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page me

Posted by cgcopy on June 2, 2017 in coloring outside the lines

I can still remember the moment when, all of a sudden, written letters turned into words — and once I started reading, I never stopped. From Little Golden Books to big, best-selling novels, books have always been a constant for me — and the heroines within, constant company.

It’s the “girls” I grew up with who opened the door to me in terms of becoming a writer — characters who, without too much effort, became companions of mine for hundreds of pages and long after their stories were told.

When Nancy Drew took off in her little roadster to solve her newest mystery, I called shotgun. When nurse Cherry Ames made her way through a series of medical melodramas, my pulse raced. And when Laura Ingalls lived her adventures on the prairie, I was one more pioneer in that little house.

It didn’t stop there. Reading about Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy, I became the fifth March sister. When Harriet spied her way through her New York City neighborhood, notebook and pencil in hand, I went along to dust for clues. My first trip to Paris was with Madeline and her eleven little friends. When Eloise turned the Plaza into her personal play space, I was there to order room service.

Don’t forget the romance. As Jane Eyre slowly fell in love with the brooding, mysterious Mr. Rochester, so did I. And the times Elizabeth Bennet told Mr. Darcy a thing or two, I was right there to say, “You go, girl!”

There were tough moments, too. Atticus taught Scout the meaning of compassion and decency, and it was a lesson I never forgot. Anne Frank wrote that “in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart,” and her words broke my heart. Into six million pieces.

These days, you won’t find me without a book nearby. Our bookcases are filled, with volumes stacked vertically, horizontally, diagonally. And while I continue to discover characters who touch my heart, tickle my funny bone, and take me to places I have never been, it’s the “girls” I grew up with who taught me to find my own story.

And to tell it with passion.

 

ⓒ 2017 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

 

 

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tiny dancer

Posted by cgcopy on May 24, 2017 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

What did you want to be when you grew up? When I was a kid, the possibilities were without limit — an astronaut, a magician, a fire fighter, a pilot, a millionaire, a movie star, Mary Ann — oops, went off on a tangent there. But the answers were as clear as the options we colored in our coloring books or reported on in elementary school “show and tell.” Everyone wanted to be somebody. I wanted to be a ballerina.

The only problem was that becoming a ballerina meant going to ballet lessons as a little girl. And no matter how much I loved the tutus, how much I dreamed about pink satin ballet slippers, or how much I wanted to be the Sugarplum Fairy — I was painfully, painfully shy (hide-behind-my-mother’s-skirt shy) and the idea of taking lessons with lots of other little sugarplums-in-training was not something I could handle.

So I got my ballerina fix the same way I experienced lots of adventures (and still do) — through books. One that I particularly loved was Susie and the Ballet Family, about a little girl who spends the summer at the beach and gets to dance with a famous ballerina. (The fact that little Susie loved tuna sandwiches — my favorite — was like icing on the cake.)

At that time, seeing the Nutcracker at Lincoln Center was a dream come true. Watching the little ballerina inside my jewelry box twirl to music (I think it was Lara’s Theme from Dr. Zhivago) was irresistible. And imagining myself pirouetting onstage en pointe was pure joy.

But even inner-child ballerinas hang up their toe shoes at some point (no pun intended), and the creative compass of my life pointed toward writing, my true north. Does the idea of being a ballerina still enchant me? Most definitely. The same way that the idea of being Tinkerbell enchants me. Not my real life, but lovely nonetheless.

Dance on.

 

© 2017 Claudia Grossman

 

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carbon footprint

Posted by cgcopy on April 5, 2017 in life stages, strong women

I love office supply stores. So many accessories for making work life so much more fun. Notebooks and calendars, a zillion kinds of markers, paper in enough colors to make a Crayola box jealous, folders and binders and flash drives, oh my. But today’s trip to the office supply mecca was only for the basics — yellow legal pads (did you know that Woody Allen reportedly hand writes all his screenplays on pads?) and a couple of boxes of B.’s felt-tip pens for grading exams. Of course, that didn’t stop me from browsing through all the fun stuff. And that is where today’s tale begins.

As I was wandering down the paper aisle, I became aware of an elderly lady a few steps behind me. Dressed in jeans and a pint-sized safari jacket, and wearing a bucket hat over snow-white curls, she caught up to me and asked if I knew where to find copy paper. Her eyes were bright, her smile was contagious, and there was something mischievous about her. Actually, she kind of reminded me of Clarence from It’s A Wonderful Life.

Me: “This whole aisle has copier paper.”

She: “No, not copier paper. Copy paper.”

Me: (Puzzled) “Oh … you mean carbon paper?”

She: “That’s right. Carbon paper. For making copies.”

Me: “Wow, I haven’t thought about carbon paper in years.” (Not as many years as when she probably used it typing up memos for Louis B. Mayer at MGM, I guessed.) “Let me see if I can find it.”

She: “Good. You look like someone who could help me.”

I do?

I searched all over, but only found stacks of purchase-order and receipt books with carbon paper between the sheets.

Me: “I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to find plain carbon paper. Why don’t you ask one of the sales people?”

She: (Giving me a playful little swat on the arm) “But you were supposed to find it for me!” (Laughs)

I was … what?

As I paid for my purchases, I asked the cashier where to find the elusive item. Aisle 2, on the left. I tracked down Ms. Carbon Paper, who was checking out a rainbow of Sharpies and didn’t seem at all surprised to see me again, and off we went.

By now, the cashier had joined us in the search. Finally, on the very bottom shelf, we located a single facing of carbon paper (who knew they even made that anymore?).

At this point, my new friend wanted to adopt me. She told the cashier all about our adventure and how nice I’d been to her.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “You’ve been so wonderful. Just what I thought by looking at you.”

Huh?

I couldn’t resist. I leaned in to give her a hug. “You’ve very welcome, ma’am.”

All the way to my car, it teased at me. Something about this woman had seemed so familiar, and I believed that the feeling was mutual. It was almost as if we had met before. But where or when? (Cue the music.)

And then I got a tingle up my spine — you know, the kind you get when it feels like time folds over onto itself for a nanosecond or two (or is that just me?). Because it dawned on me that Ms. Carbon Paper — this impish, confident, 90-ish woman — and I did know each other. Sort of. She was me in another 35 years or so. Walking through the office supply store. Checking out the cool stuff. Asking that nice young sales man to reach for something off the top shelf. Whoa.

Carbon copy that.

© 2017 Claudia Grossman

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thrill of the chase

Posted by cgcopy on February 23, 2017 in it's life

running-shoes-md

If you have been influenced by a movie at least once in your life, raise your hand. (Am I the only one who never sits with my back to the window in a restaurant? Has The Godfather taught you nothing?). Now, if you’ve had your life somehow actually shaped by a movie, raise your hand. (Has seeing The Godfather made you long to become consigliere? Did you go to law school because of Tom Hagen? I don’t want to know.)

While I fall into both categories, today’s account is about my experience with the latter. The movie in question is The Paper Chase, which came out in 1973. It was about a first-year Harvard Law student named James Hart and the challenges facing him (not the least of which was dating his professor’s daughter). But the biggest challenge, by far, was said professor — Professor Kingsfield. In another lifetime, perhaps, the Grinch. Or Ivan the Terrible. Or Satan.

Aside from being a renowned scholar in his field, Kingsfield (played by the inimitable John Houseman), was also a renowned ball buster in a bowtie. Law students were cowed by him — panicked that they might be called on in class and terrified of being wrong and of the criticism that would inevitably follow. Kingsfield came by his misanthropic reputation the old-fashioned way — he earned it. (Extra points if you remember the Smith Barney commercial). He served up humiliation the way a Jewish mother serves up brisket — a single helping was never, never enough.

I was 15 when the movie came out — really smart, really shy, really nervous about speaking up in class. And I had an imagination as big as the Ritz. I saw myself going to Harvard Law School (what can I say — I loved Love Story). The idea of the law fascinated me; the shaping of a legal argument thrilled me; the intellectual strategizing that went into winning called to me.

And The Paper Chase knocked that right out of me.

So convincing was John Houseman in his performance that, after seeing the movie, I decided that there was no way I could survive the law school classroom. I might be chasing that law school diploma, but pure fear would be chasing me. Like Cary Grant being chased by that plane in North by Northwest. But with my feet in cement.

The good news? Instead of chasing paper, I decided to chase words. And once I started writing, I never looked back.

Except for that one time, years later, when B. and I first got married. He was a practicing attorney and I was way impressed by it.

Me:  “How do you handle that kind of responsibility every day? It would stress me out to no end.”

He:  “Law school trains you for that.”

Me:  “But law school! I couldn’t –”

He:  (Getting into the groove) “You may not believe this, but a movie I once saw about law school is what convinced me to become a lawyer.”

Me:  (Feeling slightly nauseous) “What movie?”

He: “The Paper Chase. Ever see it? We should rent it.”

Me: (Running screaming from the room, law school just a blur in the proverbial rearview mirror)

I guess when it comes to dreams, you need to chase the one that truly calls to you — the one that you know in your heart is right.

Call it the law of attraction.

 

 

 

ⓒ 2017 Claudia Grossman

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slice of life

Posted by cgcopy on December 26, 2016 in it's life, searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

There’s a scene in The Way We Were where Katie Morosky (Barbra Streisand) gets herself all worked up, her words rushing out, telling Hubbell Gardiner (Robert Redford) why he absolutely must stay for dinner because she’s just run around town picking up all the ingredients for the meal, including a pie.

He looks at her for a moment, takes a beat in contrast to her nervous energy, and then utters one perfectly understated line: What kind of pie?

Which reminds me of a story. It isn’t really about pie; it’s about building foundations. But since lots of dessert lovers will tell you that a pie is only as good as its foundation — its crust, if you will — well, I think you’ll see the connection. The story concerns a little something we refer to in our home as the Foundation Speech. To wit:

B. and I met as teenagers from neighboring towns. We dated sporadically and then, after college, lived our lives on opposite coasts, seeing each other infrequently and keeping in touch occasionally. (This is the time my mother-in-law insists on remembering as the era of my tracking B. around the country. Untrue. It is the time, however, when he sent me a bouquet of birds-of-paradise while in Hawaii. And a very flirtatious valentine.)

After a spur-of-the-moment, reconnecting phone call in March of 1996, B. and I made plans for me to visit him (he was living in Santa Barbara at the time) for a week in May. The visit was perfect. The time was right. And I knew I had to act. The day before I flew back to New York was my moment.

Me:   Terrific visit.

He:   Absolutely great.

Me:   So … I’ve been thinking. What happens next?

He:   What do you mean?

Me:  (Really?!) I mean, what’s next for us?

He:   Oh, I don’t know. I guess we’ll just see what happens.

Me:  (Oh, no. No, no, no. This is not the way this is going to go down.) You know, I don’t think so.

He:   What do you mean?

Me: (Okay, here it is, better go for it and talk fast so you get it all out.) I mean, we’ve known each other forever. You’re the one who said that we’ve always had this amazing chemistry — and I agree. What we’ve built over these past few days is a foundation. And we’ve got to build on that foundation by seeing each other often — otherwise we’ll be going back to square one each time. (Getting worked up.) I think we should set up another visit around July 4th. And then another one after that. Because when something like this — like us — comes along, you’ve got to keep nurturing it and building on it. And that’s what I think. (Hyperventilating. Waiting for response. Sure that this is the end. Mentally packing my bag.)

He:  Okay.

Me:  Because I really believe that — wait. Did you say okay? Really? Just like that? (Breathing normalizing.)

He:  Yup.

Perfectly understated. And easy as pie.

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

 

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pigs are flying

Posted by cgcopy on November 16, 2016 in it's life

Flying-PigLet’s summarize the state of the union:

Pigs are flying. Mittens are now needed in hell, where snowballs are thriving. A needle has been found in the proverbial haystack, and apples are falling ridiculously far from their trees.

The planets are considering reversing their orbits, and the sun isn’t really in the mood to rise every day but is under contract to do so. The man in the moon is seeking a new gig, and the force of gravity is trying hard not to lose its grip.

The figure in Munch’s The Scream has replaced Lincoln on the $5 bill, and sales of one-way tickets to Mars are exploding. Cows are finally coming home, and horses cannot be led to water but can be made to drink. Rock no longer crushes scissors, paper no longer covers rock, and scissors have lost their ability to cut paper. You can count the number of angels on the head of a pin, but every time a bell rings an angel no longer gets its wings. A stitch in time has dropped in value from being worth nine to being worth only three, and not every cloud has a silver lining.

In short, right now everything seems out of order and makes no sense. Lots of stuff we thought we knew apparently is not as it seems. The times they are a changin’ — but in the wrong direction for human rights.

Silence no longer speaks volumes — silence is just, well, silent. So use your voice.

For liberty and justice for all.

 

 

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

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lasso my heart

Posted by cgcopy on October 11, 2016 in coloring outside the lines

cowgirl3-320x320Ah, cowboys. I love cowboys — or, to be truthful, I love the idea of cowboys.

Wearing a hat at the perfect angle, riding a horse as if he were born to the task, guiding cattle along the range, whipping up some campfire coffee, strumming a guitar as the embers die.

Nice picture, even though I know I’ve painted it based on cowboy portrayals in the movies — most notably The Horse Whisperer and Electric Horseman.  Two characters as different as can be, but both undeniably cowboys. And both played by the inimitable, could-have-been-a-cowboy-if-he-wasn’t-an-actor Robert Redford. Sigh.

What’s with the cowboy crush? It’s something about the idea of man versus frontier, man against the elements, man looking really good with the sun on his shoulders and those perfectly worn cowboy boots.

Then there’s the charm (again, in the movies). That kind of yes-ma’am, aw-shucks, simmering quality that has been tempting the most sophisticated city girls forever.

And therein lies the rub. Because as any city girl worth her pumps can tell you (just ask Annie, played by Kristin Scott Thomas in The Horse Whisperer, or Jane Fonda’s Hallie in Electric Horseman), no matter how handsome the cowboy, how rugged his looks, how much he loves his horse — cowboys just don’t like the city. And most city girls, while they may heart cowboys completely, need to live in a place where buses and taxis — not buffalo — roam.

Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be cowboys, the song goes. It’s a hard and lonely life. But, my heroes have always been cowboys, another song says. And that’s the conflict.

So while cowboys from Big Sky country will always have a tiny place in my heart, a certain city boy from LA-via-NY has my whole heart.

And he won’t ride off into the sunset.

 

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

 

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you want change from that?

Posted by cgcopy on August 16, 2016 in it's life

screen_shot_2014-10-30_at_11.45.33_amIf you’re like me, it still rattles you that Bewitched changed Darrins on us. From Dick York to Dick Sargent. Without so much as a nose wiggle (or maybe that’s how they did it).  Changes are necessary, sure, but change can be a little uncomfortable from time to time. Just ask Coke. Or any woman whose can’t-live-without-it lipstick shade has been discontinued. Soft drinks and lip color aside, following are some changes that I’d choose to change back.

Network news anchors standing. Hey, you’re making me anxious. It’s as if you can’t wait to get out of my living room. Do us all a favor and sit down. Uncle Walter (Cronkite) never stood.

Rearranging my go-to store yet again. Just when I started to get used to electronics over here, bath towels over there, and Rice Krispies five aisles over, you’ve gone ahead and changed your floor plan yet again. So now when I want batteries I get bats, when I want towels I get toys, and when I want cereal I get serious agita. Yeah, I’ve got your Snap, Crackle, Pop right here.

Changing book covers to the movie tie-in version. Yes, I know it’s a way to sell more books by capitalizing on the release of the motion picture. But it’s so, well, pedestrian. I prefer reading the book before seeing the movie. I prefer the original book cover. And, yes, I prefer remaining the book snob that I am.

Self check-outs. Wait, let me see if I have this straight. You want me not only to shop in your store but also to do the job of your cashiers by checking out my items myself? Given that self check-out machines too frequently require assistance (“Please wait while we call for a manager or until your ice cream melts and you have nothing to pay for”); replace the jobs of actual human beings who need a paycheck; and often tell you that they a) don’t accept cash at this time; b) don’t accept ATM cards at this time or c) don’t accept you at this time, I’d rather wait for the cashier who at least smiles at me.

Smart, positive change can be good, healthy, life enhancing. Change without thinking it through is unsettling at best, unbelievably wrong at worst, and unreasonable in the middle.

Exact change only.

 

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

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heart and soul

Posted by cgcopy on July 15, 2016 in it's life, music

UnknownYesterday was one of those days of contradiction. Amidst the horror of the tragedy at Nice, we had tickets to see Beautiful: The Carole King Musical. On this dark, sad day, a trip to an upbeat musical? It seemed wrong to go and enjoy ourselves — but it seemed more wrong to let the chance of a positive experience go by.

The mood inside the theater pre-show seemed somber, with so many of us checking our phones for the latest information about the terrorist attack. But then, finally, the call to shut off our phones, the house lights going down, and the curtain going up. And there, center stage, the character of Carole King, singing So Far Away — in this case, a place where music managed to transport us away from the pain.

If you haven’t seen the show — and especially if, like me, Tapestry was an album that shaped and narrated your life — I recommend unconditionally that you see it if you can. This story of one brilliantly talented woman’s growth and emergence into who she was meant to be is moving, exhilarating and, without a doubt, beautiful.

The power of the music, both in her own life, and in the lives of those of us who discovered her songs decades ago and love it just as much today, is a force of nature. And the fact that that music, on what was truly an otherwise awful day, could work its magic, could allow us to suspend our disbelief for a couple of hours, and could actually let joy into hearts that were otherwise breaking is, without a doubt, a tribute to its own heart. Its soul. Its transcendence.

After the show, we returned, of course, to real life. To the damning 24-hour news cycle. And to what now seems to be an endless stream of lunacy and madness that is the world in which we live.

But music — music is a soothing balm for our weary psyches, a soft, warm blanket to wrap around ourselves when the news is just too terrible to contemplate.  Whatever that music is — whatever it takes to take the hurt away for a few moments or a couple of hours — that is the music of our lives today. For when your “soul is in the lost and found.” And your heart needs peace.

Listen to something beautiful.

 

 

 

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

 

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ear candy

Posted by cgcopy on June 9, 2016 in coloring outside the lines

I have an affinity for ’70s bubblegum pop music. There. I’ve said it.

Yes, you heard me correctly. Tony Orlando & Dawn (yellow ribbons for everyone!); Mac Davis (“Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me” was the ultimate musical hook); Leo Sayer (he made me feel like dancing); Starland Vocal Band (oooh, afternoon delight — wait, what?).  Although maybe not the most sophisticated music out there, it always tends to put me in a good mood. And always tends to put B. in a not-so-good mood. (“My ears!” he’ll moan if he walks in on my listening to a ’70s classic — Year of the Cat actually made him run, screaming, from the room.)

I know what you’re thinking. How can someone as worldly, cosmopolitan and well-read as me (why, thank you!) be lured into the trap of this kind of music? Easy. Because during my junior-high through college years, I was a sweet and hopeful romantic. And these pop songs played right into my heart. Are we talking ABBA? Yup. The Bee Gees? Sure. Debby Boone? Uh … maybe.

If I’m being really truthful here (and because I have so much faith that you’ll still love me even when I make this confession), I have to admit that I was, indeed, a Fanilow — you know, one of those people who loved Barry Manilow’s music. It’s a phase I grew out of, but, to this day, if Mandy comes on the radio, I just can’t change the station.

B.’s musical tastes during that period couldn’t have been more different. Led Zeppelin, The Who, Jethro Tull. Music that, if it came on the radio, I just could not NOT change the station.

But it’s funny how after living with someone for 20 years (almost) you absorb some of their influence by osmosis (also, almost). For example, every once in a while I’ll break into a verse of Led Zeppelin’s Black Dog — “Hey, hey mama said the way you move / Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove…” ( I wish I had a picture of B.’s face when he first heard that come out of my mouth.) I keep hoping that one day I might even hear him sing the chorus of Brandy by Looking Glass (“Brandy, you’re a fine girl …”). But, alas. Not. Going. To happen.

My musical tastes are wide-ranging; I love everything from Springsteen to Sinatra. I look at ’70s bubblegum pop the same way I look at crème brûlée. A little bit is wonderful — more than that means far too many empty calories and far too much sweetness.

Sugar, sugar.

 

ⓒ 2016 Claudia Grossman

 

 

 

 

 

 

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