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the only man who should wear a mustache

Posted by cgcopy on February 16, 2013 in it's life

UnknownWhen it comes to men’s facial hair (there’s an opening line if ever I wrote one), I have a very short memory. I once complimented a     co-worker on his new (I thought) goatee, only to find out that he’d had it for a couple of months. I recently “noticed” how nice a friend of ours looked clean shaven, only to discover that the last time he’d had a mustache was back in college. For the record, it should be noted that B. has a full beard, has had it for nearly 30 years (except for a brief, clean-shaven respite a few years ago), and I absolutely love it on him. (Ooh, a college professor with a full beard. Very sexy.)

There are facial-hair looks that many men can pull off with style. The three-day stubble, as on Don Johnson’s Sonny Crockett, is still hot today (not so the pastel suits with tee shirts), as evidenced by Ryan Gosling. The full beard (Al Pacino in Serpico, Cat Stevens before he became controversial, my Russian Lit professor in college, my husband). The goatee, which can make some men look unsavory but make others (Brad Pitt, Blair Underwood) so savor-worthy.

Then there’s the mustache — a look that peaked in the ’70s and then didn’t. A mustache doesn’t seem to work these days. It evokes images of a post-Woodstock, pre-Wall-Street, polyester-wearing era. And, in my opinion, should be left there.

Except for one man. The only man, I think, who can continue to wear a mustache and make it look hot. And that man is … (drumroll please) … Tom Selleck.  Magnum, P.I. has morphed into Frank Reagan, NY Police Commissioner (Blue Bloods), all the while rocking that signature mustache. As well as lots of women’s worlds.

It’s been a long, long time since a beautiful blonde urged men everywhere to “Take it off. Take it all off!” (see commercial here). If Tom-Selleck-as-Frank-Reagan-blue-bloods-cbs-15634793-487-639you’re reading this Tom, please leave the mustache on.

Wink.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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hang a left at the caramel

Posted by cgcopy on February 11, 2013 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

One of my favorite holidays is fast approaching — but not for the reasons you probably think. Let the other women get the roses (delivered to the office where everyone can see). The jewelry that’s advertised in commercials as coming straight from the heart (the heart of the ad agency, anyway). The red bustier that either a) is never worn because you can’t breathe in it or b) is worn for 30 seconds max before the fun begins.

Nope, not for me. My Valentine gift of choice is chocolate. And not even the fancy, fanciful ones that chocolate fanatics Heart-box-of-chocolatesfantasize about. I can’t help it, but I adore the heart-shaped boxes of chocolates that you can find in any drugstore.

Those red foil hearts get me every time. And you know what’s really cool? Those little road maps inside that tell you which chocolate is which (so you don’t bite into the strawberry cream instead of the nougat, leaving lots of half-eaten chocolates for someone else).

B. still manages to delight me each year with something particularly sweet on Valentine’s Day (even if he would rather celebrate our affection on days not dictated by the calendar). He always remembers that the way to his cara mia’s heart is through caramels; that the path to his sweetheart’s kiss is lined with chocolate kisses; and that instead of ruffles, his girl prefers truffles.

vw-beetle-mdBonbon voyage.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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you want a pizza this?

Posted by cgcopy on February 3, 2013 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

You can’t tell a New Yorker about pizza. Because New Yorkers know pizza better than anyone (spoken like a born and bredimage New Yorker, I know). If asked what the one thing I miss about living in New York is, the answer would have to be the pizza. You can throw a dart and hit a pizza place (that you can walk to) selling slices, and the pizza will always be great. Thin crust (not supermodel-pizza thin, just regular thin), perfect combo of sauce with mozz, perfectly foldable for walking purposes (cue Stayin’ Alive from opening scene of Saturday Night Fever).

In LA, pizza is a different story. It’s not easy to find the real stuff we grew up on. Pizza here, like almost everything in LA, is a big production. There are tons of gourmet-wired, wood-fired, designer-inspired choices, none of which, in my mind, is real pizza.

For example, even though I am a pizza purist, I’ll agree that legitimate toppings include (in no particular order) green peppers, mushrooms, pepperoni (or sausage or meatball). What you can’t sell me on is believing that any of the following choices counts as a topping that any self-respecting pizza would wear: smoked salmon (seriously? you can’t even call it lox?), barbecued chicken, pesto, goat cheese, artichokes, fennel, niçoise olives, eggplant, broccoli rabe, potatoes — and that LA classic, sprouts. I’m not saying that putting these ingredients on dough with sauce may not be tasty — I’m saying it’s not pizza. Not to a New Yorker, anyway. (And you know that pineapple and ham combo? Sorry. That’s not pizza, no matter where you are.)

Do I have an attitude about pizza? Absolutely; it’s my birthright. Even here, on a sunny 75° day in February.

pizza signHow you doin’?

 

 

 

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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going to the mattresses

Posted by cgcopy on February 1, 2013 in it's life

As they have all my life, men (or in the beginning, boys), continue to fascinate me. Aside from the obvious fact that they are “suited up” differently for the game of life, they all seem to have the same game-playing info encoded in their brains that’s different from a woman’s. Maybe it’s that their antennae pick up different signals. Maybe it’s that they get a different book (The Guy’s Book) than women do when they’re born. But it continues to beguile me.

For example, let’s take “going to the mattresses.” Any guy worth his stuff knows that it’s a line from The Godfather, when Clemenza talks about hot-headed Sonny wanting to prepare for mob war — wanting to “go to the mattresses.” Go ahead, ask the guy sitting next to you at work, on the bus, or at the movies. They all know.

Then there’s the basket catch. Every  man of a certain age (old enough to have idolized Willie Mays), knows Mays’s signature catch, the crowd-pleasing move that made him center stage in center field. They all know.

And the stats. Every man I know can recite the stats from at least one pro sport as easily as reciting his own name and address. Which NBA team won the title in how many games in any given year; in what year did Sandy Koufax pitch his perfect game and against whom (1965 against the Cubs); the winning scores for every Super Bowl ever played. They all know.

The tie maneuver. It’s the thing men do when they’re wearing a tie and are about to sit down, putting their hand up against the tie to keep it from hitting the desk or table. It’s a small move, but they all know instinctively to do it (and it looks so, I don’t know, manly).

I find it all appealing. I love the fact that my husband knows and does all this stuff — it’s like I finally have that really cool boyfriend I dreamed about in high school.

Yippee ky-yay (ask any guy, he’ll know).

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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kissing sagebrush

Posted by cgcopy on January 28, 2013 in finding the good

I’ve been hot-air ballooning twice. The first time was so unbelievably wonderful that I emerged with a new outlook on life. The second time was so awful that I emerged with a face full of dirt. To wit:

Balloon flight #1 took place in northern California. The pilot picked us up at our hotel at 5 a.m. and drove us in a pristine, balloon-company van to our pre-planned launch site. On the way, he received radio updates from his ground crew, already there, about wind conditions.

We arrived to find the balloon inflated by the ground crew and ready to lift off. With plenty of space for all five of us in the basket (the pilot, B. and me, and another couple), we floated upward peacefully and then began our gentle air voyage.

The pilot — unquestionably qualified — took the balloon up, up, up above the beautiful landscape, and then so low as to hover above a stream so that we could see the fish. Awesome.

But wait, there’s more. When it came time to land the balloon, he pointed out a spot near a fence way, way below us. “See that fence?” he asked. “I’m radioing to my ground crew to meet us there, because that’s where I’ll be setting down.” And he did. Right where he said. On a dime. As soft as a pillow. Afterward, as the ground crew took care of deflating and packing up the balloon, the pilot drove us back to our hotel and to a champagne breakfast.

Balloon outing #2 took place somewhere in the Southwest and could not have been more of a contrast. We had only decided to do it the evening before and felt lucky that there were openings in this much-touted company’s schedule. Yup. We found out why. Fast.

Balloon flights launch early, and we were instructed to meet the other passengers and crew at a corner at the edge of town at 5 a.m. Turned out, this was a dark, deserted corner. Our pilot and crew showed up in a broken-down old van and drove us around  from spot to spot while they tried to figure out a launch site.

Once there, we were told that we were responsible for helping to get the balloon inflated. Not a request, a directive. While we did that, the pilot tried and failed to send up the “pibal” (the balloon that tests wind conditions). Licking his finger and sticking it out in the breeze would have to do. Uh-oh.

We launched shortly thereafter but, unlike the first balloon trip where there was plenty of room for everyone, there were about three too many people in this basket (I’d like to give a special shout-out to the big guy with the extra-long camera lens). Up we drifted, and then down, where we splashed the river before coming back up again. Splash and dash, balloonists call it.

More like splash, dash, and crash.

Because once the flight was winding down, things went, shall we say, downhill fast. Our pilot, who, it was now obvious, had lost a number of brain cells and credentials to a lifetime of who-knows-what-substance, seemed to have trouble locating a landing site. His ground crew, in a van below us, kept driving around maniacally, trying to track the balloon and figure out where we would set down. Finally, with no rhyme or reason, Captain Jack decided to touch down on a piece of uneven prairie. With sharp rocks. Snakes. And oh yes, sagebrush.

He set the balloon down (actually, it kind of fell the last several feet) with a monstrous thud, and both balloon and basket tipped forward. And tipped forward more. And kept leaning closer and closer to the ground, with me right there in the front. Just when I thought that it would right itself before falling over all the way, it tipped over the last foot or so and there I was, kissing sagebrush. Not exactly the kiss of champagne bubbles.

To add insult to injury (mostly scratches and some colorful bruising as souvenirs), we were told that we’d have to help deflate and pack up the balloon if we wanted to be driven back to our cars. If you think that sounds unreasonable, it was. But no one was looking for the sequel to Deliverance — and these guys were just crazy enough to make you want to get the hell out of there as fast as possible. Plus they knew where we were all staying in town.

Would I do it again, even for an experience as amazing as the first one? Uh, no. Because only sometimes do you get exactly what you pay for and expect.

Other times? Just a face plant. And a lot of hot air.

 

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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dear jack

Posted by cgcopy on January 24, 2013 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

Dear Jack,

We’ve never met but I’m a little bit in love with you. I married your grandson, and his stories about you make me feel like, had we known each other, we would have been great friends.

I never knew my grandfathers, both of them passing away before I was even born, so the idea of B. having had you in his life makes me happy. And from what I’ve been told, it sounds like you brought a tremendous amount of joy to him.

I know that you lived with B. and his parents for several years in your old age; it’s the stories from those years that have endeared you to me. For example, the way you would drive your old car to the same luncheonette each morning to eat free vintage digi stamps_retro clip artbreakfast and sip coffee, read the newspaper, and listen in to what everyone was saying (aha — so that’s where B. gets that from!). The way you told B.’s mom, after the first time she brought you to an adult daycare center for a few hours, “Never bring me there again — that place is filled with old people!” (never stopping to think that you yourself were elderly). And the way you flirted with the girls in B.’s group of friends and counseled B. when he was upset about a particular girl jilting him (“I never liked her anyway — she was never good enough for you!”).

Well, hopefully, you’d think that I’m good enough for your grandson; I know that he thinks so. Because right there on my left hand is the diamond that you gave your own wife. It had been put in safekeeping by your daughter for when B. was ready to give it — and his heart — away, and I’m the lucky recipient.

coffeeSo I feel like I carry a piece of you in my heart every day, and that you’re looking down from that luncheonette up in the sky and winking at me.

Right back at you, Jack.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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come fly with me

Posted by cgcopy on January 18, 2013 in it's life

“It used to mean a better meal … now it means a better life.” That’s how Dorothy Boyd (Renee Zellweger) described first-class air travel to her uber-adorable son Ray in Jerry Maguire. And having just stepped off a plane from a trip to south Florida to deal with aging-parent issues, I have to agree. (I also have to agree with “You had me at hello,” her line at the end of the movie when Jerry (Tom Cruise) finally figures stuff out and returns to her. But I digress.)

On our outbound flight from LA going east, we paid an upcharge of about $20 to board early (in coach, of course) as Priority Group A. Imagine our surprise when, after first-class boarding, there was Select boarding, followed by Gold, Silver, and Bronze boarding, followed by Honorable Mention and Congeniality boarding, followed by, oh yeah, Group A. And once we did board, imagine our additional surprise to find that the overhead space in our immediate area was filled, and that we needed to stow our bags several rows away.

imagesLet me paint you a picture of why that overhead space was filled. It had been taken up by the carry-on suitcases and miscellaneous bundles of a group of about six seniors (not a single one under 80), on their way home to south Florida. And instead of the one bag up, one under the seat in front of you, they’d managed to put all their carry-on luggage in the overheads. Gotta give them credit for that upper arm strength, though.

And then there was the irony of our being seated in row 5 with the coach restrooms at the very back of the plane and the first-class restroom a mere four rows away but forbidden to us (somehow that always triggers my lifelong issues with self-esteem). One hapless coach passenger, nature calling and the rear restrooms occupied, went over the wall into first class to use the vacant restroom. He emerged to an utter death stare from the flight attendant, and the aisle being immediately roped off (literally) to prevent us peons from peeing with the upper crust. I kid you not.

Overall, the flight experience was a good one (in my mind, any flight that arrives safely is a good one), even if we were merely allowed to sniff at the warm chocolate chip cookies being served to our first-class brothers and sisters (okay, we get it — we’re not worthy).

We collected our bags from a few rows back and emerged from the aircraft on time and on our toes. The race toward the car rental desks was beginning, and we had free Gold membership on our side.

Pedal to the better-life metal.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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and it’s outta here!

Posted by cgcopy on January 10, 2013 in it's life

I am the product of a mixed marriage — my father was a NY Giants baseball fan, my mother grew up on the Yankees. The Brooklyn Dodgers didn’t factor into their Bronx upbringing (although I now certainly have a fondness for LA Dodger blue), and the Mets were just never a big deal to them (although I believe that the 1969 Amazins were, well, amazing).

SHOT With this kind of pedigree, it’s not surprising that one of my favorite sports moments involved two New York baseball teams — the historic 1951 Bobby Thomson home run that brought the Giants from behind in the bottom of the ninth (down 4-2) to a walk-off win (5-4) against the Dodgers for the National League pennant. What makes that moment so indelible is the broadcast by Russ Hodges (listen and watch here).

Anyone with even a hint of a love of sports will appreciate Hodges’ unadulterated joy as soon as he heard the crack of Thomson’s bat (the “shot heard ’round the world”) and knew what it meant. And his ecstatic  “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!” has defined for generations what it means to come from behind and win — and how that kind of victory is often the sweetest.

A moment like that can make believers of us all. Batter up.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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sample simple

Posted by cgcopy on January 7, 2013 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

imagesIn this world where even Type A personalities can feel left behind, the idea of achieving perfection – or anything in that neighborhood – is daunting at best. Ergo the epiphany that came to me while engaging in the very unglamorous act of painting our kitchen: a simple enough task, perfectly done, can bring pleasure, satisfaction, and order.

It used to be that there was time to be good, work up to better, and finally arrive at best, confidence and competition securely in place. Now, however, reaching “better than best” at warp speed has become our new global pastime. Understandable why you might want to call “check please,” retreat, and surround yourself with mac & cheese and non-stop episodes of I Love Lucy.

Or you can seek perfection in simplicity. The perfectly reorganized junk drawer (or garage or desktop) can actually help reorganize
220px-BandWyour mindset. That perfectly rearranged bookshelf (in my case, by color of the binding) can make you smile. And that black and white cookie eaten perfectly (either alternating bites between vanilla and chocolate or getting a little of each in every bite) can make an otherwise blah day a little brighter.

Small actions. Small victories. Small joys. Perfect.

© 2013 Claudia Grossman

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beyond living on their hair

Posted by cgcopy on December 27, 2012 in music, searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

ic,x350,iphone5_deflector-2When it comes to music, I grew up on WABC-AM Top 40 (Harry Harrison and Cousin Brucie, anyone?). Carole King was my goddess in junior high. And as un-hip as it may sound, in high school, I loved listening to Jim Croce (my heart broke when his plane crashed), CSNY, Aztec Two-Step, James Taylor, Phoebe Snow. College brought more artists who live on my iPod today — Billy Joel (I’d still go see him anytime, anywhere), Bruce Springsteen (do I really need to explain why), the Eagles, Dan Fogelberg (hey, my iPod, my choices). But fairly new to my listening roster (and as much a surprise to me in my 50s as the discovery that I love blue-collar crime dramas like Blue Bloods, The Departed and The Town) is Jersey’s own Bon Jovi.

These guys blipped onto my radar with the release of their countrified single, Who Says You Can’t Go Home (did I mention that I’m also a big country music fan?). That was followed by their MTV Unplugged performance, during which they played most of their big hits — but instead of loud and fast, we’re talking jazzy and slow. Totally intoxicating. The highlight was Jon Bon Jovi singing Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. Truly a religious experience for anyone who worships music. (Watch and listen here.)

About four years ago, B. took me to a Bon Jovi concert for my 50th birthday, and I got to hear all those hits full blast. There were imageslots of screaming women in the audience (including 50-somethings with Bon Jovi tramp stamps  — really?), lots of video screens and lighting effects, and lots of Jon and Richie dressed like glitzy rock and roll stars (minus the big ’80s hair). And it was all amazing.

But for me, the most unforgettable part of the show was the final encore, when it was just Jon in a single spotlight, dressed in jeans and a faded red t-shirt, singing Hallelujah. Perfection.

Guess who’s coming to LA this spring? Hallelujah, indeed.

 

 

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

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