The Grateful Grinch

Christmas greetings to everyone! I know I've been absent for a while, but I've been out of sorts lately; feeling blue. The last few months have been busy with dance recitals, birthdays, Thanksgiving and Christmas preparations. One would think I would be bursting with glee and anticipation! I am happy that my parents and uncle are in town, and that my house is bustling with activity and music and good smells and Christmas bells. But I still feel like something is missing . . . Do you ever feel that way around Christmas, now that you're an adult?

I feel so fortunate and lucky to be employed with a well-paying job, and I know I don't do enough for others. Since we don't have kids, I always remind Frank that we should spend a little extra time and money on those that are less fortunate, throughout the year and not just at Christmastime. But I get busy and self-absorbed (I have to write my blog! I have to create our photo Christmas card! I'm getting too old to be in dance recitals!) and thoughts of charity slide unnoticed to the bottom  of my "To Do" list.

I did purchase a few goodies for the Toys for Tots donation box located outside my office. Every day I would peek in to see what other folks donated, imagining the joy on a tot's face when he or she received the Build-A-Bear or  G.I. Joe. One day I noticed my bag was missing. G.I. Joe and Mr. Bear were still in place, but my bag was gone. After contacting security and being interviewed, it was determined that (to put it not-so-gracefully) . . . someone stole my shit. I was bewildered that my act of charity had turned into someone else's act of larceny. In trying to keep with my humble Buddhist beginnings, I tried to imagine that the thief probably really admired my bag with building blocks and a magician set, and hopefully it was still given to a needy tot. Or they sold my wooden blocks on the black market and scored a nickel bag of grass to help celebrate peace on earth and good will toward men. Ho ho ho.

But my act of "charity" still felt weak and half-assed to me. It reminds me a line from George Michael's Praying For Time (which is a beautiful song - check it out) that goes:  

These are the days of the empty hand

Oh, you hold on to what you can

And charity is a coat

You wear twice a year

Charity is a coat you wear twice a year . . . How often have I given a few bags of my unwanted stuff to Goodwill, and tried to feel good about myself? Once I actually made the effort to look up a women's shelter in my area and drive my used clothes to their facility. It made me feel a little better, but I was still slapped in the face with how cozy my life really is. I don't think I should apologize for having a cozy life, and I'm sure as hell grateful for it. But I think I could do better.

A few weeks ago I drove into DC (instead of my usual Metro ride), so I had to run outside and plug the meter every two hours. I saw an expired meter next to mine, so I gave it an extra hour. I felt so good and proud of myself, until I noticed the handicapped permit hanging on the mirror. I'm pretty sure they don't ever have to pay for meters. I had just donated two dollars to the city for no reason at all.

Why doesn't the charity-buzz ever last?

That same week I called a local food shelter, ready to "adopt a family" for Christmas. You buy them all the fixings for a holiday meal and you drop it off at their house. You can meet them in person and see the gratitude in their eyes! I was finally going to get a real high from that charity dope I've heard so much about. I called the center, the receptionist could barely speak English (not so goodly), and I was informed that I was NOT allowed to donate.  Say wha'? She said, "You live in wrong zip code. You only donate if you live in Alexandria." Click. Sigh. Buzz kill.

Where's the magical feeling of Christmas?

I watch the news stories about regular people reaching out after disasters, and especially after the recent tragedy in Newtown, CT, and I feel  . . . left out.  Why didn't I think of driving three states away with my Jeep filled with stuffed bears and casserole? Why didn't I fly to New Jersey after Hurricane Sandy to help with the clean-up or to deliver clean water and hot meals? I don't know . . . I have a full time job and not a lot of vacation. I'm hoarding my vacation time so Frank and I can travel next year. I don't know . . . I would feel weird, like I was just trying to be in the spotlight and look all valiant and amazing with my charity skills. I don't know . . . maybe because I'm scared to look tragedy  in the face, stare that bitch down, and realize that I might only get a contact high from being involved in something larger than my faceless, comfortable tot donation.

I'm constantly amazed at the creativity and courage of people on t.v. or on the Facebook who jump in and lend a hand. Here I created an entire blog about doing good deeds for others, but I can't seem to lead by example. I spout from behind my computer about paying it forward and random acts of kindness . . . but maybe for the wrong reasons. Maybe it's more about the little things we do every day that matter, and we'll never know what kind of impact it made on someone.  I really like how my Christmas photo cards turned out this year. Maybe someone received my card and felt special and remembered. Perhaps the extra details I added when helping plan my office Christmas party made someone's day. What if I really did save that driver from getting a ticket on an expired meter? I'll never know.  And that's ok.

I really wanted to do something special to honor the victims of the Sandy Hook Elementary shooting.  However, I'm not one of those outwardly fuzzy people that goes to candlelight vigils or writes publicly on Facebook about my broken heart. One of my family's traditions, since  I grew up in New Mexico, is to line our sidewalk and driveway with luminarias on Christmas Eve. Many years ago our entire neighborhood would glow with these paper bag lanterns, and the effect was stunning. This year we're in Virginia, and we're going to surprise our neighbors with luminarias tonight. But there is more . . .

As I stood in my pajamas in my cold garage this morning, I taped a 27 names on 27 paper bags. As I read each name, I tried to recall what I knew about that person; that child or that educator, or that mother, as a way to honor his or her spirit on this Christmas Eve. It didn't give me a high. In fact, it gave me a low. But I felt connected to something, as I stood shivering on my oily, concrete floor in my slippers, and remembered the lives that were so inexplicably lost.  And tonight those names will glow along our sidewalk for everyone else to read and remember.

So this Christmas Eve, maybe I'm still a little blue. I realize I want be more involved my community helping others. Maybe I also miss my grandparents, because Christmas always feels a little sad and hollow without them. Maybe I'm still waiting for the magical feeling I think you only feel as a kid. Yes, I still believe in Santa Clause, but now I realize that he's probably got high cholesterol and arthritis and his belly really shouldn't shake like a bowl full of jelly, because that's just unhealthy. Although mine does too, just a little. Maybe that elusive feeling of Christmas-past is gone forever, and I have to find new ways to feel the joy and magic. So tonight, with my family, we'll light the candles to honor strangers we have never met, family we have lost, and new friends we have made. I suppose the magic is inside of us always, and it's up to us how we use it.

I just looked outside my window . . . and it's snowing. Maybe it's Grandma and Grandpa stopping by to say Merry Christmas. Pretty magical . . . don't you agree?

Until next year, with peace, gratitude and a little bit of Christmas magic.

Miss Minnesota

When my grandma died, I inherited her cedar chest and all of its contents.  I recently went through the treasures, and I discovered she had saved birthday, anniversary and sympathy cards, graduation programs, wedding invitations and embossed cocktail napkins, newspaper clippings of world events, prayer cards, obituaries, and letters from me, my mom, my grandpa, my uncles, and her best friend. She saved every greeting card I sent her, from the time I could barely scrawl my name until days before she died. I sat and gobbled up every bit of those letters and notes filled with teen-angst and love, and with updates about the weather, ballet recitals,  my garden and pet snakes.

I also read the notes that grandma and grandpa shared with each other over the years. There were married for 55 years in April, 2000. Grandpa died later that August. He was always such a warm and loving man, though I know he and my grandma had their moments, as any couple together that long would have. I heard them bicker and sigh at each other. But I mostly remember the kisses he would sneak up to steal, the back-rubs, the dancing, and of course, the laughing. But grandpa was pretty old-school. Although he loved to talk and socialize, I never pictured him expressing his emotions about love. Until I read the cards and letters.

He expressed his desire for the two of them to talk and make time to spend together, away from the t.v. shows and daily phone calls with relatives and doctors appointments. He told her he missed her (even though she was probably sitting in the easy chair next to his), that he was still in love with her, and he asked if they were still "going steady." I had no idea those thoughts even existed in his head. Grandma, however, was a little more hard to read. She could come across as crabby or withdrawn, when really she was just exceedingly shy or uncomfortable. Sometimes she was actually just crabby. And she did pick and nag at my grandpa quite a bit, which is something else I seem to have inherited, along with the cedar chest and 55 years worth of memories.

My grandma was never a soft, white haired old lady that just baked cookies and dismissively patted her grandchildren on the head while slipping a quarter into their grubby hands. When she felt comfortable around you, she could be quite feisty and opinionated. You could tell her comfort level by the way she used the following phrases:

1. Around strangers, mixed-company, or a more formal setting -  someone tells a joke, slips on a banana, or mentions the cost of gas is rising:

(Insert Minnesota accent) Grandma's reply, "Oh, for Pete's sake."

2. Around extended family or good friends, like at a family reunion or poker party - someone tells an off-colored joke, chokes on the stem of their Manhattan-soaked Maraschino cherry, or mentions that Elvis died of an overdose:

(Level of annoyance in tone is rising) Grandma's reply: "Oh, for God's sake."

3. Around her inner-circle (me, my mom, uncles, grandpa) -  someone tells a dirty joke, drops the pot roast on the floor, or mentions that Stefano DiMera is back from the dead and living in Salem:

(This is her version of WTF!!??) Grandma's reply: "Oh, for shit's sake."

I'm not kidding about Stefano. She actually threatened, on several occasions, to write a letter to that "stupid show" and tell them how dumb they were. And then she threatened to quit watching Days of Our Lives, after 30 years, because it was "crazy." The next day I would maybe ask if she wanted to go out for lunch or help clean up the pot roast off the floor, and she would say, "I can't! My show is on!"

Grandpa also had a favorite phrase that would change with the context of the story. See examples below:

1. You tell him something innocuous, like there was hail in Iowa earlier that day:

Grandpa's reply: "Well, I'll be . . . "

2. You tell him something unbelievable, like they just cancelled Bay Watch or the cost of gas is rising:

Grandpa's reply: "Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle."

3. Kirby Puckett didn't jump high enough to make the catch, or you dropped the pot roast on the floor:

Grandpa's reply: "Well, I'll be a son of a gun."

Whoa, Nelly. Such language.  

My grandma wasn't all opinions and feistiness. She was very protective of me, and blindly defended me when a friend or foe hurt my feelings or did me wrong. She screened my phone calls when I stupidly gave out my real number to weird boys. She nursed my hangovers with ginger ale and toast and soothing words, telling me it would be alright. She let me cry but didn't scold me when my mom and I would get into a fight. I was a challenging teenager, I'm sure, and I still don't know how she put up with me.

Most of the cards that I had written to my grandparents when I was young ended with, "I can't wait to see you at Christmas!" or "I can't wait to see you this summer!" That's how I spent my time missing them; always waiting until the next vacation at their house in St. Paul. I loved it there. I often dream about that house (filled with cousins, aunts and uncles), the seasons, the smell of the air, the coziness.

Sometimes even now, if it's chilly, I can snuggle under the covers and pretend I'm back up in their bedroom attic and it's snowing outside. There was nothing like waking up in the middle of the night to look out the window and see snowflakes swirling through the street lamp light, so silent and sparkly. And in the morning, more silence drifted over piles of perfect white. And I knew that Grandma was downstairs making breakfast and the grocery list for Christmas dinner, and that Grandpa would soon stomp his boots up the back porch and burst through the door with declarations like, " Jiminy Christmas! It's cold out there!"

I also yearned for my summer vacations at their house. It was a different feeling, those adolescent early years, as I waited on the porch swing, safe from mosquitoes behind the screen doors and windows. My skinny legs would stick to the flat vinyl swing cushion, and I would eat Pudding Pops or drink iced tea, and I would watch the neighbor boys toss the baseball to each other. Nothing to do but wait and watch. But I was content. And in the evenings we would sometimes drive to the Dairy Queen - the kind with the walk up window - and Grandma would get her dip cone and Grandpa would get a Peanut Buster Parfait. On the 4th of July we would take our treats and park on hill near the cathedral to watch the fireworks over the State Capitol.

I also loved the cool summer mornings when I would lay across their white chenille bedspread and watch the lace curtains heave and sigh from the open window overlooking the apple tree in the backyard. I could always smell the medley of grandma's Jaclyn Smith or Avon perfume mixed with Icy Hot muscle cream. I'm pretty sure my grandpa thought Icy Hot was an aphrodisiac. And I swear lately I can still smell my grandma's perfume in my bedroom. I guess that's why they call it Unforgettable.

We often spent summer weekends at my uncle's cabin in Nimrod (population 80), playing Uno cards or cribbage or marbles, fishing or floating on inner-tubes; and the aroma of Citronella and bug repellent and fresh cut grass lingered over our lazy, perfect Minnesota afternoons.

My entire life I claimed I missed Minnesota. I missed those wintery mornings or deep, humid days of summer vacation. I missed Como Zoo and the Frogtown Diner. I missed the Metrodome and Minnehaha Falls, the Victorian mansions on Summit Avenue, and walking to get Häagen-Dazs at Victoria Crossing. I missed sitting on the front porch in the summer twilight, hearing a cricket symphony. I missed gazing through the kitchen window and watching the cardinals eat from the suet feeder. I missed the squirrel (that grandpa named Rasputin), try to eat the suet as he swung wildly from the alleged squirrel-proof feeder. I missed Knödels with sauerkraut, Jell-O salad, cream-of-something hot dish, and pickles & olives.

Side note: Every time there was a family feast, everyone received a food assignment to bring to the party. I was usually assigned the pickles & olives, which is a HUGE part of any Minnesotan cornucopia. (And they had to be Gedney pickles. It's the Minnesota pickle. Look it up).  I eventually graduated to dinner rolls. I also preferred the fake jellied cranberries (the ones that keep the shape of the tin can when you dump them out), so I had to bring those along if I didn't want to eat the "real stuff." It was like BYOB for picky eaters. After I turned 30, I hosted my own dinner parties and didn't make anybody bring anything. But you can always count on me for pickles and olives. Otherwise, what kind of party would that be? For shit's sake.

I guess what I realize is that Minnesota will always be there. The seasons will still whirl and mesmerize with the delight of the first snow or the spring buds or the brisk, crunch of fall. But it's not Minnesota that I miss. It's them. They could have lived in Oregon or New Hampshire or even fictional Salem with the evil Stefano. It was my grandparents who made me love Minnesota. They WERE Minnesota. They were the zoo and the Dairy Queen and Kirby Puckett. They were the poker parties and the holidays and the hot dish. They were the picking and the nagging, sometimes. But mostly they were my comfort zone, my childhood, my champions, and my kindred spirits.

The three of us would watch movies or t.v. together. We watched Golden Girls and those two would laugh and cackle for a half an hour straight. I'm talking tears-in-your-eyes guffaws. I own the Golden Girls DVDs and watch them when I feel blue or sick. I still laugh out loud. But it's bittersweet, because I don't have my pals to share it with. Sometimes Sofia reminds me of my grandma. The way she cracks a joke and then looks sly about it. Usually the Golden Girls elicited "Oh, for God's sake!" from Grandma, as she was wiping the tears with her Kleenex. I also don't think they ever missed an episode (or re-run) of The Lawrence Welk Show. Grandpa liked Baywatch, but Grandma preferred Magnum, P.I. She thought Tom Selleck was a hunk.

Grandpa and I traded frog stuff with each other. We liked frog jokes and blonde jokes. Ribbit. Grandma used to forget my friend Danielle's name . . . and always called her "Delphinium." They sent flowers for every ballet recital. They knew the names of my friends (except Delphinium) and always asked about them. During my college years they hosted my college friends for dinners and sleepovers and free laundry sessions. They loved the Glenn Miller Band. They met on a blind date under the lions outside the Chicago library while Grandpa was still in the Navy during WWII. They raised three kids, had three grandkids, and three great-grandkids. My cousins would find refuge at my grandparents' house during their own tumultuous teen years. They were devout Catholics, but they were accepting of me and my mom as we wandered to discover our own faith and belief systems. They liked pie and cookies. They watched The Guiding Light and Paul Douglas on WCCO.   

My grandparents didn't have sophisticated palettes. They were meat and potatoes folks that came from hearty German families in Minnesota and Wisconsin. But they knew how to laugh and to make me feel loved. I keep discovering new surprises as I go through the treasure chest my grandma left to me. Each yellowed picture or clipping or card brings them so close I keep thinking they're in the next room, looking for the Kleenex box or fixing a bedtime snack (every night - like clockwork). But I want more. I'm searching for them, buried deep in the piles of memories. I need a hug from my grandma, and to hear her say, "It'll be ok, Tootsie." I need a new blonde joke from my grandpa. Why did the blonde have square boobs? Because she stuffed her blouse with the whole box of Kleenex!  (Kleenex was very important in our family, by the way. Right up there with pickles and Tom Selleck).

I own many of the pieces of my grandparents' furniture: the piano, grandma's dressing table from 1945, the stereo/record player from 1969, end tables, swivel chairs, the wedding crystal, photos, knickknacks, music boxes and hankies. But I don't need that stuff, and I don't need to be in Minnesota, to feel them around me all the time. I know they're with me - everywhere and every day - they're with me.

Maybe this blog piece didn't contain a social message about philanthropy or pet adoption or do-gooders. Maybe it was just about memories. Maybe I just needed to remind myself  that material possessions, letters and cards, or even places are great for helping preserve t hose memories - but the real heart comes from the folks you share all that stuff with. (A true Minnesotan always ends a sentence in a preposition).

Thank you, Grandma and Grandpa, for being those Minnesota memories that make me who I am. But son of a  gun, I sure do miss you guys. 

Until next time, with peace and gratitude. And a little bit of  hot dish.

. . . A Picasso or a Garfunkel?

I once took my grandparents to see the touring production of Show Boat when they came through St. Paul, Minnesota.  Grandpa had MS by that time, and he used a cane to walk. We had balcony seats, and it took him a while to amble to our front row overlooking the stage from above.  I will never forget when the actor, who played Joe, belted out "Ol' Man River, " and his amazing baritone reverberated throughout the theater. Goosebumps prickled up my entire body to the top of my head. I held my breath while he held the last, long note. And when he finished, and the audience went crazy,  my grandpa jumped to his feet, wobbled a bit, and clapped and hollered like he was at the '91 Twins World Series win (he was actually there - so he should know). My boo-boo was grabbed - big time. After that, if he was asked to name his favorite song, my Grandpa always said, "Well, I suppose 'Ol' Man River.' That's a good one. "  If you're ever browsing iTunes, check out William Warfield's original version of that classic. It's worth so much more than 99 cents.  

This blog piece is meant to be more than a plea to "support the arts." Lately I've been seeing and hearing works of magic that I never might have noticed before.  The way a DJ performs at beatmatching or scratching; turntablism is an art of its own.  The rhyme scheme, cadence, and intonation of a rapper MC. Old school break dance, poppin' and lockin', or  lyrical hip-hop.  These are expressions from the artists through their  brain and their bodies. When I see or hear of an up and coming artist who has the guts to get out there in the world, make some noise, and do their thing, I literally well up with tears, excitement, awe and a little bit of envy. I think it takes a great big set of marbles to put yourself out there, for all the world to critique (or ignore) and DO YOUR THING.  

I always give a buck or two to the musicians standing outside the Metro station. I've seen acoustic guitar guy, violin duo, harp lady (that's something to see, for sure), and awesome electric guitar guy (Rudy Rivera - check him out on YouTube!). There is also a  group of young men from a local university band that perform about once a week outside my train stop in the morning.  They are called Dupont Brass, and their Facebook page says they are " Howard University Music Students working to uplift the spirits of the people in Dupont Circle (Washington, DC)."

On my first week at my new job (mind you, I was highly emotional and feeling very alone), I emerged from the underground Metro station and was greeted with the final strains of "Pachelbel's Canon in D." Dupont Brass  then broke into a surprising rendition of "Hava Naglia."  I found myself choking back tears for the next few blocks. Why was I crying? Because in the midst of rush hour and dirty train car seats and pushy crowds, I hungrily stumbled upon this musical feast played with hope and passion by these talented guys on the street corner.  Please check them out on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/DupontBrass) or Twitter (@DuPontBrassHU). Thanks, guys, for always making me smile (or cry, depending on my mood that day).

My friend, Jerry, has had an interest in comics ever since I've known him. He currently sells collectible comics on his eBay store. I recently asked him who his favorite artists are and why; aesthetically speaking. He said,  "Picking a favorite artist is like picking a favorite movie. Too many to chose from. I like how Jim Lee draws Batman, Eric Basaldua & Adam Hughes draw women, Kenneth Rocafort uses dynamic color, Frank Miller creates atmosphere, Michael Turner drew Witchblade ... and I could go on and on."

Courtesy of Eric Basaldua

Of course when I think of comics I still remember fondly my Scrooge McDuck, Richie Rich and Archie & The Gang comics from when I was a kid. The comics Jerry is referring to are in a league of their own. A completely different world. I thought Betty and Veronica were a little risqué back in the day, with their booty shorts and cleavage drawn with one curved line in the middle of their v-neck crew. The comic ladies of today are the most colorful, bodacious, curvaceous creatures I've ever seen.  Check out this Grimm Fairy Tales comic book spin-off, a modern day Robyn Hood. Me-ow. For more info, check out Jerry's  eBay store at: www.3204auctions.com and Eric Basaldua's fan page at http://www.facebook.com/ericbasaldua.



Courtesy of Danielle Mastrion

Through my love of all things Beastie, I have discovered a New York City artist named Danielle Mastrion. She created the beautiful MCA tribute mural that can be seen at 5Pointz Aerosol Arts Center & Graffiti Museum in Queens, NY. I made the trek over from Manhattan to 5Pointz to see for myself, and was blown away at the color, detail, passion, and funk that goes into each of those special pieces. Danielle has been an artist her entire life, but only within the last four years has she started showcasing her work in world-wide live art competitions. Aside from these giant wall murals, she is also a painter, graphic designer, and photographer. A self-described "Jill -of-all -trades," she also completed a 12-foot high all brush-painted mural tribute to the Beastie Boys near the East Village of New York. Photos of this piece were featured in the NewYorkTimes.com as well as in RollingStone.com. This tribute to Notorious B.I.G. is crazy cool. I love her unexpected use of color and shading. I can't wait to see what else Danielle has in store for the world. Please check out Danielle's website at http://www.daniellemastrion.com/. 

Courtesy of Michell Lawlor/lucky17photography.com

Another local artist that inspires me is New Jersey native, Michelle Lawlor. I met her on the Beastie Boys fan tour in New York City in August. She was there to photograph and document our journey from strangers to friends, as well as our shared passion for a group of New York musicians that continue to rock our collective world. It turns out Michelle is a thriving young artist in her own right, with her own photography business, where she captures the energy and sweat of live rock concerts, creates artistic promos for the bands, and also does wedding and portraiture work. A snippet describing why she is a rock photographer appears on her website:



Courtesy of Michell Lawlor/lucky17photography.com



"I love rock and roll. It's as simple as that. . . . I believe watching someone play their instrument with all of their heart and soul is one of the most beautiful forms of human expression and is worthy of being documented. Honesty doesn't exist in many places in today's world, but I find it between fretboards, kick drums, and knotted-up cables." 

Damn. That's cool. I wish I'd written that. 

Michelle is a working artist. That means she's lucky enough to have found a passion, a niche, a hobby AND a job. Check out Michelle's portfolio at http://www.lucky17photography.com/and her blog at http://therocknrollpictureshow.com/. 

Honesty. Heart and soul. Passion. Beauty.  I think I see a trend here.

Not all of these artists have achieved the same amount of commercial success. But they are expressing themselves, creating, are involved in their communities, and are doing something to bring beauty into this world. Look around you. Take it all in. Where do you see beauty?

I recently met Venice Beach-based photographer Sunny Bak. She made a name for herself as a fashion photographer in New York in the early 80s. Aside from hanging out with super models, she also befriended a group of young punksters whom she met through a mutual friend. Sunny Bak and the Beastie Boys will be forever linked through her iconic images of the band that are still as relevant and recognizable today.   
  

Courtesy of Sunny Bak



I asked her if there is a weird feeling when you create art, and then you sell it. She told me there is nothing wrong with earning a living. We all need to eat. And if you have a talent that allows to express yourself AND you can feed yourself, then I guess you’re pretty lucky. 



Courtesy of Sunny Bak

Sunny was gracious enough to take the time and meet with me when  I purchased a few copies of her prints. Her sunny (pun intended) studio, doors and windows flung open wide to embrace the late-afternoon California rays, had a calming and centering effect on me. We talked about not dwelling on the past and not obsessing about the future. We talked about how it's often difficult to live in the moment, and we pondered how one is supposed to make plans to do or be something great. Then we agreed that sometimes you just have to do it. Don't think about it - do it. Sometimes our dreams will manifest themselves, right before our eyes, without stressing too much about it. Just do it. (I hope Nike doesn't come calling . . . ).  I told her I wanted to write a book one day. She said, "So, write it." And I said, "Well, I guess it ain't gonna write itself." Duh. Thank you, Sunny, for your time, your wisdom, the Corona, and for sharing a glimpse into your Beastie world. Please visit Sunny's website at: http://www.sunnybak.com. 

Courtesy  of My Mom

I have resigned myself to the fact I’ll never be a famous (or even working) painter, dancer, or 4th member of the Beastie Boys. But it’s possible I could earn my box o’ wine allowance by selling my photos or even writing a real book someday. My mom is an artist. Over the years she has completed beautiful oil, watercolor and charcoal paintings. She creates bone art, continually takes art classes, makes fancy bathtub Virgin Mary statues, and has had her poetry published in several anthologies. She may not make a living as an artist (she’s a retired nurse), but she is giving back to the universe in a positive and beautiful way. All of these artists are. Support them. Support these artists who have the guts and passion to put it all out there.

And if you have a desire deep within to create, to spread beauty and joy, whether through an Instagram photo or poem for a loved one, a mural, a dance, a new tattoo, a scrapbook or rap book, then just do it. 

And I'll leave you with this . . . When is the last time you were singing along with a song that you love so much - and you choke up and can't even get the words out? When you see something so beautiful your heart explodes with joy and tears spring to your eyes? Think about it. For me there are few moments that come to mind: 

• Singing "I Dreamed a Dream" - Les Misérables (Oy. Gets me everytime)
• Driving in the Jeep, feeling content, and then hearing  I Don't Know - Beastie Boys (sung by Adam Yauch)
• Hearing "Cover Me" (Reprise) - Jesse L. Martin, from the original Broadway cast of Rent. (It helps to know that his lover has died, and he's singing to his memory. Try sitting in the theater and hearing this song. It will definitely grab you in the boo-boo).
• Watching the snow scene in The Nutcracker Ballet live on stage. The snow swirling, the glittering tiaras, the choir in the background . . . and maybe the fact that my ballet days are over . . . always delivers a huge sugarplum lump in the back of my throat.
• In my hip-hop classes, when I don't care what I look like, and the beats are pounding through my chest, and my body rolls and leaps on its own - I am perfection and art in that moment.

I wish you all a lifetime of spontaneous, sugarplum lumps of joy when you experience the art that moves you. 

Until next time, with peace and gratitude. A little bit of Garfunkel.

 

You Can't Judge a Dork by Her Cover (Or . . . Weird is the New Normal)

My thoughts for the past few weeks (who am I kidding - past few decades) revolve around judgment; the judgment I perceive I get from others, the judgment I have about others, and the judgment I place on myself. You see, part of my mid-life crises experiment involved getting a new tattoo last week. The what or why isn't important for my story. What is important is that it matters to me. I think it's a beautiful tribute in light of all that has happened this year, and I now have a constant reminder to be grateful for every moment.

My other tattoos are hidden from public view. The new one is on my forearm, for all to see. So as I take the train to work every morning I wonder, do people notice? Am I now regarded as less-than professional? Do I really care what these train people think? Am I not judging those 20 year old girls (yes, the same ones from hip-hop class are also on my train every day) and wondering if they're vapid, spoiled rich kids who miraculously landed an internship or consulting gig? Why do they wear pearls and no makeup, but have tan legs and giant Coach purses? I know I judge because I'll never be one of them, never was one of them, and never desired to be one of them. All the Coach purses in the world would never give me the sort of aloof and easy confidence they exude as they maneuver gracefully through the train cars and up the escalators in their commuter flip-flops and pencil skirts. I'm usually sweating and cursing under my breath while I fumble with my bags or trip on the laces of my untied Chucks. Business men never offer me their seats on the train or hold the door for me at Starbucks. Maybe they're stunned by my effervescent, womanly beauty and only gravitate toward the Pearl Girls because they look like their daughters.

I've always had these feelings, though, before my new tattoo. I've sort of always felt like a hot mess. Maybe that's why I got the tattoo in a such a visible place. Maybe I want to appear more punk, more fringe, more cool than I feel inside. But yet, I don't really fit in with the cool Tattoo Girls either. They would consider me "mainstream." I'm too weird to be normal, but I'm not weird enough to be cool.

I'm stuck in the middle with an average wardrobe, an arm tattoo, a house in the suburbs, a college education, several Coach purses crammed into the back of my closet, 14 pairs of Converse All-Stars, a set of black pearls from the Philippines (that look more like Wilma Flintstone as opposed to  . . . Blythe Danner     or . . . Princess Grace), and a mid-life crises that has lured me into guitar lessons, chatting on fan message boards, and a new set of vanity plates for the Jeep. Even my iPod is stuck in the middle. Sure, I love my Beastie Boys. And there is probably a ditty or two by N.W.A., Tupac or Notorious B.I.G. (True hip hop fans know that I just committed a HUGE faux pas by placing Tupac and Biggie next to each other in that sentence. Maybe those big dumb lugs will feel the love and kiss and make up. Or fist bump. Or whatever). But my iPod also contains way too much John Denver, Neil Diamond and Highlights from Andrew Lloyd Weber Musicals to be cool. I won't apologize for Chris Isaak and James Taylor, though.  I love them both equally and weirdly.

But does any of this matter? Not really. I know that. Do I really go through life seeking the acceptance of others. Not really. (YES. Yes I do!) Do I have a strange obsession with seeing the little red notification symbol that pops up on Facebook whenever a friend validates me with a "Like" or a comment? (YES. Yes I do!) Am I the only one who feels this way? I haven't looked at Facebook in years, because I always ended up with Facebook envy. Come on, I can't be the only one who feels this way (i.e.: She looks so Skinny on her Vacation in Somewhere Exotic, after getting her Doctorate, and running the Boston Marathon and saving Orphans in Africa and Zip Lining through the Jungles of Somewhere Else Exotic . . . blah blah blah). Ok, just in case you're wondering, I don't have any Facebook friends who just received their Doctorate. (Yay!) But after my recent Beastie-trip to NYC,  I've been on the FB a lot more, suddenly addicted to that stupid cartoon "Thumbs Up" symbol. (i.e.: Way to go! I  made a funny joke! People like my blurry photo that I posted so they would know I don't always sit home on Friday night! So what if it was a Barry Manilow concert?) (I wish).

I truly believe that Facebook is a place where people post what they want others to see, not who or what they really are. I'm absolutely guilty of it too. But here, on my blog, I strive to be an example of unabashed honesty. See below:

My  "Not Cool" Confessions: I don't smoke dope. I used to be terrified of Iron Maiden when I was 12. I still watch t.v. (I feel there is a new surge of non-t.v. watchers out there. I'm certainly not an addict, but I do have my shows that I love). I dressed like Laura Ingalls in first grade (complete with pinafore and bonnet). I was an English major, but I don't sit around reading "the classics" for pleasure. I don't do yoga. I don't know what a Bikram is. I still have a flip phone (thought we might get new fancy phones next weekend. Whoa, Nelly!). I don't Tweet. I'm a vegetarian, but I still eat carbs and gluten. And cheese. And wine. (What? There's no meat in wine). I say I'm a hip-hop dancer, but I'm more of an old ballerina (with too much derriere) that tries to get her funk on twice a week. I don't listen to NPR. I still call it The Google and The Facebook. The last time I saw the Beastie Boys live was in 1994. Uncool.

Who am I trying to impress? Me? Am I my biggest critic? (Probably). When I judge others, is it really because I'm being critical, or because I'm feeling envious? (The latter). So, if I feel envious, why don't I give that person a compliment? For instance: "I like your giant Coach purse" or "Your hair is so shiny . . . do you mind if I smell it?" or "Your tattoo is super cool and very punk rock. You appear very confident in your demeanor. Way to go."

I actually did give a compliment to a young woman on the train once. I told her I liked her style and that she didn't dress all uptight like most DC women. She looked very "New York" (sort of Desperately Seeking Susan - 1980s - with a little Pat Benetar). She seemed happy and surprised at my friendliness. (Most people don't talk to each other on the train, much less give out compliments like they were Free with No Strings Attached). But I think she felt weirded out when I told I saw her on the train every day, but not to worry, I wasn't stalking her. I thought it was funny. She now avidly avoids me and will get off before her stop if she ends up on my car. I'm too weird to be normal . . .

Crap. I didn't want this post to be a confessional of my insecurities. I'm curious to know if anyone else feels this way inside, even if your Facebook tells a more confident story, or if you wear your pearls proudly, or if you're tatted up from head to toe, or you actually are Pat Benetar. Do you ever feel like people are judging you, even though we all say, "Who cares"? My mom told me that feeling starts to fade away once you hit your 60s. Oh joy. Well, by then my tattoo will be faded and sagging and James Taylor will be over 80 years old. I guess she's right - nobody will care by then.

Maybe the actual point of all this (aside from not judging others by their appearance, because they're probably as screwed up in the head as you are), is not to judge yourself so harshly. My external appearance and habits have no bearing on who I am inside. Nobody on a train, or at a concert, at the mall, or even on The Facebook, can see who I really am inside. Only I am privy to that information. There is a lot of noise going on in my head, which I'm constantly trying to quiet. When you find that quiet moment, and just BE, you realize it doesn't matter the size of your ass or your Coach purse, the quality of your pearls, or the deep symbolic meaning of your tattoos. If you're a good, caring and genuine person that thinks of others, shows more empathy than sympathy, loves with reckless abandon, and is conscious of your place on this earth and the footprint you leave behind, then I think you're just fine the way you are. I guess that makes me fine just the way I am. Untied Chucks and John Denver and my constant search for Buddhist mindfulness are just some the un-cool parts of me that I love.

What un-cool parts of you do you love?

iPod TEST: Put your iPod on shuffle and list the top 10 songs that come up - no editing! Give your Facebook friends something to ponder. Here is mine. You can't make this shit up.

1. "Groove Holmes" - Beastie Boys

2. "Tell Me Something Good" - Chaka Khan

3. "Don't Get Around Much Anymore" - Harry Connick Jr.

4. "A Nest for Two" - Blinker the Star

5. "Burnin' For You" - Blue Oyster Cult

5. "Ain't it Funny (Murder Remix)" - J. Lo & Ja Rule

6. "Tennessee" - Arrested Development

7. "Flowin' Prose" - Beastie Boys

8. "Tadlock's Glasses" - Beastie Boys

9. "I'm a Believer" - Neil Diamond

10. "Me and Bobby McGee" - Janis Joplin

Until next time, with peace and gratitude. And a little bit of weirdness.

Gratitude . . . For Real

Lately I've seen some pretty crappy news reports about crappy people doing crappy things in the world. Did you hear about the poor turtle that was duct taped to a bunch of helium balloons and sent flying over Oceanside, CA? What about the charming folks that work at the daycare in Dover, DE who encouraged their 3 year old charges into punching each other, in a weird sort of baby fight club? Cell phone video shows an employee telling the kids, "No pinching, only punching!" What about the drunk guy that stumbled into a poultry farm in Maryland and turned off the light switch to three chicken houses, consequently killing 70,000 chickens who died from heat exhaustion?

I've seen these negative news stories over the last few weeks, and I intended on doing a piece about overcoming the negativity out there in the world by seeking positivity. I had written a great paragraph about my daily commute on the Metro train that I share with the depressed, impatient, and often hostile workforce of Washington, DC.

That might have to wait another week or so. Somehow, after the day I had today, my Metro ride and the kidnapped turtle and baby fight club all seem so trivial. Not because they're not important. Not because the crappy people won't get their comeuppance eventually.  But because today the news I heard had nothing to do with crappy side of man or woman-kind. It had to do with the cold, harsh reality of life. And death.

I heard today that a friend of mine, a former co-worker, lost her battle with cancer. She was in her early 40s; close to my age. She was married to another friend of mine, another former co-worker, and they were totally and completely in love. He watched her suffer through, get treatment for, and beat breast cancer a few years ago. Not long after they set off to fulfill their bucket list of adventures; Flamenco dancing in Spain; kissing the Blarney Stone in Ireland. They saw U2 (his favorite band) play live in Dublin.

Last night my friend watched my other friend die. His beautiful wife, his poetry muse, his flamenco partner . . . is gone. He is now a 42 year old widower.  Pardon my French, but that fucking sucks.

So, I won't regale you with stories about my Metro rides or the sad-sational news story of the week. I am going to take this opportunity to document the things I am truly grateful for. Because, as we all keep saying, year after year, death after death . . . life is short. Be grateful for what you have and seize the bloody day.  My list of Gratitude is as follows:

·         A job that affords me the luxury of a simple vacation a few times a year, repairs on my old Jeep when necessary, cat food, a Starbucks Chai Latte twice a week, a trip to the record exchange whenever another Sugarhill Gang or Ella Fitzgerald vinyl comes in, and our house in the 'burbs that is way too extravagant but is utterly charming and delightful. Christ on a bike. I sound shallow. Read on.

·         A relationship with a mature, funny, intelligent, well-rounded, silly, nerdy, fiscally responsible, agreeable, mellow, tolerant, patient, ethical and drug-free man. Ladies . . . as I've said before. Step aside - he's mine. He's actually making dinner right now as I write my blog. I don't ask WHY I'm so lucky. I just thank Goddess I am.

·         My health. Despite my frequent headaches, stomach aches, shoulder surgery, mole removals, root canal, new eye glasses prescription, weird cramped toe-thing, moody depressed days occasionally and a lot of bloating . . . I'm actually in pretty good shape. I am trying every day to love my ever-changing body just the way it is. Lumps and moles and burps and all. And I'm grateful that my ever-growing ass can still booty-pop next to the twenty-something, lithe young women with long hair and perfect skin that dominate my hip hop classes.

·         My parents. What amazing patience those two have. As an only child, I was the center of attention, drama, disaster, financial strain, drama, etc. I required braces and ballet camp and Girl Scouts, and learned to shoot a gun, knit, appreciate Broadway musicals, got good grades, planted gardens, took the city bus alone to ballet class, raised rescued pets, recycled, country-western danced, played with frogs and snakes and lizards, wore cowboy boots, was an English major despite my father's pleas, had college paid for, drove a 1964 Ford Falcon in high school and a cherry -red Toyota Tercel in college, stood up to bullies, defended my friends, ate rattlesnake over a camp fire  . . . need I go on?

I am grateful for so much more, but this is only a blog - not the sequel to "Little Women" or a cabin-dweller's  manifesto.  But please indulge me with one last thought  . . . Last weekend Frank and I had a dinner party for 13 of our friends. It was lovely. Even though I was exhausted from cooking and cleaning for two days, I hope my guests know how much their presence meant to me. To us. I had never cooked a sit-down meal for that many people before. But it was smooth sailing. Martha Stewart would be jealous. I had also organized a "detective game" and our guests were there to help us solve a mystery and find a hidden treasure. I was surprised at the enthusiasm of these "adults" - as they tiptoed through our woods with flashlights, whispered in corners while huddled over clues, and cheered each other on after each new discovery. Our home was literally glowing with giddiness and chatter and new friendships and . . . gratitude.

My heart beats a little faster when I think back over last Saturday night's events. It all seemed to go by so fast. And just now, when I scrolled to the top of this page to proofread, the reality of today kicks me in the gut again. A friend is gone. Another is hurting so deeply that I can't even imagine his pain. Am I being disrespectful for gloating over my seemingly idyllic life? What do they have to be grateful for?

The Blarney Stone. Dancing in the moonlight. Each other.

Until next time, with peace and an abundance of gratitude.

I'm a Tree-Hugger . . . Big Surprise!

For those of you who know me, (and if you're reading my blog, there is a strong likelihood that you DO know me), you know that I am prone to hug the proverbial (and oftentimes literal) tree. I've been accused of being a tree-hugger since college. The fact that I've been a vegetarian for 20 years notwithstanding, I may have some other nature-friendly tendencies (gasp!). I believe in global warming (the result of which, in my mind, are polar bears floating away on tiny ice burgs while clinging to their baby bears); I believe in the Three Rs (Reduce! Re-use! Recycle!); and I believe that if you shoot it, you should eat it  - and if you CAN grow it, you SHOULD grow it! And then eat it!

Where did I learn such leftist, counter-culture behavior?

From my hippie parents, duh.

Oddly, my dad was married to the federal government for 32 years, so you might not consider him a hippie at first glance. But then again, if you know my dad (and if you're reading my blog, it's entirely possible you DO know him), the ponytail and tie-dye shirt are more than just the result of a post-government act of rebellion. He eats what he shoots (squirrels, rabbits, elk and other "critters"), he loves a used coffee can to store his man-stuff in (the usefulness of the "stuff" is debatable), and he has created and implemented a water reclamation system in my parents' New Mexico backyard that would make the Corps of Engineers proud. Ahem. 

My mom, however, has never worked for the government. She used to play the recorder (songs like "Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme"), bake her own bread (the kids at school asked me if my mom was an Indian), she eats what she shoots, and she has a garden that would make Laura Ingalls proud (refer to blog post #2). The point is, the hippie doesn't fall far from the tree that she's hugging.

I asked my mom if I could feature her garden and the water collection system on my blog. It may not be a random act of kindness in the regular sense. This kindness is directed toward another mother - Mother Earth. She is one bad-ass baby momma.

My mom has been developing her garden over the past 14 years. It includes beautiful vegetables, culinary herbs, medicinal herbs (don't get excited, it's not what you think), fruit trees and ornamental plants. About 9 years ago my parents put gutters on the roof and installed barrels for rainwater collection. They have several barrels, for a total of about 1,000 gallons of water collection potential, that they use to water the garden. Brilliant!

Mom also has dedicated two large sections of the front yard to xeric plantings (low water use plants). This reduces the amount of higher water-use lawn. These xeric areas are watered only once a month if there is no rain at all during that period. When watering the small pieces of actual lawn, she puts the sprinkler on during the cooler times of the day. Since  my parents live in the Southwest, they feel an obligation to use all their resources in a responsible, conscientious way. By conserving water in these ways, my mom can provide food and medicine for the family, increase the oxygen levels in the atmosphere (all green trees and plants add oxygen to the air), provide a cooler "green belt" around the house which reduces the need to use electricity to cool their house, and have a beautiful, colorful relaxing area to chill out. 

Don't you love it when you see some dumdum watering their front sidewalk instead of the grass because the sprinkler is screwed up or the wind is blowing . . . or it's raining??! Hellooooo?? Ever heard of a drought? I personally don't care to act out The Grapes of Wrath any time soon. That would be so depressing and dusty. Hence "dust bowl," I guess.

In July, a local organization called Gaia Guild sponsored a garden tour and competition to promote backyard food production. My mom's garden won the "Most Water-Wise Garden." My mom said, "To respect and honor Mother Earth, to use all her resources and gifts wisely to improve and enhance our daily life; that is my motivation in everything I do." Mother Earth kicks ass. So does my mother.

So folks, the moral of the story is, try to reduce your water usage in your yard, if possible. Grow amazing veggies and herbs to cook with, if possible. And always attempt a complicated and cumbersome feat of engineering in order to lessen your water usage . . . if possible.

I kid. Not everyone has the skills and wherewithal to construct a device that looks like the boiler room on the Titanic. A hippie with a Master's Degree and the skills of a carpentry ninja. Not too shabby.

One last thought . . . When I was in first grade, I used to collect aluminum cans from the playground and save them to take home and turn in for cash on the weekend. My dad helped me build a can crusher out of 2x4s and a door hinge (didn't every kid have one of those?). My teacher took me aside and asked why I was saving garbage. She thought we were poor. Guess she didn't know I was probably one of the richest kids she'd ever meet.

Thanks, Ma and Pa (again, Laura Ingalls -  and in case you truly have never met any of us before, that's really what I call my parents); thanks for teaching me to appreciate a crock-pot squirrel (I wasn't ALWAYS a vegetarian), a bountiful harvest, and for instilling in me respect for our environment and our natural community.

Until next time, with peace and gratitude.

Go hug a tree.