” he started to say, then turned and saw me, as I tried to save my shorts by crouching down. Too late.

That’s when my knight in shining armor took action. Dropping what he was holding, he dashed to my rescue in seconds, shielding me from view as much as possible while pulling up my shorts.

Fortunately, only a couple of people saw. One was a teenage stock boy whom B. insisted would now think of me as Mrs. Robinson (only if he’s seen The Graduate on Turner Classic Movies). The other was a very proper, violet-haired, elderly lady with rhinestone-trimmed eyeglasses whom I swear let out a giggle before composing herself.

As for me, I managed to hold my head high (and my shorts up) long enough to get through checkout and into the car.

Thanks to the advice of every mom everywhere, I had on clean underwear. Fail safe. And thanks to the advice of fashionistas everywhere, I now have a belt.

Fall safe.

 

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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an affair to remember

Posted by cgcopy on July 18, 2018 in finding the funny, in a food mood, it's life

For those of us who grew up Jewish in New York during the ’60s and ’70s, the word “affair” had two meanings.

The first — that illicit thing going on between the very married Mr. Goldfarb and the divorcée who had moved in next door. (Apparently she called on him whenever she needed her refrigerator defrosted. That is, until the Sisterhood at the synagogue took the matter into its own hands, buying her a blow dryer and buying him and his wife a weekend away in the Catskills, where, hopefully, a few hours of dirty dancing lessons à la Johnny Castle and Baby would defrost their marriage. It worked — Mr. Goldfarb never looked at the divorcée again. And she, it turns out, began an affair with the refrigerator repairman. Also married but, thankfully, not a member of the synagogue. Oy.)

The other meaning of “affair” was a wedding reception held in one of the region’s numerous cookie-cutter catering halls. In the days when “destination wedding” meant you had to drive to get to the event, these venues offered “fabulous” (read formulaic) wedding packages — ceremony, cocktail hour, dinner, wedding cake — literally, everything from soup to nuts. To wit:

No sooner would the groom crush the glass to cries of “Mazel tov!” than guests joined the crush into the next room for a pre-dinner hour of tray-passed tidbits like cocktail franks, mini potato knishes, chopped liver on toast points, and “mock” shrimp canapés (the “mock” because Uncle Sol was kosher). Guests would mingle and boast about either their sons, the doctors, or their daughters, the beauties. (“My Melanie is getting her BA degree from Boston University, but, of course, she won’t be needing it because we hope she’ll have her MRS degree first!”) Keep in mind that this was a very different time. With a very different idea of what qualified as fine food.

Next, on to dinner in the ballroom, where each table was adorned with an impossible-to-see-over floral centerpiece (back then, more was more). And my favorite part: the bandleader (yes, there was always a band) would break the ice by asking for the oldest person at each table to stand (if they could — Great-Grandma Frieda was given a pass because she had arthritis in her knees). Each was then awarded that table’s centerpiece to take home. It happened every single time. At every single affair. And everyone always acted surprised.

There was a choice for dinner — usually prime rib, sole, or chicken (vegetarians didn’t exist back then). Each entrée was accompanied by “duchess potatoes” (do duchesses eat swirled mashed potatoes?) and stuffed derma (the latter being something you probably wouldn’t eat if you knew what it was — and no, I won’t tell you; trust me on this one).

As if all of that food wasn’t enough, there was dessert. Wedding cake, of course, but why stop there? It was time for the Viennese table, so called because it aspired to rival the legendary desserts of Vienna. (No, I am not making this up.) It was an enormous buffet of decadent desserts — cakes and pastries, parfaits and mousse, chocolate and more chocolate — with nary a piece of fresh fruit in sight. It was overindulgent and over the top — but everyone was over the moon about it.

That was the thing about those affairs. In traditional Jewish culture, food is love — and preparing, offering, and serving it is an expression of warmth and welcome.  From that very first little knish hors d’oeuvre to that last piece of seven-layer cake, these affairs were just that — a way to wrap everyone you knew in a big hug.

But not too tight. We just ate.

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

 

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a novel approach

Posted by cgcopy on June 20, 2018 in a writer's life, must love books, reading

Okay, I’m going to share something with you here. Something that I’ll mention this one time but will not mention again (at least not until I’ve accomplished it). It is a daunting but necessary task, something that has been gnawing at me for some time, and something that I now feel compelled to do.

I am writing a novel.

For someone who has spent her career writing advertising copy (and having a passion for print ads), a novel is a whole different animal. With the parameters for advertising copywriters having changed (where’s Don Draper when you need him?), now seems like the perfect time to jump on the challenge that has been following me for all of my professional life.

For years, family members would nag, usually at the Passover seder, “When are you going to write the Great American Novel?” “Oh, I don’t know,” I’d always felt like saying, “There seem to be some guys named Hemingway and Fitzgerald who’ve already clinched that deal. Matzoh, anyone?”

Or then there are those well-meaning folks who are sure they know what it is I should write about. “You should write about the way you and B. met and got together,” they say gleefully, sure they’ve hit pay dirt. It’s a great story, I’ll admit. It’s also been written before — ever hear of When Harry Met Sally? Thought so.

In that vein, there are those who think that writing a novel that mimics another is a way to go. “Why not write something like Gone with the Wind? People loved that book!” (You think?) “You know, John Grisham is really successful — why don’t you write a law novel like one of his?” (Oh, sure, no problem.)  “Have you read The Da Vinci Code? Something like that would be good, don’t you think?” (I do. As did author Dan Brown when he wrote a number of sequels featuring everyone’s favorite brilliant guy, Robert Langdon.)

Or then there are those who either a) have more confidence in me than I do, or b) are somewhat unaware of how things work. “How hard can it be?” they ask. (Right. Because coming up with an original plot, compelling characters, a voice that pulls readers in and leaves them wanting more — how long can that take?)

So. There you go. And here I am — with a very good start. I’ve got my characters (I think), my storyline (I’m pretty sure), and my bunny slippers (dress for success, after all). I’ve got my research materials, my trusty laptop, and my imagination (you can’t build a novel without the right tools). This novel has become my new shadow, my alter ego, my creative offering to the publishing gods.

It could take a year to finish. Or more. Or less. In its beginning stages alone, the experience is proving to be an exciting one; I love the power of controlling my little world and the people in it. But it has also been somewhat scary (like when the characters take over and lead me in directions I hadn’t planned).

Go ahead, ask. You know you want to. “So what’s it about?” I’d love to tell you … but then I’d have to … well, you know.

The plot thickens.

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

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bowled over

Posted by cgcopy on May 24, 2018 in life stages, music

One of the joys of living in LA is the Hollywood Bowl. The acoustics are exemplary; sitting under the stars listening to great music is one of life’s pleasures; and sharing it all with 20,000 others is, while sometimes a bit overwhelming, always a thrill. Just think — 19,999 other people who know all the words, too.

Tuesday night was no exception.

Paul Simon’s Homeward Bound Farewell Tour marked a huge milestone — for him, of course, but also for those of us who grew up with his music. So much has been written about his extraordinary talent, storytelling genius, and poetic sense — by me, among others — that I thought I would take a lighter turn here. (I think the Paul Simon of “Feeling Groovy” and “At the Zoo” might appreciate the whimsy.) To wit:

So there we were at the Bowl, waiting for the concert to begin and chatting with the people seated near us. Next to me was a woman named Mrs. Robinson, who was wearing a fabulous pair of heels; this being LA, she had Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes. The man with her (Mr. Robinson, I presume), insisted that “You Can Call Me Al.” As the evening sky turned from a Dazzling Blue to darkness, Simon took the stage. With all the negativity swirling through America right now, his music turned out to be a magical and positively joyful escape.

The audience was comprised of those probably not yet born when Paul and Artie were together; those who are Still Crazy After All These Years for Simon’s music (like B. and me), and a few people old enough to be our parents. (At one point I said to B., “See that woman over there? I thought for a minute that That Was Your Mother!”)  There was also a Mother and Child Reunion — parents with young children — sitting right behind us. And while I actually prefer to experience a concert in person versus through my phone’s camera, those who were taking photos or videos captured lots of Kodachrome moments.

Even when it became Late in the Evening, Simon was filled with the energy of a much younger man, dancing like a Boxer at the center of a ring; when the multiple encores ended and he had received the lifetime of ovations he so deserved, he bid us thanks and farewell. Although the show was over, the notes still hung in the air. The Sound of Silence? More like Spirit Voices echoing the strains of Simon’s glorious, global music.

Time to be Homeward Bound. Simon says.

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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riding shotgun with nancy drew

Posted by cgcopy on May 3, 2018 in empowerment, strong women

Having just finished reading The Female Persuasion, the bestselling novel by Meg Wolitzer, I’ve got feminism on my mind. The story is about a young, impressionable college student who meets a Gloria-Steinem-level feminist icon, and how their relationship — and their work for women’s empowerment — affects both of their lives. The novel tells of connections between women and women, between men and women, and between power and compassion. It’s a wonderful read.

Being about Wolitzer’s age, I was a teenager in the 1970s, when the feminist / Equal Rights Amendment / burn-the-bra movement was changing the way society saw women and the way women saw themselves; when Carole King’s Tapestry and Joni Mitchell’s Blue became the words that moved us as a group; when the idea of equal pay for equal work was (and still is) a not-as-yet-carved-in-stone Eleventh Commandment. Unlike our mothers’ generation, we were told that it was our destiny to  “have it all,” resulting in our working twice as hard to prove that we were equal to men.

Times change, tactics change, toughness endures. And while my generation may not have reaped all the rewards we had hoped for in terms of leveling the playing field, we did make an imprint on culture and on history in the 1970s and 1980s. We worked, wrote, protested, and argued truth to power. And we saw a lot of “first” females rise — the first American female in space, the first female Supreme Court Justice, the first female Fortune 500 CEO, among others.

Being a feminist no longer became limited to being a woman. Evolved, educated, and erudite men — men who supported us and were blind to the professional differences between themselves and women — proudly added “feminist” to their own resumes.

When I was a girl, my favorite fictional feminist (although I didn’t know what a feminist was at the time) was  Ms. Nancy Drew, amateur sleuth. While the Nancy Drew series grew and transformed to accommodate changing times, the books I read were those from the original classic series, where teen-aged Nancy and her gal pals Bess and George tore around in Nancy’s little blue roadster, gathering clues and solving mysteries. I wanted to hit the road with Nancy because of her intelligence, her determination, and her spirit — all qualities embodied in my current concept of feminism. (By the way, note that there were two Hardy Boys and only one Nancy Drew — see what I mean about working twice as hard?)

Today, my real life feminist heroes are far more complex and impressive (sorry, Nancy) in a world that is far more complex and oppressive (sorry, everyone else). These are women who champion not only women’s rights but also human rights, and have inspired so many of us to aspire to live lives that matter, to make a difference, and to teach what we have learned about having — and giving — it all.

You know, girl stuff.

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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ketchup if you can

Posted by cgcopy on April 10, 2018 in in a food mood

Food is a lot like relationships; sometimes the most unexpected, unexplainable combinations work together incredibly well — even if the rest of the world just can’t see it. I, myself, have been known to rock some food combos that would make others turn up their noses. But, you know, their loss. To wit:

Ketchup and almost anything. I love ketchup (not catsup, Heinz Ketchup). I love it on eggs, on steak, on rye bread (with or without the corned beef), on pasta, on cold Thanksgiving stuffing. I love it on hot dogs. B., who had always been a mustard guy as far as hot dogs go, looked at me quizzically the first time he saw me indulge in the combo. Intrigued, he tasted it — and he has never looked back. Ketchup on Dodger dogs for everyone.

Chocolate and potato chips. Any woman worth her PMS past or present can probably relate to this one. The combo of sweet and salty is unbelievably satisfying. But I prefer the purest form of this treat — plain potato chips nibbled alternately with pieces of Cadbury chocolate. Chocolate bars with potato chips mixed in or chocolate-covered potato chips are for amateurs.

Watermelon and balsamic vinegar. The vinegar brings out the sweetness of the watermelon; the melon brings out the rich tartness of the vinegar. Each component complements the other perfectly — who can ask for more in a relationship?

Romaine lettuce and Bolognese sauce. There’s something about those cold, crisp lettuce leaves topped with warm, hearty Bolognese that speaks to all kinds of cravings — crunchy, smooth, savory, sweet. Extra credit if you top it with a bit of homemade Thousand Island dressing. I know — it sounds odd (to be polite) to most people. But it works for me.

Hot chocolate and chili powder. This sophisticated twosome may not be for everyone. But if you’ve got even one adventurous taste bud, give it a try. Warning: this is not a kids’ cocoa-and-marshmallow concoction; this is an adults-only experience that will arouse your palate. Goodbye, sweet Swiss Miss. I’ll take Mayan spicy.

Some say that food is love. I think that in food, as in life, the best relationships are those with minimum heartbreak.

And minimum heartburn.

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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blonde spot

Posted by cgcopy on March 6, 2018 in movies, strong women

In the realm of classic film noir there are certain factors — and actors — you can always count on in any combination: a private eye in a sharp suit; a cop with a New York accent; a good man gone bad; a murder needing to be solved; a sordid affair; a femme fatale, frequently blonde.

The blonde (alias the dame or the skirt) — is the one who either a) commits the murder; b) is covering up the murder; or c) distracts the authorities off the trail of the murderer. Also — and this is vital — her looks are killer (even if she is not). Sometimes she may in fact be innocent – of any crime, that is. Other than that of being kryptonite to the mortal man.

To wit:

Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity.  One of my favorite movies, certainly my favorite film noir. Fred MacMurray plays the life-insurance salesman who lusts after the wife (Stanwyck) of a new client. She leads him far, far astray, as the two plot and carry out the murder of her husband. But watch out for double crossing, lovers crossing, and train crossings. Stanwyck’s character is so bad she absolutely shimmers. When this blonde bombshell explodes, watch out. (See also: Kathleen Turner in Body Heat for a modern update on this classic.)

Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not. Worth watching, if just for the scene where Bacall’s character (“Slim”) seduces both Bogart (“Steve”) and the audience with her feminine wiles and wit. After a kiss that sizzles off the screen, Slim leaves Steve with this legendary lure:

“You don’t have to say anything and you don’t have to do anything. Not a thing. Oh, maybe just whistle.You know how to whistle, don’t you Steve? You just put your lips together … and blow.”

Definitely to have.

Grace Kelly in Dial M for Murder. The ultimate man-marries-blonde, man-blackmails-someone-to-murder-blonde, man-underestimates-strength-of-blonde film. Ray Milland is absolutely chilling, but it is Grace Kelly, delicate in looks only, who steals the spotlight. (See also: Gwyneth Paltrow and Michael Douglas in the remake, A Perfect Murder, which varies a bit from the original but is also a nail biter.)

Of course, not all films in the noir genre include a fair-haired femme fatale. But the impact on the subconscious — of a cool, smart, beautiful blonde in a drama simmering with dark heat — is undeniably brilliant and endlessly unpredictable.

Watch your back.

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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i know it a poet

Posted by cgcopy on February 20, 2018 in life stages, music

I say “poetry” and you say: a) roses are red, violets are blue, b) there once was a girl from Nantucket, c) oh, no, don’t make me read poetry — please! But how about songwriters as poets? Got your attention now, don’t I? To wit:

If you have ever been to a Bruce Springsteen concert, really been to one, you know that it’s a religious experience — the religion of passion, of rock and roll, of having your soul saved by a four-hour evening of standing on your feet, ready and willing to be converted. From the achingly poignant Ghost of Tom Joad (with that amazing guitar riff by Tom Morello); to the joyful, off-the-scale, gospel-according-to-Bruce testimony that Springsteen often drops into the midst of Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out; to the glorious declaration of Independence Day; to the haunting strains of The Rising, echoing the unspeakable heartbreak of 9/11 — these are more than just amazing pieces of music (that, they certainly are). The lyrics tell stories — of fear and survival, of doubt and hope, of anger and love — of what it means to be human and vulnerable. Stories told with words picked for their ability to pierce through the armor of our self-defenses and land, without fail, in our hearts. Stories told by a legend who evokes his Everyman roots with every note played, every word sung.

Paul Simon paints vistas with his songs. Who can listen to Bridge Over Troubled Water and not envision laying down one’s heart and soul to comfort a friend or lover?  Who doesn’t see the fate of The Boxer — the man beaten down by life but rising up like a phoenix once again? Rarely has there been a more hopeless view of the world than the one Simon has painted in Sounds of Silence — or a more hope-shattering sense of loss than that of the American-dream-ebbing American Tune. But then there are the joyful works — Late in the Evening, the irresistibly upbeat, salsa-charged snapshot of playing music in a city neighborhood; or Feeling Groovy, a purely lighthearted look at the city as playground. Finally, there is the irony of Old Friends, a song written when Simon was still in his 20s, imagining it “terribly strange to be seventy.” No more common chord can be struck for anyone of a certain age who has looked in the mirror and seen an aged parent’s face in his or her own reflection.

Whatever your rhyme or reason, there is a poet who speaks to your heart.

Go ahead. Take a stanza.

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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one girl, two cities

Posted by cgcopy on February 6, 2018 in city girl

A lot has been written about New York; even more has been said about the city that has given Chicago an inferiority complex, Los Angeles a cultural arts complex, and San Francisco, well, honestly, I think that San Francisco is too busy dealing with its LA insecurities to worry too much about New York.

To quote John Updike, “The true New Yorker secretly believes that people living anywhere else have to be, in some sense, kidding” — and, to really appreciate that sentiment, you have to have lived in New York for a while. Because while it is a great city, it also seduces you into believing that it is, for all intents and purposes, the single greatest city in the world. The place where things happen first. The place that makes all others secondary.

A born and bred New Yorker, I moved out to LA more than 20 years ago, and, at that time, you couldn’t convince me that I would ever adore any other city the way I did New York. I really believed Frank’s words — “if I can make it there, I’ll make it anywhere” — until I actually heard myself saying them aloud to B. (a native New Yorker himself who had left about 15 years earlier than I had).

That’s when I realized a) how silly that sounded, b) how full of themselves New Yorkers can be about their city (hey, don’t throw tomatoes — I was one of you once), and c) how I never wanted to hear that song again. Ever. (Close-up of me with my fingers in my ears every New Year’s Eve when, while watching the ball drop in Times Square on TV, the song New York, New York is blasted at full volume.)

For a dyed-in-the-wool, 98%-of-my-wardrobe-is-black, you’ll-never-get-me-to-leave-this-pizza-behind New York girl, moving out to LA was a major change. In fact, the only thing that would have made me leave the Big Apple behind would have had to be something really extraordinary. And it was. I call him B. (By the way, that was a test; if you’re nodding over the “Big Apple” nomenclature, you’ve failed. No true New Yorker would ever say those two words unless it was part of a grocery list, e.g., “buy a big apple to make an apple pie.”)

So what did I find once I moved? In some ways, New York does continue to rule — the aforementioned pizza, the bagels, the walkability. But in many other ways, for me at least, LA comes out ahead — the proximity to natural beauty, with both ocean and mountains close by; the guacamole; the creative buzz (everyone is either an actor, a writer, a director, someone who knows one of the above, or someone who loves the movies — wink, wink); the weather (it’s 78 degrees as I sit here on February 6 — what’s it like in midtown Manhattan?). While the general LA vibe is more casual (I can’t remember the last time I had to dress up to go out to dinner), the business vibe is only deceptively more casual (Angelenos work just as hard as New Yorkers — we just may do it in flip flops and sweats instead of a suit and tie). And the museum and stage scene out here, while perhaps not as large as in New York, is certainly rich enough to satisfy even a reader of the Sunday New York Times (that would be moi).

“What about the traffic?” you ask. Have you ever ridden a New York City subway during rush hour? Personal space much? “What about the skyline?” you argue. Yup, that New York skyline is beautiful (don’t tell Chicago; again, it’s a sore spot). LA’s skyline may not be as impressive, except when you see those mountains in the background. Earthquakes? Yeah, we hate them. Also the fires and mudslides. But New York certainly gets its share of natural mayhem as well.

In the New York-or-LA debate, both cities certainly have much to recommend them. But when I add up the pros, the cons, and the just “what makes me happy” stuff, I choose LA.

In a New York minute.

 

 

ⓒ 2018 Claudia Grossman

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