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not so gym dandy

Posted by cgcopy on July 10, 2024 in finding the funny, klutzy but cute

If you ask me to name my favorite subjects in junior high and high school, it would be easy – I’d say English (the more reading, the better), French, art, and geometry (I loved figuring out those proofs). And if you asked me my least favorite, it would be even easier – gym. (Okay, trigonometry came next – what the heck is sine, anyway? – but gym was by far at the bottom of the list. The very bottom.)

Why? Because, quite simply, I was both a klutz and not exactly schooled in the art of playground. (I wasn’t the very last person chosen for teams but pretty close to it.) Add being painfully shy to the mix and you can understand why I’d rather have spent my time in the library than in the gymnasium.

Let’s start with those outfits, called “gym suits” in those days. Unlike now, where girls get to wear cute gym shorts and tees, we were relegated to wearing these absolutely ugly, one-piece garments made out of a stiff cotton (maybe) / polyester blend. This fashion faux pas looked like a short-sleeved, collared shirt tucked into a pair of baggy shorts, with unflattering elastic around the waist and snap fasteners. Our names were supposed to be written onto the front pocket in laundry marker. (In my case, my mother felt the need to embroider my name in contrasting thread. Not too embarrassing – thanks, Mom).

Worse than wearing the gym suit was participating in the activities. To wit:

First, gymnastics. While I did okay when the balance beam was represented by a taped line on the ground (I could walk along it without losing my balance), once it became a beam, I became a mess. So scared was I of falling off that, well, I fell off. Time after time. And we’re just talking about walking here. Other girls could walk, turn, leap onto it with the help of a spring board, and even learn to do a cartwheel dismount. Nope – not happening.

And don’t even get me started on the uneven parallel bars. All I needed to be told was to dangle from the high bar and then let go, drop down, and catch the low bar – and I froze. Let go? Are you kidding me? I may not have been studying physics, but I knew all about the laws of gravity and had no intention of testing their limits.

And you know how there are all kinds of vaults? Mine was the no-fault vault – that is, I would run as fast I could toward the apparatus and then, at the moment it was time to place my hands on it and push myself over, I’d stop still in my tracks, like one of those cartoon characters who skids to an abrupt halt, leaving a cloud of dust behind. That’s all, folks.

Next up, softball. Here was a conundrum for me, because I detested both batting and fielding. Batting, because I’d get so nervous that I would be too distracted to keep my eye on the ball and attempt to hit it. And fielding, because I would pray that the ball wouldn’t come to me for fear of it popping out of my glove, rolling between my legs (hello, Bill Buckner), or, even worse, my catching it and throwing it in the wrong direction. The only good news there was that catching it, apparently, was never a possibility.

Volleyball. You know how cool it looks when you watch a volleyball game, and all those beautiful, perfectly fit people are digging, spiking, tapping, jousting, and killing the ball, having the times of their lives? (Cue the soundtrack to Top Gun). Yeah, not so much for me. First of all, my serve was never quite strong enough to get the ball over the net easily. And secondly, I just never had that all-or-nothing, “dive for it” instinct in me (again with the praying that the ball not come to me). One sight of that ball bearing down on me and it was “take my breath away” time. Literally.

I did like a game called Newcomb, though, which only involved catching the ball and then tossing it back over the net (I opted for a two-hand underhand). When I recently mentioned Newcomb to B., telling him I’d really liked playing it back then, he thought I was joking. “That’s not even athletic!” he said, cracking up. One look at my disappointed face and he tried to fix it. “Well, it’s sort of athletic,” he amended. “I mean, you do have to catch the ball, I suppose.” Side out.

Did I like any of it? I liked the modern dance unit. I liked the jumping jacks. And I liked doing somersaults (aka forward rolls). But the rest? As we said in those days, “let’s not and say we did.” What I loved, though, was being able to change back into my clothes and head to English class. (Thankfully, my college had no phys ed requirement – coincidence?)

Final score: Scarlet Letter, 1; gym class, 0.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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braided together

Posted by cgcopy on June 15, 2024 in heartfelt, life stages, little bits of joy

The Saturday before Father’s Day seems like the perfect time for me to repost this piece about some wonderful memories I have of spending Saturday mornings together with my dad when I was growing up. A toast to dads and the daughters who love them.

I am so happy for my friends who have had their fathers with them over the years to share in their adult lives. Although I have lived so much more of my life without my dad than with him (he passed away when I was only 19), my memories of him are sweet. One of the most vivid is that of our Saturday mornings together.

Although my dad worked long hours, he was always home for dinner on Friday nights and through the weekend. Saturday mornings were our time together. When my mom had a list of errands for him to run, I rode shotgun. Other times we went to the hardware store – not one of the huge home-improvement chain stores we all go to now but a genuine hardware and garden store run by locals, two men named Ralph and Pat, who became fixtures of my childhood. Although my dad was a film editor, in his younger years he had done the kinds of jobs that had left his hands callused and roughened. Sometimes I think that the time we spent at the hardware store shooting the breeze with the men who had grown up in the Bronx, as he had, were some of the most satisfying moments for him.

More often than not, our Saturday morning jaunts around town included lunch – just my dad and me. Maybe it was the local Jewish deli, maybe the burger place where the hamburgers always were wider than the buns, maybe the lunch special at a Chinese restaurant. (Because I was such a fussy eater, he had convinced me that the water chestnuts in my beef chop suey were really potatoes; it worked for me.) What mattered was that I was with my dad and that I had all of his attention. Ours was a mutual admiration society – he was my hero and I could do no wrong (or very little) in his eyes.

One of the most tender memories I have of my dad is of the occasional Saturday mornings when we would attend Sabbath services at the synagogue. Two things I remember most about those mornings: 1) that my dad would revert from his regular glasses to his sunglasses during the sermon so that he could grab a nap while the rabbi was speaking, and 2) that I would sit next to him braiding and unbraiding the tassels on his tallit (prayer shawl). Sometimes I wove the strands between my fingers, sometimes I tied them into loose knots before untangling them. It was my way of staying awake during the sermon; it was also my way of feeling even more attached to my dad.

While I now consider myself a cultural, non-religious Jew, my memories of those Saturday mornings at the synagogue are no less special. The plush seats, the beautiful melodies, the whispered jokes, the slices of sponge cake afterward – it all came together to create an experience with my dad that I will always, always remember.

Funny the things that connect us to our pasts and tie us to the people we love.

Heartstrings.

©2019, 2024 Claudia Grossman

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what if?

Posted by cgcopy on June 4, 2024 in it's life, it's me, making a change

What if? Two wonderful words if you’re a dreamer. A creative. Someone who is bursting with great ideas that can’t wait to be shared. Two not-so-great words if you’re someone who suffers from anxiety. Two words that are kind of analagous to those two notes that comprise the theme from “Jaws” – bum, bum. Danger ahead.

As someone who has suffered from anxiety for almost all my life, “what if” has ranged from living in my subconscious, to becoming a more frequent visitor (buzzing like an annoying mosquito), to being front and center, the reference point for far too many of my decisions, actions, and reactions. What if I do X, and the result is disastrous? What if the world falls apart because I wasn’t on top of all that could go wrong? What if I take a chance and, as a result, the entire house of cards comes tumbling down? (Because what if all it really is, is nothing more than a house of cards? Oy.) What if, what if, what if.

What you may not know is that, at some point, too much “what if”-ing can lead to a tsunami of feeling helpless to move forward; to a storm of self-doubt and dread; to the need to blow the whistle and call a time-out. Which I needed to do a few days ago. A time-out to reset. To step back. To understand what is happening.

What sets anxiety into high gear? In my case, I’ve always been an anxious person, from the time I was a little girl – hiding behind my mother’s skirts (“Oh, she’s just shy” – not); being terrified of jumping into the pool at summer camp; fearing my parents dying if they took that trip on an airplane. The signs were all there, but, unfortunately, never dealt with – only avoided. Part of it was the times, I’m sure, when anxiety wasn’t recognized for what it was; part of it was just a lack of understanding of the situation; and part of it was having a mother who suffered her own kind of anxiety but never treated it. Was my anxiety nature or nurture? Yes.

Over the years I’ve been given conflicting sets of guidance by more than one therapist and doctor, probably because the right treatment for anxiety is different for everyone who suffers from it. What works for one person may not work for the next. And it takes time to figure it out.

For example, one theory offered was that generalized anxiety is due to a chemical imbalance in the brain, one that medications can help. I tried that for a very long time, with what turned out to be too high a dosage, making me feel just awful. Then I was told that no, that wasn’t the way to look at it, and that anxiety ought to be treated with a regimen of cognitive relearning – when you’re anxious, divert your thoughts and attempt to meditate it away. But for someone like me, a born-and-bred neurotic New Yorker, every attempt at meditating or self-focusing or closing out the noise only results in more anxiety (What’s that strange sound I’m hearing now that it’s so quiet – is the refrigerator broken? How much longer do I need to try to focus on emptying my mind – has it really only been 30 seconds? And why does trying to clear my mind only result in it feeling even more full of worry?).

And so I’ve muddled along through life as best as I could, which is what a lot of people (even those who aren’t anxious) do. But I never really did the the work to tame the beast properly in a way that worked for me – I did just enough to get by. Apparently, though, just getting by is just not enough.

To wit: over the last several months, particularly, anxiety was nipping at my heels, to the point where over the past few days it reached a crescendo and I realized that the aforementioned time-out was necessary. We had been planning a 16-day, 3000-mile road trip from LA up to Canada and back again, with a departure date of later this month. I’d been preparing and researching our vacation, all the while dealing with a ton of outside stress from various different life challenges (we all have those).

That was the straw that made the camel say, “You know, my back really, really hurts.” I woke up a few days ago and told B. that I just couldn’t do the trip. It was overwhelming and terrifying – too far away for too many days. “What if you or B. get sick so far from home?” the anxiety beast taunted. “What if the car breaks down along the way? What if you get so far from LA and can’t get back? What if something happens to B. and you’re left there all alone? What if you’re in the middle of a 9-hour driving day and can’t breathe in the car?” What if, what if, what if. Again.

Time out. After hours of crying over the cards falling around my head, hours of being horribly disappointed in myself, hours of B. being the amazing support that he is, and hours of feeling like s**t, I finally realized that the the only way through this is to take a deep breath and finally address the beast for what it is. A f**king pain in the ass and something to be tamed in order to be conquered. It was time to realize that no, I’m not a screw-up, but yes, I need to take the time to learn what I need to do and how to do it. What I do know is that, for me, attempting to meditate or knit or distract anxiety away just won’t work. Like so many other things in life, I’ve got to recognize it, acknowledge it, and work through it to get past it. And so the work begins anew.

I share this account for many reasons. First, in the hopes of letting you know that anxiety disorder is not simply feeling nervous about something, even though so many uninformed people may minimize it that way: “You’re such a nervous Nellie. What do you have to feel anxious about?” or, “You’re always flitting around taking care of everything – it’s just a lot of energy,” or, my favorite, “You just need to calm down.” Yeah, no. It’s an illness and deserves that kind of acknowledgement.

Second, know that anxiety can inhibit, restrict, and just plain suck the joy out of life. Think about it – if you worry about everything and, therefore, feel too frightened to do things, your world can get really small, really fast. The walls can feel like they’re closing in.

Third, anxiety is not a sign of weakness. And dealing with it is a sign of strength.

Fourth, people suffering from anxiety need kindness. From others, sure, but from themselves. I need to be kind to myself, to be patient with my small steps forward, and to realize that I’m not a bad person or a failure for having this condition. I’m human.

Smalls steps. Patience. Kindness. The right techniques. It will take time and it will be an everyday battle, but I fully hope to get the anxiety beast under control eventually. Slay the dragon completely? No, because anxiety is a part of me. As much as my wicked sense of humor. My green eyes. And my unshakeable belief in the power of chocolate.

And while it’s not the headline, the good news is that we’ve reconfigured the vacation to a shorter, closer-to-home getaway to Yosemite for just a few days with maybe a couple of days somewhere else not too distant. As for the aforementioned life challenges that have added to this particularly lovely bout of me vs. the beast (very difficult aging-parent issues being at the top of that list), those will get chipped away at a bit at a time. Not perfectly, but in a way that I can handle and still take care of myself, which is the most important thing.

I couldn’t ask for a better partner, advocate, or co-slayer of my dragon than B. – my gratitude to him for loving me unconditionally and for my being able to lean on him for strength is boundless. Ultimately, this is about me, though, about my fighting the fight and emerging stronger for it. About the words “what if” not being scared but, one day, being hopeful. And full of possibility.

I’m gonna need a bigger piece of chocolate.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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letting chips fall

Posted by cgcopy on May 15, 2024 in finding the funny, in a food mood, lucy moments

Today is National Chocolate Chip Day (yay!). To celebrate (and to give everyone a few chuckles at a time when we could all use a batch or two), I thought I’d rerun this post from several years ago. It’s me at my Lucy best in the kitchen – always a recipe for laughter. Enjoy – and indulge in your favorite chocolate-chip experience today. It’s on the calendar.

One of the fun things about being me is that I manage to get myself into trouble just because I don’t do things halfway. It’s all or nothing. Like the time I ordered all five levels’ worth of a language-learning software program to brush up on and perfect my seven years of high-school-through-college French. My thinking beforehand? Great! I’ll tackle the whole thing and be finished – and completely fluent – in no time. My thinking after getting through just one level of talking back to my laptop? Merde.

Or when I decided that the perfect opportunity to conquer Anna Karenina (my fourth attempt) would be on a cross-country flight (and the return). Wrong. So wrong. Not only could I not stay focused yet again on why “all happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way” – trying to read a heavy, 800-page book while scrunched into a seat in coach made me unhappy in my very own way.

And then there’s the time I thought it would be fun to make a freezer full of ice cream sandwiches to have on hand whenever the craving struck for something a little bit decadent. I wanted to re-create the Chipwich (big in the 1980s) – vanilla ice cream sandwiched between two chocolate chip cookies with the edges rolled in more chocolate chips. To make it easier, I decided to use store-bought cookies (three dozen to be exact). How big an undertaking could it be?

Very, apparently. Because if you’re going to be making 18 ice cream sandwiches, you’d better have a plan. Because ice cream, it turns out, melts (duh, yeah). Because cookies crumble if you press down too hard on the scoop of ice cream between them. And because chocolate chips escape and travel all over your kitchen if you try to spoon them onto the edges of the sandwiches. (Why you may ask, didn’t I just roll the sandwich edges in the chips? Good question. That only works if the ice cream isn’t melting all over the place, which it was, and if I had thought ahead about having that step in my assembly line, which I had not.)

One more thing about the melting. (I swear I could hear the Wicked Witch of the West – Wicked Sand-witch of the West? – wailing “I’m m-e-e-e-e-lting!”) You’ve got to get the sandwiches into the freezer really fast. Like make one, open freezer, pop it in, close freezer. At this point, of course, the temperature of the freezer drops from the door being opened so many times. (Leaving enough time for flying monkeys to show up and carry away any ice cream sandwiches – or small children – left untended.)

My collateral dessert damage was impressive. Eight cookies broken, myriads of chocolate chips rolling in all directions, four scoops of ice cream fleeing from their cookies. Final number of ice cream sandwiches that made it to the freezer? As I growled at B. when he innocently asked that question: Do. Not. Even.

The story has a happy ending, though (unlike poor Anna Karenina). To console me for the chocolate chip débâcle (pardon my French, literally), B. took me out to the movies (a good rom-com goes a long way toward enhancing my mood). And there, at the concessions counter, right near the Raisinets, the Milk Duds, and the BonBons were Nestlé Toll House ice cream sandwiches. Who knew?

Très chip.

©2017, ©2024 Claudia Grossman

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good tidings

Posted by cgcopy on April 12, 2024 in finding the sunshine, little bits of joy, music & lyrics

Post-eclipse aside, it just doesn’t seem like the sun (metaphorically, in this case) shines very much these days. But just when it seems like we’re facing the dark side of the moon, figuratively, finding one’s light can really help. Even if it’s just for a few moments, letting the sunshine in can surely mean the difference between feeling like we’ve been sentenced to seven more centuries of (psychological) winter and feeling like (symbolic) summer is just around the corner.

To wit, I often find my sunshine in music, and yesterday’s ray of happiness overtook me not quite by surprise, but certainly by delight – The Beach Boys. Listening to a CD (remember those?) as I drove along on a perfect spring day, windows open, Southern California sunshine pouring in and the breeze blowing gently, all of a sudden I felt a lightness of being that I haven’t felt in quite a while.

While California Girls played its heart out, my own heart was lifted by the absolute joy of the music and lyrics (and my right to call myself that after all these years here). The sweet longing of Surfer Girl making one’s “heart come all undone”; the devoted promise of Don’t Worry, Baby; the true summer-love declaration of God Only Knows – all of these songs share the sunshine, the shoreline, and the melody lines that translate into smile lines.

To that end, I defy you to sit still while listening to Surfin’ USA, with its upbeat drumbeat and its literal tour of the best places to surf. Or to not smile while hearing the joyride that is Little Deuce Coupe. Or to keep your grin under wraps while the pure fun, fun, fun of well, Fun, Fun, Fun (featuring Daddy’s little darling and her T-bird) plays.

So much Beach Boys music is an ode to the innocence of summer – a paean to those moments of falling in love for the first time and to the joy of declaring it to the world. From its opening signature bars to its wish to hurry to the time when one can be grown up and in love forever, Wouldn’t It Be Nice is one of my favorites – a song that always, always brings a smile to my face. And while Good Vibrations is lauded by so many as the Beach Boys’ masterpiece, it’s the sweet songs of summer that capture my imagination – and my heart – for sure.

When I recently mentioned to B. that the Beach Boys would be performing here in a few months, he reminded me that the original group is no more (he saw them decades ago when most of the original members were still there and tells me that those were some of the most fun concerts he’s ever been to). He asked if, knowing that, I still wanted to go. Maybe, I said. Maybe it’s a way to hold on to endless summer all the way until next winter when, hopefully, the world will be brighter and fears will have thawed. (And maybe the fact that he purchased tickets, as an early anniversary present, after hearing me read aloud the first draft of this blog post is the reason he remains my forever summer love.)

To the beach, boys.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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candle scandal

Posted by cgcopy on March 28, 2024 in birthday girl, circling the sun

They say that age is just a number. Okay, then, here’s a number for you – 66.

Yup. Today is my 66th birthday, the start of my 67th trip around the sun. And, if I’m perfectly honest with myself (the person I find it the most difficult to be perfectly honest with – don’t we all?), sometimes it feels like more than “just” a number.

At age 66, I have twice the wisdom I had at age 33. Twice the life experience. Twice the mileage (let’s face it, it shows); twice the wit (with age comes the ability to think funnier on my feet); and twice the laugh lines. Let’s think about that last one for a minute. You can choose to see the “twice the lines” part of that statement or you can opt for the “twice the laugh” part. I go with the latter. Because one of the most important things I’ve learned with each passing year is just how important it is to be able to laugh. At myself most of all. (Sure, I’d love to trade the facial lines of 66 for the smooth skin of 33, but not enough to go back. Not at all.)

More stuff that’s doubled in the last 33 years? The number of books I’ve read, for sure. The number of pages I’ve written, without a doubt. The number of baking successes (and fiascos!) I’ve had; the quantity of excellent music I’ve heard; the number of tulips I’ve photographed. Most important, the amount of love and support I’ve given to and received from my dear friends – and double the dose of reality to recognize true friendship from its disappointing imitation. And, while we’re in the neighborhood, at 66 my bullshit meter is twice as sharply honed as it was at age 33. Cool.

Being this age has granted me twice the grace, I hope, in moving through each day (not twice the gracefulness, unfortunately – that’s a different story). I’m a better listener and a better advisor, when asked. I’ve also learned the lesson about not giving advice when it’s not asked for, something that takes years to understand.

Another difference between age 33 and age 66? My confidence in myself. In my belief that I do have a voice and that it is worth hearing. And in my ability to use that voice for good. Or for funny. Or for both.

When I was 33, B. and I were still just friends, living on two different coasts. The single act of changing that dynamic and of getting married has multiplied – by way more than twofold in the ensuing years – the love, the caring, and the belief that someone cherishes me completely. You know how the Grinch’s heart grew ten sizes when he finally understood the meaning of Christmas? Mine has grown a million sizes because of this one remarkable person and his love.

Living well – that is, living a life that is meaningful in the important ways, like being there for others, having kindness as my credo, contributing through my art and my heart – is something I was only beginning to do at age 33. At age 66, I have blossomed, and I hope that what I share with the world is evidence of that.

So here’s to another candle on the cake; in fact, here’s to another slice of cake (or even two, if I feel like it – and I get the one with the extra frosting and the pink rose). Because living the joy is what I’ve discovered to be the secret of life.

That, and sharing my toys.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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my life as a meerkat

Posted by cgcopy on March 6, 2024 in a writer's life, finding the funny, must love animals

If you’re familiar with meerkats, you know that they are adorable-looking creatures, with patches around their eyes, known for standing up on their hind legs a lot of the time and always focused on what’s above them. (Google them – they’re cute.) Like skinny little sentries, they stand guard for their friends and themselves, always with their eyes up, up, up. Because up, up, up is where their predators are. So, to avoid being swooped up and carried away, the meerkat keeps a watchful eye to the sky.

My life as a meerkat extends only so far as the metaphorical eyes-up stance. No, I’m not waiting to be flown away to a terrible fate – I’m just always looking upward, waiting for that other shoe to fall on my head. You know, the one that’s hanging over me, ready to come crashing down, bringing the latest mishap, calamity, or havoc.

Yes, I’ll cop to being neurotic by birth (honestly, have you met a true New Yorker who isn’t?); anxious by pastime (a writer without some kind of weakness isn’t really a writer); and threatened by, well, everything going on in today’s world (anyone who doesn’t feel the least bit uncomfortable is hiding their head in the sand – instead of looking up). And so, my meerkat persona.

Wherein I’m always aware of that other shoe that’s just hanging there. Is it the sharp point of a stiletto heel about to come down on me with yet another glitch? Or how about the thick sole of a hiking boot about to crush my hopes for a day unencumbered? Or maybe it’s a seemingly innocent little flip-flop about to flip flop all over my plans for, oh, I don’t know, not worrying for the next 20 minutes.

Certainly looking up at all times (even metaphorically) precludes looking around at all the good things. I get that, and I do try not to focus on my meerkat sensibilities too much. Not every day brings tough stuff – life is a mix. It truly is an art to live in the moment, in the sunlight, and in the belief that, while bad things may happen, wonderful things do too. And why waste time dwelling on the small upsets – why lose a beautiful afternoon to the proposition of what-if (because you’ve just what-iffed yourself out of several hours you can’t get back).

I understand it all. And I do my best. But, honestly, I don’t think I’d feel comfortable losing my inner meerkat completely.

You can take the fear out of the girl, but … well, wait a second. No you can’t.

Eyes up.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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something stinks

Posted by cgcopy on March 4, 2024 in empowerment, seriously?!

At first I thought that TV commercials with bears explaining to us how to use toilet paper was the epitome of talking down to an audience. Bears? Really? Of course, that might answer the age-old question about whether bears do their business in the woods. But, aside from feeling a bit put off, that does not stop me from buying said toilet paper.

But there’s something new I’ve noticed recently that, in my view, goes beyond simply talking down to an audience – I find it downright offensive. And that is the avalanche of commercials about a slew of products designed to help women keep their bodies from stinking (the advertisers’ word, used or implied, not mine).

Forgive me for being a bit indelicate here but yes, we all know that body odor exists and that some people suffer from it more than others. And great, there are products out there to help with the problem.

But that’s not what this seems like.

This new strategy of reaching women plays right into the insecurities many women share about our bodies not being perfect in all ways. It plays right into the hands of those who like nothing more than to keep women down by preying on those insecurities. And it plays right into the effectiveness of selling a product by first demeaning and shaming the potential user before promising to save her from the ingloriousness of it all.

For decades, deodorant has been advertised to the masses without this kind of insult added to injury. Even so-called intimate deodorants for women were advertised in softer terms. But these new products? Their advertising comes right out and tells women that our bodies stink all over in a multitude of places – even in areas we might not ever have considered (and probably should not have to). Talk about creating a need where there may not be much of one and about making women second-guess themselves.

What does it say about us as a society if we feel free to demean women to this extent instead of empowering them to feel their best? Last night I counted no fewer than four commercials for product lines all with this same message to women: You stink. Fix it.

Not the kind of message we want to send to young girls. Not the kind of message we want to communicate to the world. And not the kind of message that we, as women, should have to take to heart.

So there, I’ve said it. It stinks – fix it.

Bear with me.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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reading the room

Posted by cgcopy on February 22, 2024 in finding the funny, must love books

For someone who reads as much as I do, it might come as a surprise that I’ve only belonged to one book group – and that my tenure there lasted only through a few books. Not because of the “book” part (although the choices were not my thing) but because of the “group” thing – this particular group at least. Let’s just say that evenings with this book group made me just want to go home, get under the covers, and hide my head in, well, a good book.

As you may know, I moved out from New York to California for a boy I’d known since we were teenagers – B., that is – about 28 years ago. At that time, he was living in Santa Barbara and before I knew it – poof! – so was I. I worked from home at the time and didn’t really know anyone, so, in an effort to make me feel more comfortable, B. asked a friend of his if she would please invite me to join her book group. He thought it could be a good way for me to meet a circle of women who might become my friends.

A great idea, yes. In concept. But not so much in execution. Because the majority of the women in the group were either divorced; recently broken-up-with; tired of dating Peter Pans; disgusted with the singles scene; or up to here with married men who claimed to be unattached. To say that this group was comprised mostly of manhaters would be accurate. To say that they were not eager to welcome a new member who had just moved to town to be with the love of her life would be an understatement. And to say that I felt as if I didn’t fit in would be much more than just a feeling – it was a self-evident, set-in-stone fact.

The rules of book group were clear. Each month, one woman would select the book to be read and then host the group at her home for dinner to discuss it. As in many book groups, conversation about the book was superseded by conversations about everyone’s life – and, in this case, almost everyone’s negative takes on men. Every single meeting. No matter what the book was about. See where I’m going here?

It should be noted that the books chosen were not my thing either. While I don’t expect every book in book group to be my first choice (being exposed to other kinds of books is part of the point, right?), these books were as far from popular, everyone’s-talking-about-it fiction as you could get. It was truly a chore for me to try to get through every dreary, boring, heavy-on-the-pseudointellectualism but light-on-the-enjoyment tome (and tomes they were) each month. But, being the new girl in town, I did.

When it was my time to host, I deliberately chose an Oprah’s Book Club selection, figuring that it was a good bridge between intensity and bestseller-ness. No one frowned, and I thought I was in the clear, until I was informed of another rule of book club. No husbands or boyfriends were allowed to be at home on book club night. Which meant that a very annoyed B. needed to take himself to the movies that evening – and also meant that L.A. Confidential has become a touchy subject in our home (for me, not him – I’m annoyed that I didn’t get to go with him to see it). When I tried to get a reason out of anyone as to why men had to be banished, I was told that that was the rule. Period. End of discussion.

First rule of book club, apparently, was that you don’t talk about book club.

After about seven meetings (and months), I’d decided that I’d had enough. I appreciated B.’s effort and that of the person who had first invited me, but I just couldn’t do it anymore.

Me: “I’m going to skip book group tonight.”

He: “Uh, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Me: “I do. I don’t enjoy it and it stresses me out.”

He: “I think you should give it another chance.”

Me: (getting a little impatient) “All I’ve been doing is giving it another chance. I’m done.”

He: (looking frustrated) “You can’t be done. You have to go tonight.”

Me: (realizing at that moment that I’d moved 3,000 miles across the country to spend my life with this man who now apparently thought he could tell me what to do) “I have to go? You don’t get to tell me what I have to do or don’t do. You’re not the boss of me.” (Okay, maybe a bit overdramatic.)

He: (sighing) I’d never tell you what you have to do. And of course I’m not the boss of you. It’s just …”

Me: “Just what?”

He: (covering his eyes, head in hand) “Just that they’re throwing you a little surprise bridal shower tonight because they know we’re getting married in a couple of weeks.”

Me: “Oh, s**t.” (after a minute) “Sorry.”

So, I went. And it was as awkward as I thought it would be. Well, actually, a bit more awkward. Because the woman who was hosting that evening was someone B. had gone on one date with years before. I knew about her but, apparently, she hadn’t known about me. When the other women asked whom I was marrying and I mentioned B.’s name, the hostess did a double take. And then a double shot. And then double-timed through the rest of the evening, hurrying us out shortly thereafter, book discussion be damned. (I guess she had had a thing for B. that had gone unreciprocated.) And did I mention how uncomfortable it was to receive best wishes on my upcoming marriage from a group of women who were mostly taking bets on how long it might last?

My exit was as gracious as I could make it. Because we were moving to LA shortly after my last appearance, I used that as the reason for my farewell, thanking each member in a handwritten note for her lovely shower gift and for having had me in the group. The response? Not a word. I guess I’d read them right after all.

But I do appreciate the time spent in that book group because it confirmed for me that I really do like to read on my own – what I want, when I want, how many pages I want or don’t want. It also confirmed what I sort of already knew – that spending time with people who don’t support you, who don’t boost your confidence, and who don’t empower you to feel good about yourself is time ill spent.

Turn the page.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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we are a-mused

Posted by cgcopy on February 6, 2024 in a tribute, creative inspiration, life stages, music, strong women

There is a wonderful recent New Yorker cartoon showing two baby boomers watching the Grammys and knowing none of the performers – until, with a sigh of relief, they recognize Joni Mitchell. That cartoon could have been created about B. and me.

Indeed, in watching the awards show a couple of nights ago, we found ourselves drawn to Joni’s performance the way moths are drawn to a flame, that flame being her indefatigable spirit, her voice silvered with age but golden with life stories, her presence a testament to the power of art as a life force. Her very appearance that of a muse sharing her gifts.

Those of us who are old enough to remember Joni Mitchell as a young woman, who have listened to her music for years, and who have found parts of our own voices in hers, can understand the impact of seeing her now, at 80, continuing to sing her life. Her artistry and creativity are one of a kind; her voice – a unique signature sound – recognizable immediately at its core, despite the decades that have passed; her passion for continuing to express herself something one can only regard with awe.

Her long platinum angel hair continues to be her crown, now captured in two still-hippie-esque braids; her clothing and accessories remain genuinely, effortlessly bohemian; her bright blue eyes continue to hold the spirit and the spark of her storytelling. A virtual phoenix, Joni has had to learn to rise and walk three times in her life – as a baby, of course, but then once after contracting polio and again after having suffered an aneurysm nearly a decade ago. She is truly an indomitable force of nature, whose love for her craft and whose sheer will to express herself set her apart within the too-often-used but not-often-enough-earned legend category.

With lyrics – poetry, really – that loop and swirl, delve and discover, lilt and cry, and with melodies that are often unexpected but always, always true to herself and the soul she shares with us, Joni Mitchell’s work is a touchstone for what true art is. Her creativity and sensitivity are undeniable; her commitment to her artistry, whether as a singer / songwriter or a prolific painter, is abundant; her heart, filled with a lifetime of memories that she has captured in song and shared with the world, beats to a rarefied tempo.

Listening to Joni Mitchell sing about looking at life and love from both sides now – at this stage of her life – is bittersweet, of course. She has seen those things from the perspectives both of a young woman and an old one, nearer now to the end of her life than when she was part of the Laurel Canyon sounds of the late Sixties and Seventies. Then, she was a beautiful, ethereal young woman making her mark on the world in a completely original way; now, that glow of youth has been refined, burnished, and polished to a patina of luminescence – an aura that emanated from Joni as she sat and regaled us with her bows and flows, her clouds of remembrance, her life’s journey captured in that singular performance.

Here’s to more than the voice of a generation – here’s to the woman who has sung her way into our hearts by letting us into hers; who has shown us that inspiration knows no bounds; and who has proven that remaining true to yourself is truly a lifetime achievement.

Brava. From all sides now.

©2024 Claudia Grossman

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