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prom-ises, promises

Posted by cgcopy on April 25, 2023 in heartfelt, life stages, love and relationships, pure joy

Ah, that rite of passage, the high school prom. Back in the 1970s, when I was a senior in high school, the prom (still known as “the” prom back then) was a very big deal, and not having been asked was an equally big deal, at least in my mind.

Seventeen magazine filled its pages with pictures of prom dresses, prom makeup, prom accessories, and tips for a wonderful prom night. The girls who were invited (this was a time before girls invited boys – oh my), were all abuzz about what they’d be wearing and when the limo was picking them up and how their dates’ tuxes (yes, boys still wore tuxes to the prom then) would match their gowns (and girls still wore gowns). Whispers and giggles about post-prom activities – midnight parties at the beach and the like – abounded.

I quickly learned that being voted Most Intellectual, while perhaps a nod to my academic prowess, certainly was not prom bait, and so, regretfully, I didn’t get to attend. I did go out that evening, though, with a bunch of other girls – all lovely, all smart, all more than perfectly acceptable prom picks – and I do remember us having a good time. But going to the prom is something I (still) wish I had done, another hopefully fond memory to have added to the bank.

To those of you familiar with the story of B. and me, yes, we had met by then, and yes, we went to neighboring high schools, but no, we weren’t dating at that time, and yes, he went to his prom. I’ve even seen the official prom picture – he in his powder-blue tux (hey, it was the ’70s), his date in a matching gown with corsage, of course. And even though he has admitted to me that he wishes now that he had asked me, I still flip past that photo pretty quickly in the photo album (remember those?).

He: “It would have been amazing if we’d gone to the prom together.”

Me: “Undoubtedly.”

He: “I just don’t get how no one asked you.”

Me: (shrugging) “Too shy, too bookish, too quiet.”

He: “But adorable.”

Me: (playfully dramatic sigh) “But not enough for you to ask me.”

He: (having the grace to blush a little) “We weren’t in touch very much then.”

Me: “That’s true. You’re off the hook.” (pause) “Besides, I’m not sure I would have wanted to be seen with you in that baby-blue tuxedo.”

He: “Maybe you didn’t get asked because you were too much of a smart ass?”

Me: (grinning) “Yeah, that too.”

One Saturday a few weeks ago, I arrived home after running some errands only to hear 1970s music playing the instant I opened the door – the band Chicago, specifically.

And there, of course, was my always-meant-to-be-if-things-had-been-different prom date. No baby-blue tux, thankfully, but looking irresistible in his sweats and Nikes with a huge smile on his face. “Want to dance?” he asked as Color My World (a song I probably hadn’t heard for decades) began. “I know it’s not the same as going to the prom but – ” His words were cut off by my running into his arms and giving him a huge hug.

I guess at some point I’d mentioned missing the prom, and B. had realized that, despite everything, I really, really needed – somewhere inside – to have been invited. His asking me to dance at that moment – to a song that evoked the prom in both of our minds – was the perfect touch.

“You know, I think I might still have my old high-school ring around here somewhere – if I can find it, do you want to wear it?” he joked.

I laughed so hard – the same way he’s been making me laugh since the day we met.

“Let’s dance, Prom Queen.”

After 25+ years of marriage, we were officially going steady.

Prom-ises kept.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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hits and missus

Posted by cgcopy on April 22, 2023 in empowerment, she's the one, strong women

There used to be a saying that some girls would go to college seeking a very specific, very important degree – their MRS. That’s right. The entire goal of achieving a higher education was to achieve a husband. And not just any husband, but a doctor, a lawyer, a banker – in short, a professional man who would be a good provider. Thankfully, those days are done (hopefully) and the reasons for women seeking to learn more is to enrich their minds, enrich their lives, and enrich society as a whole.

When choosing a major became much more important than choosing a china pattern, the world rocked a tiny bit on its axis in the direction of the better. And now, whether a woman opts to change her last name (I did); opts to use the Mrs. title (I didn’t – Ms. is more my style); or even opts to get married at all is beside the point as to what women can and do make of their lives. Check, check, and check.

But there are some women who, after adding the Mrs. to their name, have become cultural icons – big hits in their own right. Characters whose Mrs.-ness is so much a part of who they are that we have come to know them because of it and to love them despite the seemingly old-fashioned-ness of their use of the title. To wit:

You can’t talk about Mrs. in the movies without talking about Anne Bancroft as Mrs. Robinson in The Graduate. The ultimate seductress, with her 1960s frosted hair, worldly air, and dangling cigarette, Mrs. Robinson is such a force of nature that new college graduate Benjamin Braddock (Dustin Hoffman) never stood a chance. The fact that she was a friend of his parents only added to her forbidden allure. Of course, after educating him in the ways of her world, Mrs. Robinson is soon replaced in his amorous pursuits by her stunning daughter Elaine (Katharine Ross), who then leaves her good-provider fiancé at the altar for hapless Benjamin. But it’s Mrs. Robinson whom we all think of when the movie comes to mind. Here’s to you, ma’am.

Then there’s the opposite of Mrs. Robinson in the strong, brave, and nurturing Mrs. Miniver, played by Greer Garson in the movie of the same name (her Oscar-winning role). A wonderful woman who loves her family dearly, Mrs. Miniver is the essence of courage as she helps guide them through the ravages of World War II England. Despite the terrible hardships (including her son being called to serve and the loss of her daughter-in-law to an air raid); despite having to manage by herself when her husband is called to Dunkirk; despite having to face a fallen enemy pilot alone in her own home – she survives it all and shines, for her family and her country. Given that the movie came out in 1942, while the war still raged on, the name Mrs. Miniver became a badge of courage at a time when it was much needed. Best performance, indeed.

And finally, there’s The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, starring Rachel Brosnahan as the indefatigable Midge Maisel. Beginning as a much pampered Upper West Side wife and mother, Mrs. M. soon comes to realize (after her husband’s failed attempts at stand-up comedy) that she, herself, is the comic genius in the family. When they split up because of his cheating, she takes to the stage unexpectedly (keeping the Mrs. Maisel name), earning the laughs and audience appreciation that he never could. Her rise to success doing stand-up in a world where women in that field were incredibly few and far between is beyond impressive. Her cutting-edge humor – irreverent enough to land her in jail for both subject matter and language – is smart, original, and the key to her success. In a world where Lenny Bruce and Mort Sahl broke through with the thinking-person’s style of stand-up, Mrs. Maisel’s talent and determination, her quick mind, and her ability to make a place for herself in the same spotlight is nothing short of, well, marvelous.

Can’t miss.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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gidget goes birthday

Posted by cgcopy on March 28, 2023 in circling the sun, little bits of joy

As another birthday is here (and this one is certainly a milestone – how did 65 happen?), I find myself remembering birthdays from the past. The ones at college, celebrating with friends and pizza. The ones as a working person in New York City, marked by shared-March-birthday lunches with co-workers and evening cocktails with confidants. The one where B. and I reconnected long-distance after years of having not seen each other (he got so many points for remembering the date).

Today, though, a childhood birthday comes to mind. Like many of my birthday parties as a little girl, this one – for my fifth or sixth birthday, I don’t recall – took place in the finished basement of my childhood home. All the little kids from my kindergarten or first-grade class were invited. My mother, a hostess extraordinaire when it came to planning parties, and my dad, who just loved entertaining, often planned a themed birthday party for me. This one was no exception – this one was themed around Hawaii.

Visiting Hawaii back then was still uncommon; it was still seen as a paradise most grown-ups in my New York suburban neighborhood only daydreamed about. And my parents were two of them. So Hawaii it was.

They spent hours decorating the basement, turning it into a vision of the islands. My dad procured 1960s now-vintage, then-current airline posters promoting Hawaii as a vacation destination – big, bold, stylized graphics of surfers riding enormous waves, of volcanoes, of Waikiki Beach, of hula dancers, of beautiful, then-called stewardesses wearing smart, now-retro uniforms accessorized with leis. There were beach balls placed around the big room, some hula hoops, lots of balloons, and a Happy Birthday wall banner. My dad wore a Hawaiian shirt and had his always-present Brownie camera around his neck, ready to capture the big moments.

My mom went all out with food and table décor. There were plastic leis and party hats at each place setting and a tablecloth, plates, and cups all designed with images of hula dancers and palm trees. She baked a cake in the shape of a tropical flower (to this day, I still cannot figure out how she did it – I think it was a round cake surrounded by rows of cupcakes cut in half, the halves forming petals around the center) covered with sweet pink frosting and a hand-lettered Happy Birthday with my name in darker pink icing.

There were tiny, kid-sized ukuleles for the boys and tie-on grass skirts – made of bright green “grass” streamers – for the girls. (Remember, this was the early 1960s, when boys’ and girls’ toys often differed.)

And the food! “Pigs in blankets” (mini hot dogs in pastry dough) replaced the traditional luau roast pig, with ketchup subbing in for poi. There were pineapple chunks and mini marshmallows on tropical-colored plastic skewers; potato chips in Hawaiian print bowls; and soda in bottles festooned with tiny leis. There were goodie bags too, each holding a wealth of treasures – a postcard of Hawaii, shell necklaces for the girls, baseball cards for the boys (okay, the Hawaii theme fell apart there), a handful of wrapped candies, a small box of crayons. But that wasn’t all.

The pièce de résistance was a movie. After the requisite party games (“Pin the coconut on the palm tree!”) but before the requisite blowing-out-the-candles and unwrapping-the-presents ceremonies, there was a real movie on a real projector shown on a real stand-up screen. My dad, a film editor, had connections in the industry who lent him movies (on reels!) from time to time, usually films that were a couple of years old. And this time, the movie was – wait for it – Gidget Goes Hawaiian, a 1961 film about the beach-blanket-bingo adventures of teenage surfer girl Gidget, her main crush, Moondoggie, and all their friends on the beaches of Hawaii. The plot, such as it was, didn’t matter to a bunch of little kids – we all loved watching Gidget and company as they rode the waves and danced on the beach (the falling-in-love part was lost on us).

And me. I got to wear a crown on my head that said Birthday Girl. I got to open presents and be sung to and be served the first piece of cake (the one with my name on it).

On that one day, I was the girl whose daddy had brought home a movie (a movie! at home!) and whose mom had made the most beautiful cake in the world. I was the girl who hung out with Gidget (she was on the screen, sure, but still). I was the birthday princess.

Aloha indeed.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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who scent you?

Posted by cgcopy on March 17, 2023 in heartfelt, little bits of joy

When it comes to the power of our memories, it seems that our sense of scent is a sure way to find our way home, so to speak. Music can take us there; old photos, certainly; even the taste of a once-forgotten, now-remembered food. But scent seems to surprise us more, perhaps because it wafts our way from virtually nowhere, leaving an indelible impression and stirring up moments from our past in one brilliant instant.

To wit:

The scent of cedar chips always evokes a memory of mine of college. In the spring, specifically; just before graduation. The small New England school I went to was laid out with an upper and lower campus, the requisite ivy-covered buildings, a quad (of course), and a series of lawns and hills dotted with trees that displayed all the colors of fall and offered various shades of pink and white petals in the spring. After the long, cold, windy winters (don’t let anyone tell you that Boston is not windy), the landscaping crew would fill the beds of these trees with sweet-smelling cedar chips. What makes that spring stand out in my mind is that there was a completely unseasonable, unreasonable snow shower in May during finals week. Huge, cottony snowflakes that looked as if they’d been cut from paper, falling amid the blossoms and covering the ground with a delicate but fluffy blanket that was gone in a few hours.

I guess it was that unexplainable event on such a spring day that made the scent of those cedar chips so wonderfully memorable. These days, whenever I walk through the cedar ground cover at a local public garden, the scent brings me right back to that campus. In my mind’s eye, I see the preparations being made for graduation and the students rushing to and from final exams; I hear the exclamations of surprise and delight at the opportunity to dance in the snowflakes at this unaccustomed time; and I see myself looking toward the future, both intimidated and eager.

Or the aromas of a Jewish deli. If you’re someone who grew up going to such a deli, you’re very familiar with the tantalizing scents that greet you from the moment you walk in. Hot pastrami and corned beef; golden potato knishes; homemade matzoh ball soup; fresh rye bread. While all of this always makes me hungry, there’s a deeper reaction, too. All I need to do is get a whiff, and I’m whisked back to a small deli near where I grew up, where my father would take me every so often on a Saturday for lunch. It was his time to share just with me, when he would turn all of his attention to what I was feeling. To helping me to get past my shyness; to encouraging me to dream about becoming a writer; to making me laugh away my fears about life with silly jokes or song lyrics he’d make up for the two of us to sing; to letting me know how loved and cherished I was. He’d order the pastrami; I’d order the matzoh ball soup. Those aromas always transport me back to those Saturday mornings, no matter where the present deli may be.

And then there’s the scent of perfume. I remember a mirrored tray on my mom’s dresser holding beautiful bottles of classic perfumes. No matter how ordinary the day or her plans for it, she always dabbed or sprayed on fragrance before she got started. Over the years, her collection grew and her tastes changed but there was always a bottle or two of perfume or eau de toilette at her fingertips. For the last 20 years or so of her life, she only wore White Diamonds (the fragrance inspired by Elizabeth Taylor) and it became her signature. To this day, on the rare occasions when a hint of White Diamonds crosses my path, I immediately feel my mom’s presence. I remember our hugs, and the scent surrounding me, as if it were part of her. In my mind – and heart – the two are inseparable.

Luminescent.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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i scream, you scream

Posted by cgcopy on March 14, 2023 in no really - what?, picking up pizza

It’s not unusual for two born-and-bred New Yorkers to go out of their way for the perfect slice of pizza; when you live in New York City, that can be as close as the next block. Any block. In LA, however, it’s not as simple – or as close. And when you find it – the pizza and the place – you’re willing to brave the traffic to get there. After all, it’s pizza we’re talking about here.

Such is the case with B. and me. We’ve found our idea of pizza heaven (that is, pizza that tastes exactly the way it does in NY) – the only catch being that the place is about a 45-minute drive in LA traffic. (There is a place just a few blocks away with pizza good enough for a quick takeout or delivery, but, if we’re talking world class, we’ve gotta get in the car and drive). This past Saturday at lunchtime was one of those times when we happily – and hungrily – went to grab some slices.

This pizza place is low key, opened by two New Yorkers decades ago, and proud of its no-fuss atmosphere. With subway tiles on the floor; a handwritten, hard-to-read specials board out on the sidewalk; and the best hot pizza slices brought over on paper plates, it is worth the trip. You place your order at the counter and you pay before you leave. And somehow the guys working there manage to remember everything everyone orders. Spaghetti and meatballs is a frequent daily special (garlic bread or knots included) and cans of soda fill the cold case. There’s always a TV on playing baseball or basketball and there’s always a bunch of customers seated at the assortment of small mismatched tables or at the counter. It’s absolutely nothing fancy but the pizza is absolutely nothing short of amazing.

So. There we were on Saturday, coming in from the drizzle to all the mouthwatering aromas that only a great pizza place can offer. We placed our order, grabbed our favorite table (vintage white painted metal top with a red floral pattern) and got ready to enjoy. Until.

Like a tornado bursting through the front door came eight boys, probably around 11 years old, six dads (old enough to know better), and one mom, looking ready to take on the task of managing everyone. The thing that struck me first about the kids, aside from their matching soccer shirts, was the magnitude of sound that accompanied them. Pure, unadulterated screaming at each other at the top of their lungs. Not speaking loudly. Not talking over each other to be heard. Just outright screaming their conversations. And their demands.

They screamed that they wanted cheese pizza; they changed their minds and wanted pepperoni; they changed their minds again and wanted both. They screamed for spaghetti and meatballs, for wings, for soda, soda, soda. They screamed at the counterman to change the TV to soccer (he did not); they screamed at the mother to hurry up and bring over the plate of fries. (She did – no saying “no” to these little princes. And, apparently, no saying “please” on their part. “Thank you” was a completely unknown concept.) Once the fries arrived, the boys caused it to snow with the parmesan-cheese shaker and the salt shaker, covering the potatoes and the table with a mountain of both. Not to eat. Just because. It was enough to make you, well, you know.

They found the New York Post on the counter (part of the genuine New York experience, I guess) and pounced on it. Literally. I was about to give them credit for expressing interest in an actual newspaper until they threw the pages all over the place just for fun. One kid who looked like he wanted to read the sports section had it taken away by two other little darlings who then wadded it up for an impromptu game of fungo, using their fork handles (whose idea was it to give tween age boys metal silverware?) as impromptu bats.

Through all the noise, B. and I could barely hear each other speak. In an effort at humor, he traced four letters (no, not those four) on the table top with his fingertip – T-I-V-E. When I shook my head, not understanding, he gave me the first word: This. I got it and the sarcasm immediately – This Is Very Enjoyable. Not really.

And then – silence. Absolute quiet. It seemed that the food had arrived and the mob was too busy eating to scream. Or even utter a sound. For just the eight small boys at their own table, there were four extra-large pizzas, four gigantic platters of wings (each one enough to serve eight people, according to the menu), four overflowing plates piled high with garlic bread. Plenty of cans of full-sugar soda dotted the table to wash it all down.

I’m not sure what surprised me most – the sudden silence after the tumult or the amount of food on their table. “They just finished playing two games of soccer,” the mom explained as she walked past after checking on the horde. “They expended a lot of energy.”

I guess so. I get that not being parents means that B. and I haven’t dealt with the post-Saturday-morning-sports feeding frenzy. Although B. played weekend sports as a kid, I’m pretty confident that he and his buddies didn’t cause the unmitigated uproar that these kids did. Or that his parents would have been okay with it.

But it wasn’t the enthusiasm, the excitement, or the uncontained joy of being a kid that bothered me. Nor was it the overflowing energy that made sitting quietly impossible. I get that kids are kids and that if you want to eat your pizza in a quiet room you need to order in. It was the spoiled brattiness that got to me. The ordering the servers around. The screaming for what they wanted and demanding it “right now!” The tearing up of the New York Post (not that I don’t think it’s a rag, but it’s not your property to destroy).

Fortunately, our pizza saved the day (as only good pizza can). That and the fact that the hungry monsters had calmed down considerably.

As we got up to pay and leave, I noticed a small sign leaning against the window sill adjacent to our table: “Please keep your kids from screaming,” it read. Seriously. Seems like that one was neither seen nor heard.

Lesson learned? If you want a side of peace with your pizza, show up a couple of hours after practice is over.

Sign of the times.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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circle this

Posted by cgcopy on March 1, 2023 in circling the sun, it's life

There is something about the idea of a circle that I find hugely comforting. Whether it’s the circle of love and commitment symbolic to a wedding ring; the warmth and support that come from having a circle (no matter how small) of dear friends; or the eye-pleasing joy that comes from viewing a circle of trees, of children playing, or of a toe-drawn pattern in the wet sand – circles complete us and lend us strength.

“The beauty of circles is that they go around endlessly, joining people, generations, lifetimes. Sometimes the connection is seamless; sometimes surprising; and many times, magical” – that is my description of circles in the prologue to my novel, about women empowering each other through their art, and it is one that I believe in completely.

To wit:

Quilting circles, sewing circles, knitting circles. Whenever we gather in a group to create something beautiful, whether it is a singular effort like a quilt; or individual projects like sweaters, scarves, or afghans; or any kind of artisanal craft, the effect is far more than the impressive results at our fingertips. The bonding of hearts that emerges as we share not only advice and tips on the work we are doing (how do I pick up this dropped stitch?) but also the conversations about our lives (how do I mend this broken friendship?) – this is the real reward of these circles.

Book groups are their own kind of circle. Whether it’s New York Times bestsellers or classic novels, new-author offerings or the latest from a well-known writer, cutting-edge non-fiction or cookbooks, the books are just the vehicles for the connecting that happens. How many times is the book just a sidebar as we help ourselves to good food and get caught up in sharing our own personal stories? And how many times have you pretended to have read the book (life gets in the way sometimes) and went home feeling even more enriched than if you had read it? (To say nothing of those awesome nachos.)

And support circles. Grief circles. Drum circles. All shaped to make us feel part of a group. To allow us to be heard and listened to and to heal.

Maybe there’s a reason that pies are made in a circle, an endless ring of sweetness (until you take that last slice of lemon meringue that I was hoping for, thank you very much). Or why the hora is danced exuberantly at Jewish weddings (try to resist lifting elderly Aunt Shirley up in the chair, though – too risky). Or why we love donuts or Ferris wheels or hula hoops – all feel-good joys that make life better (although those hula hoops can be a real challenge).

Circles have no sharp edges – there is a fluidity and grace to them that offers a feeling of continuity, connection, and constancy. (Plus, they’re fun to draw. Interestingly, as a right-handed person, I can draw perfect circles only if I draw them counterclockwise, to my left. Go figure.)

Circular reasoning.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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obstacle course

Posted by cgcopy on February 23, 2023 in coloring outside the lines, creative compass, she's write

Standing in one’s own way is a skill I have developed to a high degree. Elevated to an art form, in fact. It’s the art of finding countless reasons why something I’d like to do won’t work. I’ve gotten so good at it, actually, that I can find a reason for almost anything. The result being – obviously – absolutely nothing. To wit:

Let’s start with something big. My writing. More to the point, writing my next book. While my first novel took about a year and a half (with most of it having been written in those last six months), my next one (politely called a work in progress) is just not coming to fruition. I’ve got three versions of it started – a sequel to the first book; a completely different story; and, third, a sequel that weaves the new story in. The needle on my creative compass seems to be circling aimlessly without finding due north. As a result, nothing is moving anywhere – as I tried to explain to B. the other day:

Me: “What’s the point in continuing to try when it will never become a New York Times bestseller?”

He: “Don’t think about it that way – you’re being way too hard on yourself. Just write to write. You love to write.”

Me: “Maybe I don’t. Have you thought of that?”

He: “No, because that doesn’t make sense. You know that.”

Me: (stubbornly) “But I can’t think of what to write.”

He: (reasonably) “But what you’ve read to me so far is great. And funny. Take the pressure off and let yourself enjoy the process.”

Me: (moaning dramatically) “But it won’t sell.” (clutching my head even more dramatically) “It’s useless!” (hands raised up in surrender) “I’m not really a writer – I’m an imposter!”

He: “Do you think you might be overreacting? I think you’re getting in your own way here.”

And scene.

Living with anxiety (and now with an overactive thyroid that feeds it) has only added to the fun. Being anxious makes focusing tough; not focusing makes novel-writing tough – so trying to find alternatives with which to divert myself until the novel-writing muse is ready to return (I don’t blame her for running away – I would too) has been an adventure.

There’s the electronic keyboard that B. gave me as a birthday present last year so that I could rediscover what I loved about playing the piano as a kid. That worked, until I suddenly became a perfectionist about it and now can’t play for more than a few minutes without becoming my own worst critic. My unease with hitting the wrong notes has kept me from hitting any.

Or the drawing markers I purchased in a myriad of shades to allow me to doodle away to my heart’s content. All it took was for B. to look at one doodle and ask, just out of curiosity, what it was, for me to shut the drawing pad, cap all the markers, and sulk off to mull over the fact that a) I was just no good at doodling (who’s no good at doodling?), and b) if I continued to doodle I’d use up all the ink in the markers and that would be that. As a result, that’s all she drew, folks.

Or baking. I love to bake. The problem that I’ve crafted to get in the way of anything making its way into the oven? If I bake it, we’ll eat it. We’ll eat too much of it. We’ll eat all of it. And then we’ll gain weight. And then where will we be? Not a problem, apparently, because the baking has left the building.

But I take a deep breath and I try.

So far this week, I’ve read the first four novels in the Nancy Drew series (the first ten were part of this year’s early birthday present from B.) and they have distracted and centered me enough to actually focus on how fun writing can be. Nancy is just as engaging now as when I was a kid, and the young-adult-targeted writing still holds up. Pure joy.

Number two. Yesterday I spent about 20 minutes just playing random songs from my piano songbook – ranging from Hallelujah to Let It Be to Moon River to Over the Rainbow – but with a new perspective. Yes, I made a ton of mistakes, but this time I tried something new – I sang along so loudly that I barely heard the wrong notes. Imagine that.

Next. Right after I post this, I plan to order a coloring book for adults (not an adult coloring book – that’s a whole other thing, as I embarrassingly discovered) to go with my gazillion markers. And who cares if I run out of, let’s say, the aqua shade? There’s teal, peacock blue, and azure to come to the rescue. And who cares if I color outside of the lines? In some realms, that’s considered even more creative.

The baking? If I freeze half immediately and forget about it, there will be much less collateral damage to our waistlines. Plus fun stuff waiting in the freezer if and when I remember it. Bon appétit.

Which leaves the novel. The book. The albatross in this scenario. The advice I’ve always given to people who want to write but don’t know where to start is this: write the joy. Write about what makes you happy, even if it’s just a few lines every day. And now it appears that I have to listen to myself (God knows I’ve talked B.’s ear off – both of them, in fact) and do that very thing.

But. Maybe that very thing has changed. Interestingly enough (to me at least) is that I don’t seem to get in my own way when it comes to writing this blog. I’m relaxed, the ideas flow, and I write. No obstacles. Maybe I should turn these posts into a book? Something to think about. And maybe a new course to follow until (or if ever) the novel falls into place. Because this makes me happy. Because this feels so natural. Because these are my real-life stories.

And because the joy here is in the storytelling – my storytelling. In creating the “once upon a time.” In being the one with the pixie dust.

There’s magic to be done. Out of my way.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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a little swing music

Posted by cgcopy on February 2, 2023 in finding the funny, no really - what?

Have you ever been invited to a party and realized that you were the only one who didn’t get the right invitation? Like when it’s a costume party and you didn’t know you were supposed to dress up (or worse, when you think that it’s a costume party and dress up only to find you’re the only one who looks ridiculous)? Or when it’s a surprise party and you give away the surprise to the guest of honor beforehand because the “Shhh!” was missing from your invitation? Or when it’s a friendly ask for dinner and to discuss a new business venture and you find it’s … well, it’s not what you think. To wit:

Many years ago, B. and I were invited to the home of a now-former colleague of mine for dinner with him and his wife. While I had worked with this colleague for a couple of years, he had left the company by then and had put out feelers to me, thinking that perhaps we might work together in a creative capacity (he on the design side, me on the writing side). I had always liked him, and both B. and I looked forward to what we expected would be a fun, congenial evening – good food, good company, good conversation. Good God, we had no idea what was to come.

First clue. Both Colleague and Mrs. Colleague had had quite a few Margaritas (he more than she) by the time we arrived and, after introductions (during which he pronounced me “stunning” – a bit over the top, no?), proceeded to take us on a tour of every room of their lovely home. Which was fine, except that we seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in their bedroom (it was a nice room, but still). We all stood around talking for at least a half hour, commenting on our host’s collection of cowboy boots, commenting on the artwork on the walls, commenting on … isn’t dinner ready yet?

From there we proceeded to sit down at the dinner table, B. and I on one side, Mr. and Mrs. Colleague on the other. There seemed to be a bit of choreography in their settling down, he across from me, she across from B. They had switched to wine by now while we, never big drinkers to begin with, sipped at a glass each.

Second clue. About halfway through the meal, Colleague excused himself to use the bathroom, leaving the three of us to chat. Now if you’ve ever met B., you know how enthusiastic and full of positive energy he can be, especially when talking about movies, or Springsteen, or teaching, or me. He has a passion for those things and it comes through all the time, to everyone he meets. However, when Mrs. Colleague said to him, “I love how passionate you are,” for some reason it just didn’t sit well with me. Don’t know what it was, call it intuition, but something just didn’t feel right.

Third clue. After Colleague returned to the table and sat down, I felt his leg graze mine. Assuming that it was an accidental bump, I moved my leg several inches to the side. His leg followed – with a prolonged caress of mine. At this point, I knew it was time to leave – the table, for sure, but the evening even more so. The only problem was that I had no way to communicate my thoughts to B. in a tactful manner. Darting my eyes frantically to and from the front door several times didn’t register. Jumping up, I offered to help clear the table.

After dinner we sat in their den for conversation about the above-referenced joint business venture, which was now so out of the question. Sitting as close to B. as I could without actually climbing onto his lap, I counted the moments until I could get us the hell out of there. When Mrs. Colleague came by with a tray of after-dinner drinks and leaned over to serve them, her chest practically toppling the glasses over, I knew it was time to hit the road.

“We’ve really got to go,” I said, nearly knocking the tray out of her hands and pulling B. toward the door. “Early morning work meeting tomorrow” (this was a Saturday night); “got to beat traffic” (at midnight?); “have to pay the babysitter” (we have no kids) – whatever it took, whatever I had to say, it was time to say good night.

On the way home, we were both quieter than usual until B. spoke up.

He: I’m not sure how to say this. You know I would never stand in the way of your growing your career, but I don’t think that going into business with that guy is the right move.

Me: (relieved that I didn’t have to be the one to bring it up) Really? Why?

He: (looking distinctly uncomfortable) Remember when we were sitting at the dinner table and he left to use the bathroom?

Me: (nodding)

He: Well, his wife took off her shoe and put her bare foot in my lap.

Me: WHAT?

He: At first I thought maybe she miscalculated and meant to rest it on the wooden rail under the table. But when I moved my chair back so that her foot was out of my lap, she moved her chair forward and put her foot back.

Me: (shaking my head in disbelief) Then what?

He: Then I moved my chair back quite a bit and her foot dropped to the floor.

Me: Oh my God. Well, that’s going to make this easier to tell you.

He: (eyebrows raised)

Me: When he sat back down at the table, his leg brushed mine. And when I moved mine out of the way, he moved his, too, and gave me a major leg massage. That’s why I grabbed my plate and got up to clear. What’s with the two of them playing footsie?

He: (thinking for a moment and then cracking up) I got it – they’re swingers!

Me: WHAT?

He: Swingers! They were trying to –

Me: I get it, I get it. Whoa.

He: (shrugging) Not our thing, but if it works for them … whatever. (pause) What could possibly have given them the impression that we’d be interested in that?

Me: Guess we’re too adorable for our own good.

Swing shift.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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fancy schmancy delancey

Posted by cgcopy on January 21, 2023 in love and relationships, movies

There’s a quiet little movie from 1988 that I absolutely love, although it probably didn’t pull in big numbers at the box office and you may not even have heard of it. Crossing Delancey. To me, it’s a sweet little love story with a basic plot. Girl meets boy; girl is pursued by boy; girl thinks boy isn’t smart enough / ambitious enough / sophisticated enough; boy goes his own way, proving her wrong; girl pursues boy before it is too late; girl and boy fall in love. The end.

The film is set in New York – largely in the Lower East Side of Manhattan (Delancey Street) – where Isabel (played by Amy Irving), frequently visits her elderly, meddling Jewish grandmother. On one such visit, Isabel discovers that, without her knowledge or assent, she has been “matched” (no, not by Tinder – by an old-fashioned matchmaker) with Sam (Peter Riegert), an attractive and truly good man. The problem for Izzie? Sam sells pickles for a living. Sure, he owns the business, but the pickles part just doesn’t work for her. (Did I mention that Isabel works for a highbrow, uptown bookseller and pals around with the hoity toity of New York City’s literati?)

Of course, eventually she sees the light and realizes that well-educated, well-read, well-dressed Sam is the perfect match for her and that she has been, well, there’s no other way to say it, acting way too big for her britches (or her perfectly imperfect, arty ’80s wardrobe).

The charm of the movie lies in Sam – his quiet, unexpected sense of humor; his absolute kindness and decency; the respect with which he treats Isabel. To say nothing of the fact that he smells of vanilla because he soaks his hands in it to rid them of the scent of pickles.

Which brings me to the subject of good guys in the movies. Characters who become swoon-worthy because they are so decent and just plain nice. Who win the leading lady not necessarily because of good looks but because of their good acts. Who offer substance versus flash.

Characters who put the “men” in “mensch.” To wit:

Steve Martin in It’s Complicated. A vulnerable, sweet-with-a-capital-S, smart, and good-natured architect whose heart is still wounded from a divorce, Martin’s character, Adam, steals the heart of Meryl Streep’s character, Jane (also sweet, also smart, also vulnerable and a highly successful entrepreneur) – luring her away from the arms of her selfish (albeit rich and Porsche-driving) ex-husband. Not complicated at all.

Jack Black in The Holiday. An absolute sweetheart of a movie-score composer, Black’s character, Miles, is the good friend that Kate Winslet’s Iris needs after being so mistreated by her bottom dweller of a non-committal, cheating, sometimes-boyfriend, Jasper (who gets engaged but continues to string Iris along until she says enough is enough). Adorable and adoring, generous and generally a gem, Miles unbreaks Iris’s heart by giving her his heart, wrapped in a big red bow.

Colin Firth in Bridget Jones’s Diary. It’s hard not to expect that Mark Darcy (echoing the Mr. Darcy of Jane Austen’s Pride & Prejudice) will win the day, but things don’t go well at first. Held in not-so-high esteem by everyone’s favorite can’t-get-her-act-together heroine, Bridget (Renée Zellweger), Mark is the underdog against the devastatingly handsome and naughty Daniel (Hugh Grant), whom Bridget has set her sights on. But Daniel turns out to be the dirty dog we knew he would be (no offense to dogs) and Bridget finally sees that Mark is the one for her – solid, dependable, distinguished, romantic. And a great kisser. Dear Diary.

Simply put, fancy that.

©2023 Claudia Grossman

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she sells seashells

Posted by cgcopy on January 13, 2023 in a writer's life, creative inspiration

Many of you may know of my enchantment with mermaids and how they are the inspiration for my first novel, The Mermaid Mahjong Circle. What I have not shared previously, though, is this account from my childhood that, along with a myriad of storybooks and their illustrations, has made mermaids forever magic to me.

Living on a coast, whether it be the East or the West, has been a constant for me, meaning that the beauty of a beach has never been far away. And while I’m not a swimmer, a beach stroll, be it during a peaceful sunrise on Cape Cod or a splendiferous sunset in Santa Barbara, has always been a privilege I have never taken lightly. Few joys can match the perfection of a fall afternoon strolling on a deserted Long Island beach, snuggled into a scarf to keep out the chill, taking sips of hot chocolate or hot apple cider to stay warm. Or the absolute pleasure of that first bite of a homemade sandwich on a brilliant July beach day in Half Moon Bay – simple fare tasting so special because of the salt air and even the few grains of sand adding a distinctive summertime crunch. Or the seashells.

Seashells have always seemed like storybooks to me. In sun-faded, sea-washed shades of ivory and rose, pale pink and soft peach, swirled with violet and caramel tones, silver and mauve, they hold the stories of the creatures that once inhabited them, of the ocean waves that have tossed them, and of the beaches on which they have been strewn, often to be picked up again and again. Scallops and whelks, lady slippers and clam shells, sand dollars and turbo shells – all hand-colored by nature, some pearled, others matte, still others translucent from time. These are the pieces of magic, of make-believe, of imagination that enhance every beach outing for me and have forever.

Every beach walk always brings to mind a memory of a little girl on a Cape Cod beach back when I was young. I saw her one day – a delicate sprite – sitting nearby on the beach with a sign reading, “Fresh Found Seashells – 10 Cents Each!” She had all of her seashells spread in perfect concentric circles on the sand around her as she waited for beachgoers to stop for a moment and browse. Her long hair curled all the way down her back and mixed with the shells as she sat there, and her eyes, an unusual blue-gray-green, shifted in color the same way the ocean changes color as the clouds skirt above it. She seemed almost to be a fairy child, practically glowing in the rays of sunlight that touched her, while pieces of sea glass and abalone, mixed in with the shells, added their glimmer to the setting.

I so wanted to approach her and look at the seashells she had gathered. But I was too shy, so I just watched from a few feet away. I thought it was curious that people passed by without stopping even though she made such a beautiful picture. It was almost as if she weren’t there at all but merely an ephemeral vision in the sand. At one point, she looked up from her shells and smiled at me, lifting one hand to beckon me over. Embarrassed at being caught staring, I quickly looked away.

Later that evening, when my mother was tucking me in for the night, I asked her about the girl selling shells. “There was no little girl selling shells,” she told me, puzzled. Neither did my father remember seeing her when I asked him about it as he turned out my bedroom light. “It must have been a dream,” he concluded. “All that sun made you drowsy and you fell asleep for a while on the blanket.”

A dream? Perhaps. Too much sun? Maybe. A figment of my imagination brought on by all the storybooks I loved and hoped one day to write? Could be. But one thing remains unexplained. The sweetly pink, perfectly scalloped seashell I found in my sand pail when I picked it up to take it to the beach the next morning.

I hadn’t put it there but I like to think that she had.

Magic indeed.

© 2023 Claudia Grossman

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