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baby steps

Posted by cgcopy on October 3, 2012 in finding the funny, movies

With the idea of finding something new and fun to do (and after having watched Dirty Dancing for like the millionth or so time), I signed us up for swing-dance lessons (non-dirty dancing, but it looked like fun anyway). Yes, B. was agreeable; no, neither of us was quite prepared for what awaited us in yonder studio.

All started well. The dance instructor had us stand in a circle across from our partners (who were in an outer circle) to teach us beginning footwork, from the point of view of the person leading (think Fred) and the person following (think Ginger). After that, we joined our partners and learned the proper way to hold onto each other (a là Johnny Castle and Baby — “this is your dance space, this is my dance space”).

And then music, and 1 -2 , angle back, cross, turn, STOP — CHANGE PARTNERS. Huh? We were instructed to move on to a new partner for the next segment of the lesson, and then again for the next, and so on through the evening.

I think I danced with B. twice. And 20 other partners the other 20 times.

The reason we were doing this? “You need to learn how to dance with different people, because you never know when you may have to.” Seriously? How many  times do you find yourself in a dance emergency (“OMG, I wish I’d danced with strangers in dance class — how will I survive dancing with someone’s Uncle Sol at little Tiffany’s bat mitzvah?”).

The one person with whom I plan on doing 99.9% of my dancing for as long as my legs hold out is the person I signed up for the class with. He’s the one I need to learn with. He’s also the person I want holding me and smiling down into my eyes (or grimacing, depending on whether I mistake his foot for the floor). We’re taking this class together because we want to spend time together (no offense to the 20 other partners, but, no, I don’t want your sweaty hand in mine or on the middle of my back. Eww. Just eww.).

B. and I lasted only two of the eight sessions, because it just wasn’t fun. But it wasn’t a total loss. We took the steps we learned and now dance whenever the mood strikes. In our kitchen with the music turned up (My Girl by the Temptations is a fave). And after a couple of glasses of wine, the lift (ill-advised) even seems like a possibility.

Time of our life.

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

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you say neurotic, I say erotic, let’s call the whole thing off

Posted by cgcopy on September 30, 2012 in it's life

I once had a friend say that the attraction between my husband and me was based on the fact that we tend to freak each other out. “What drew you to each other,” she painstakingly explained, “is that you work each other up and stress each other out. Your stress feeds off his and his off yours. And that is the secret to your attraction.”

No, really. Because I thought it was the bond, the willingness to communicate, the respect, the support, the passion.

Truth time. Do we work each other up? We do. Are we genetically predisposed to doing that? We are. (Add one Jewish mother each to the equation and let’s face it, no matter how much therapy you may go through, ain’t nothing going to change those genetics.) Are we neurotic? Are you kidding?

On the other hand, are we each other’s biggest cheerleader, best friend, unconditional love, and greatest source of laughter? Without a doubt. Is there anyone else out there with whom either of us feels so familiar that our wavelengths are waving in the same direction? Nope. And is coming home to the other after a tough day out in the world the greatest comfort each of us could wish for? Yup.

And there it is. If familiarity leads to comfort; if comfort leads to support; if support is the perfect environment for love and attraction to be nurtured and to grow … then checking the locks six times; obsessing about whether that thing in the rice was just a speck of pepper that only looked like it might have had wings; and being certain that an unanswered phone means the party on the other end is dead – that’s all kind of cute.

Let’s face it. Neurotic, erotic, narcotic, exotic. If it works for you, it works.

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

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play it again, Ilsa

Posted by cgcopy on September 27, 2012 in it's life

Our much beloved dog, Ilsa (arguably one of the world’s best dogs), had a glamorous namesake. She was named for Ilsa Lund, Ingrid Bergman’s character in Casablanca, who was the star-crossed lover of Humphrey Bogart’s Rick Blaine. One day a few years ago, while B. and I were watching Casablanca, for the millionth time at least, Ilsa (the dog) roamed from the living room to the water bowl in the kitchen to the front door and back again (the Australian shepherd in her was probably seeking something to herd). On one of those wanderings, she passed in front of the TV as Rick was uttering Ilsa (Lund’s) name. Ilsa the dog actually stopped at the sound of her name, did a double take at the TV screen as if to say, “You talkin’ to me?”, and then wandered off down the hall, just assuming we were all discussing her. No ego problems there.

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

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don’t hate him because he’s beautiful

Posted by cgcopy on September 25, 2012 in coloring outside the lines

Dear Emmy Awards (or may I call you Emmy?),

With all due respect and kudos for the winners selected this past Sunday (by the way, Julianne Moore was a particularly wonderful choice), I believe that an egregious oversight has been made. That, of course, would be Jon Hamm not winning for Leading Actor in a Drama.

You are fickle, Ms. Emmy, bestowing your favor on Mad Men for several years, but never once singling out Mr. Hamm for his incredible turn as Don Draper.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say that this is the act of a woman scorned — much like so many of the female characters in Mad Men — by the brilliant, handsome, smooth, uber-sexy, but, alas, uber-tortured, Mr. Draper. What woman wouldn’t feel as if she could be the one to bring peace to that enigma of a man? One part charming, one part loathing, Don Draper is the ultimate challenge.

Without a doubt, Mr. Hamm’s performance in the role is stellar. He becomes Don Draper the same way that Brando became Don Corleone or Peter Falk became Columbo. Each actor disappears totally into his role; who could imagine anyone else playing those characters?

But remember, Emmy, while Jon Hamm may play Don Draper seamlessly, he is, in fact, an actor. So however much you may despise Mr. Draper for his inability to treat women well, remember that your wrath is so strong precisely because of Mr. Hamm’s flawless portrayal.

So Emmy, what’s it to be? Why not let Jon Hamm take you home next year? I know he’ll put you on a pedestal (or at least a shelf) and for sure, he’ll love you in the morning. After all, he’s no Don Draper.

 

 

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

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falling for george

Posted by cgcopy on September 22, 2012 in coloring outside the lines

After having lived in LA now for almost 16 years, I have to admit that I love it, especially the sunshine, mild temps, and the fact that George Clooney, Kobe, and I all live in the same place (not quite, but sort of). One thing I do miss about NY, though, aside from the pizza, is the true change of seasons from summer into brilliant fall — the colors, the brisk air, the rosy cheeks.

And, let’s face it, the real need to wear a fabulous coat.

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

 

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good night, gracie

Posted by cgcopy on September 21, 2012 in searching for myself ... or for some chocolate

I’d like to go on record as saying that I disagree about the very first decision my parents made on my behalf. My name. Not to say that I dislike my name or that it hasn’t stood me well over the years. For example, no one else whom I went through elementary, junior, or senior high school with had the name “Claudia,” granting me a kind of singularity. And you haven’t lived until you’ve heard a divinely handsome Italian murmur that name (my name!) with his irresistible accent.

But knowing now what I couldn’t have known then, and not being able to name myself as a newborn, I think I would have chosen the name “Grace” instead. Not because of the “amazing Grace” connection but because I believe it truly is a name to live up to. Defined as a kind of elegance, “grace” brings to my mind kindness, courage, and a beauty in how one carries oneself and bears life’s successes and burdens. It is also a way of living the truth. (In my case, I can graciously live with the fact that I will never be a graceful athlete.)

Of course, the name conjures up princesses, fairytale weddings, and ball gowns. But more important, it belongs to those who work hard without complaint, who face life’s challenges with a positive attitude, who do not give in to self-pity, who believe in doing the right thing and then go out and do it.

In his wedding vows, my husband used the word grace in describing me (is it any wonder I fell in love with him?). I am still awed by that (way more than by the gorgeous Italian pronouncing my name) and still surprised. Because I do complain, my attitude often needs adjustment, I am known to throw the occasional pity party, and while I believe in doing the right thing, sometimes watching reruns of The Godfather may keep me from going out and doing it.

So maybe sticking with my given name is a better fit. Maybe trying to live up to “Grace” as a self-descriptor is a journey and something to be earned rather than merely a name someone else chooses for me.

And maybe the best proof that my husband is right (again) is what he says every night before we fall asleep: “Good night, Gracie.”

© 2012 Claudia Grossman

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