I Am Wrong

I’m the wrong race – not pink; the wrong gender – not male; the wrong nationality – not foreign born; the wrong age – not under 40 (ha! Not under 50).

My nose is wrong – not thin and sharp. My body type is wrong – not weighed down nor swung back by triple-D cups.

My eye color is wrong – not blue. My hair color is wrong – not blonde. My tan-hued skin is wrong – not lighter than a paper bag.

My hair is all wrong – not limp and straight, nor limp and curly. My hair is very wrong – not growing, not un-greying, not cooperating with any hair product known to science or organic plant.

My shoe size is wrong – not a size six, not since I was six. My dress size is wrong – not a size eight, not since I was eight.

My hat size is wrong – not a peanut head.

My hand size is wrong – not petite. My bone structure is wrong – not petite.

My facial features are strong – not cute. My mannerisms are sometimes straightforward, sometimes restrained – not cute.

My MIL-ing is wrong – not playing the role like DIL scripted.

My personality is wrong – not girly-ish, kittenish, Lolita-ish, or agreeable to all things male. My pheromone attraction is wrong – not reeling in the males (Shit!).

My income is wrong – not a trust fund in sight. My lottery winning luck is wrong – not a chance in hell. My earnings potential is wrong – not a promotion in sight. My career potential is wrong – go to the top of this list, do not pass GO, do not collect $200.

My attitude is all wrong – I like me anyway.

Case of the Kamikaze Squirrel

I needed to save my window air conditioner being pelted with the brick-sized debris from the attached rehabbed building next door. I pulled it out of the wrought iron cage in which its nearly foot-and-a-half extended back rested, and on to my living room floor. This was a couple of months ago, before the summer sweltering began, and I could afford to leave the window wide open for alley-moldy-brick-smelling fresh air. I neglected to replace the window screen.

A few mornings later, I happened to glance over just in time to see the bushy grey-black tail of a squirrel jumping into my room from that unadvisedly open window. It occurred to me that I had choices: fruitlessly chase a squirrel around my house all day and miss work; shut the window, let it starve, then sweep the carcass out into the street for the neighborhood cat snacks; or give it up as a day starting all wrong.

When I returned that evening, it was as if the squirrel heard my intrusion, and this time I saw it stair-step on to the conveniently positioned air conditioner, up to the window sill, and then out into the cage. I rushed to the window with the grace and speed of an Olympic track star, slid the pane down with a resounding thud, and pulled closed the drapery. Comforted, smug, and feeling that the day had somehow righted itself, I snuggled into my throne – a covered wing chair worn down over time to the exact contour of my back and rear end. Then I heard the first thump.

The rapidity of the following thumps led me directly to the window where I slid the drapery aside just wide enough to peek at this Kamikaze Squirrel throwing itself up against the pane of glass. Periodically it revolved in a tight circle, profusely chitter, and then maniacally batter the window again. It wasn’t strong enough to break the glass, but I wondered if the nut-job was going to hurt itself demanding to get itself back into MY home. Several minutes elapsed before it finally stopped and went away – or at least I think it did, since I cowardly retreated to the sanity of my bedroom, leaving the Kamikaze Squirrel to the privacy of its dementia.

Yesterday, rearranging my living room to accommodate strategic placement of several speakers of my newly purchased home theater system (currently a bunch of expensive component paper weights because I can’t seem to get the wiring and cabling correct – another story!), I moved a heavy credenza. Some shredded paper was dislodged behind it. Moving the furniture from the wall to sweep away the offending disclosure of inept housekeeping, I discovered that what I once thought was a few bits of scrap paper was measuring up to be a rather large bunch, in fact, a telephone book of shredded paper. Revelation dawned.

In time for the worst of the concrete jungle’s highly humidified days, and suspension of the attached building’s rehab destruction of my property, I had restored the air conditioner to its rightful place in the window. The back of the heavy machine was braced up with two fresh telephone books, replacing the previous wet and moldy one – one book, not two. The other missing book I now realize was the one that had been removed by the Kamikaze Squirrel and stuffed into the warm, dark and quiet cave-space under the bottom drawer behind the credenza to make a home for itself – and most likely for its family.

I know the Kamikaze Squirrel had a right to go up against anything that came between it and its home. It hadn’t done one thing wrong, and it wasn’t crazy. It did what every sentient living being has a right to do: fight for and protect his, her, or its home. The Kamikaze Squirrel lost out anyway. It didn’t matter that it was right. It did as much as I had done to protect my own home. I was beaten, too.

The Kamikaze Squirrel lost its home to a rent-paying, animal intolerant, lone-wolf, take-no-prisoners ghetto fighter. Amazingly, I lost my son to an insecure drama queen of a Southern belle DIL. I’m still dizzy from the sucker-punching tag team of her whole family. (“A family who plays together . . . .”)

We did nothing wrong, the Kamikaze Squirrel and me, but just the same, we’ve been dissed, pissed, and then dismissed. We’ve been hurt.

It doesn’t make one bit of difference; the Universe doesn’t care.

The Kamikaze Squirrel’s home was destroyed as completely as was mine. Swept away as if it had little significance, as if it didn’t take excited planning, precious time, prodigious labor, and, yes, considerable love to build.

The Kamikaze Squirrel has since moved on with his life. I, too, have moved on with mine.

Walking Through Brownsville

Walking through Brownsville, you could revel in the music of Big Band music softly playing on balmy summer nights. Live! The tall (6-story?) buildings had rooftop dance floors. Occasionally these bands were hired to play for the tenants and their guests – maybe for weddings, anniversaries, or just simply a friendly vertical neighborhood gathering. I never attended, but years later saw the remnants of the Japanese lanterns, decorative trellises, and bandstand. My imagination filled in the rest.

Although I like and welcome today’s popular music, it feels somehow more intrusive on quiet nights. It may be that I appreciate the relief from round-the-clock MTV, chest-deep bass drums, and the like. Back then, that rooftop music was always a surprising and pleasant interlude.

Flow of Consciousness

I have little faith in me as a woman larger than life. That’s why, when I decided to have a child, it had to be a man child. I know a whole lot better how to react to a positive male image and how the world reacts to males – even males of color, but especially black males. Even white males are jealous of the black male. The black man, no matter his position in life, when he is mentally strong, is stronger than all the sum of his atoms. He is the big monitor on the Times Square building. You can see him from all sides, if you really want. He’s that large. No wonder white men feel threatened. They do pale by comparison. So where does that leave us women in this world, in this reality. Better only in the movies. That’s why I like Buffy (of the vampire slayer ilk) and Beatrix (of the all out Kill Bill revenger ilk). They kick butt and neither one looks like a Hollywood bimbo – except for the blonde part. But that’s okay, I’ve been blonde, too. And blondes do have more fun. If you’re going to be objectified anyway, you might as well have more fun doing it. I looked GREAT as a blonde. But, guess what: gray hair doesn’t hold peroxide very well. I don’t look great bald. My head’s too big. So I’ll do something else. I always do something. Not afraid to experiment. Good damn thing, because anything else is boring. I will not be bored. That ‘s not happening any time soon. I’ve got to stay busy amusing myself – or win Lotto so I can get a boy toy. I accept boy toys of all ages – but I discriminate.

Lying Through His Teeth

I looked in his eyes, and watched them slide to the left. Then shift to the right. Not at me. Okay, he’s uncomfortable, I think. Don’t look. I’ll close my eyes and listen to what he’s saying.

The words. They strike out softly and flick blood off my cheeks. They cut me every time he lets them pass over his tongue, clatter over his teeth, and into my face.

No truth in them. Truth would have sailed through his orifice and caressed my forehead. His lies should have bounced off my heart and back into his mouth, careening off shattered teeth.

I opened my eyes.

Where I'm From

I’m from the projects. A PJ girl born in the heart – the aching heart – of Brooklyn. Brownsville . . . once a middle income, kishka loving, sawdust on the deli floor, mamas and daddies living together raising children who walked to school and came home for lunches, candy stores selling penny candy next door to the Saturday matinee movies – double feature and a cartoon intermission – neighbors’ doors wide open to let in the fresh air and “Stop slamming that door,” everyone wants to move there neighborhood.
It stopped being that a long time ago.
So what! So, too bad! So, Levit said move to Levittown, own your own swing in the back yard and a white picket fence. No coloreds allowed.
So, you’re stuck.
So, there’s a hiring freeze.
So, Welfare said, “We can help . . . if you self-destruct.”
So, no more daddies, no more working families, no more know thy neighbor, no more love, no more way out.
That was fast. That was predictable. That was totally unnecessary.

Working for a Living . . . Really

Well, my work's just begun. They found me! The chief officer said he knows the Grand Jury I’m on is extended until at least the end of April, and he was going to wait for me . . . but he got tired of waiting. He said he needs me in another group. What probably really moved him was the woman I'm replacing took a transfer. She got a promotion recently, too, so he couldn't stop her transfer in any case. In other words, in my mind I just blew away the BS, and to him I "accepted" the offer of a transfer. He, just like all my bosses before him, swears he's grooming me for managerial position. (Fool me once . . .) I played the game, but I made sure they had the crazy woman that's in that group under control. I'm not going to be used to help get rid of her and I'm getting full management support. In the meantime, I'm just doing my job for what I'm paid to do and not taking on any additional responsibilities as I've had in the past. So, in actuality, they didn't need to give me a promotion, because girlfriend's only doing the job for the title I'm in, nothing more . . . except for the "working part", that is. I am now officially working for a living.

Working for a Living

My son is being recruited for a high profile, very productive position that will keep him rich and busy for several years – if he gets past interview #3. He’s worked very hard to build his career portfolio. His current employment is not fast tracking him, so, like momma like son, he’s moving on. He’s very conscientious about the details of his working responsibilities (like daily changing his voicemail greeting to assure customers of his constant attention to their financial welfare). Mortgage algorithms, amortization schedules, financial planning discussions: all routine chitchat. Just thinking about all that makes me tired. I’m simply worked out. For several years I’ve been worth far more than what I earned; for the next few years, I’ll be worth very little of what I’m earning. As far as I’m concerned, I’m a Hired Retired. Many years had gone into the workplace struggle for decent pay, merit raises, and promotions. Too many years have gone into easing the workload of my bosses who grabbed the better salaries, bonuses, and even higher privileged positions. The only work I’m willing to do now is mine. Yes, I’ll give the job its dollar’s worth – but not a cent more. The rest is for me. All my concentrated preparations go toward making my retirement a comfortable one. I have a life! I write, I sew, I dine, I travel, I entertain, I throw clay, fashion jewelry, make friends, make enemies, and any damn thing else I want. Frankly, the job is getting in my way. I’ve done my part. I’m happy my son will do his. It’s supposed to be a new day now. Different from when I was fighting my way through corporate America – somewhat. My son has a better chance of succeeding. He has one less strike against him than the four I have. He’s male. I’m an (1) over forty (2) native-born (3) African-American (4) female. Good luck. (And you’re in big trouble if you throw up the likes of Condoleeza Rice in my face.)

On Winning Pencils

Mark Ryan flashed through my mind. Couldn’t imagine why or what the connection was, since at the moment I was nonchalantly checking out a man who was studiously checking out a young woman. I was making no judgment, just vaguely exploring my memory as to the last time a man checked me out. Jealousy wasn’t a factor, but I wondered how could I compete with a young woman in catching a man’s interest. Can I? I, too, have needs and desire for male attention. How do I once again attain what I’ve always in the past taken for granted: a man’s desire/lust/craving/need/attention/drool/goggle eyed/grasping/wishful thinking/ogling/wet dreaming/craze for me. And then up popped Mark Ryan into my feverish thoughts. The redhead, freckle-faced Mark and his family had just moved from Philadelphia to Brooklyn that mid-fifties spring. I remember marveling at the creeping redness over his cheeks, nose, and ears as he introduced himself to our fourth-grade class. He was a friendly kid, always quick with a smile. I don’t remember feeling that he was a threat. In Mrs. Berman’s class, I was the reigning spelling bee champ. Every Friday, we’d line up and wait our turn to spell a word she’d give of the many we were suppose to have memorized. One-by-one a student returned to their seat after misspelling a word. I was always left standing. Me, the smart, but shy and quiet girl, accomplishment recognized by her teacher and peers. The reward: a brand new, yellow No. 2 Ticonderoga pencil with a little pink eraser crowning the top. My collection was at least a satisfying baker’s dozen that I harbored in my desk drawer to finger: to get me through unfulfilling or insecure moments, a tactile reminder of my true value. The class was unaware that my spelling confidence hadn’t grown from studying the assigned words each week. Instead my knowledge blossomed during weekly visits to my grandparents’ home, studying two gigantic volumes of a Webster dictionary on the carpeted floor at my Grandpa’s knees. He kept those books in the front parlor where he sat by the coal-burning fireplace, smoked his pipe, and read the newspaper or watched a ballgame on the rabbit-eared antennae black-and-white television. The front parlor was for company only – and for Grandpa anytime he wanted. But Grandpa didn’t mind me. He didn’t have to shush or order me to stop fidgeting. Because I was reading the dictionary, Grandpa liked to let me sit at his knees – and I liked to read the dictionary because Grandpa let me sit at his knees. Those days I learned at lot of words. In my nine-year-old mind, Mrs. Berman’s pencils symbolized the serene, non-verbal, communicating hours between my Grandpa and me. Mark Ryan won my next pencil the first week of his arrival. Short of making me an orphan, I couldn’t imagine a more devastating event. I didn’t cry; I was numb. Then, unaccountably, I was afraid. No pencils, no recognition? No pencils, no love? No pencils, what? The fear slid through me and then resolved into determination: I was getting my pencil back! For the first time, I studied the assigned spelling words. Studied hard. The next week, I won my pencil. Mark simply flushed, smiled, and returned to his seat. I was the one left standing. Until the end of that school year, I never stopped studying the spelling words – and I always won my pencil. Now I realize those young women I see are Mark Ryan, and I’m going to beat them in my own way. Haven’t figured out how yet, but I still have the confidence I gained at my Grandpa’s knees. I can’t be naturally like them, but I sure can study how to be the best at who I am – and that’s pretty damn good. Check me out and see if I don’t win my pencils again.

Waiting

I don’t like waiting for anything.

Let me step into a nice restaurant and the hostess tell me there’s a 30-minute wait, watch me spin around and march right back out. There’s not that much hunger in the world for me to wait for a seating. One exception: Cracker Barrel Country Style Restaurant. The waiting is inevitable, the location too out of the way, the browsing too inviting, and the food too good.

Show me a store’s 10-person line to a cashier, I show them that re-stocking my selections is their end result. One exception: Costco – My Most Favorite Store In The World. The waiting is inevitable, the location too out of the way, the browsing too inviting, and the pricing too good.

Tell me you’re going to meet me at 6:15 and don’t show up until 6:20, I’m wondering why you couldn’t have arrived at 6:10. No exceptions.

Living in New York, you’d think I’d be use to it. No way you don’t wait somewhere, somehow, for some thing. My cousin – he who thinks much of what I say or do is prime meat for one of his joking comments – says I’m getting cranky because I’ve gotten old. (It’s most definite I will get him back for that!) But it’s not true, Cuz. You’re wrong. Waiting has annoyed me most, if not all, my life. And I realize when the annoyance began – when I was a child. What neurosis doesn’t begin with . . . Mother?

From pre-school age until I was about ten or eleven, occasionally my mother awakened us kids in the chill of a pre-dawn summer morning. Sent to the living room, we’d find play outfits laid out on the sofa. Except for our shoes, everything was brand new: shorts, tops, socks, underwear, sweaters, and, for our hair, colorful ribbons or barrettes still pinned to the card.

My mother didn’t inform us when she purchased the Eastern Star or St. Philips Episcopal Church fundraising tickets for the day-long getaways: chartered bus rides from our city projects to foreign locales – usually the picnic grounds of Bear Mountain, Indian Point, or Hechster State Park. Smart lady. She didn’t abuse herself with our demands for responses – When’re we going? What time do we get there? Who’s going with us? What’s there? What can we do there? How far away is Saturday? Is Saturday tomorrow? When do we leave? How long does it take? How long ’re we staying? Can I wear my new blouse? What’re we eating? Can we have baloney, and boiled ham, and fried chicken, and peaches, and grape Kool-Aid? – so she told us nothing.

Once attired in our publicly-acceptable best – new clothes, scalps greased and hot-combed hair banged, pigtailed or ponytailed, Vaseline smoothed over face and limbs (the globby excess toweled off) – we ventured out into the still pre-dawn streets. We would have to travel to where the coach buses met.

For whatever reason, the meeting place was never on our side of Brooklyn. That meant we rode public transportation to the location. That meant we’d have to wait for the first bus or train to take us to a transfer point where we’d have to then wait for the second bus or train.

Finally, we’d arrive. The first ones to arrive. In my whole childhood, I fail to remember not being the first ones to arrive. I don’t know what it was with my Mother that we always had to be the first. We asked her; she ignored us.

A slip of light blue-grey sky peeked through the diminishing night by the time we reached the designated street corner. Deserted. No other human waiting. The first slanted rays of sunlight striped the sidewalk curb by the time a middle-aged Eastern Star sister or church member ambled up, greeting us with a wan smile. No children to play with, no help to whittle away the waiting time. No, they were probably still at home, warm and snug in their beds. We, instead, were hunched up hugging ourselves in lightweight sweaters, chilled breezes nipping at our knees, sitting our narrow behinds on the picnic box cooler or the multi-gallon thermos of Kool-Aid. We didn’t dare sit on the curbside. That would dirty our “play” clothes.

As the sun spread to more of the sidewalk, we waited in its welcomed warmth and watched people dribble in along with kids we were, for the moment, too shy to play with (and anyway, we still had to keep our “play” clothes clean). Eventually, mutterings would be heard that the buses were late. Energetic pre-cellphone discussions educated the organizer on what street corner could be found a working pay phone. Was it too soon to complain to the bus company?

At length, the buses appeared – the drivers giving flimsy excuses or no apologies at all – and we’d climb aboard. We’d each scramble into a soft, fabric covered seat that reclined with a doubled-up thumbs push of a button (an action for which our mother promised to kill us if we tried) – and waited some more. The organizer had to count heads again. She’d already done this several times before the late buses arrived.

Invariably, just as the buses began pulling away, more people ran up, waving their bus-stopping arms and shouting at us to – what else – wait. They appeared astonished/perturbed that we almost left without them. After all, didn’t they pay their good, hard-earned money for tickets. It seemed everyone but my mother knew they were permitted to be late – others waited. Even the bus drivers knew they could be late. They would however remind/warn/threaten everyone that the buses departed the picnic grounds no later than the scheduled time – On Time. No problem for the already identified.

At long last, the bus drove off to a hearty applause from the grownups and from us kids a pressure-released “Yaaaaaaaay.” Then all we had to do to get to our destination was to . . . wait. (“Are we there yet?”)

So, no, I don’t like waiting. I’ve been conditioned to a low tolerance for it. I’m not getting old and crabby. I was young and scrappy when I learned to dislike waiting.

So there it is, Cuz. You’re wrong. Again.

Is Coping Enough?

Still getting through the horrors of 9/11. Now dealing with the tragedies of the tsunami. Tonight I saw "Hotel Rwanda."

The world is too cruel.

The Beginning of The End

Growing up I lived in a pink-brick, vertical neighborhood of a New York City project. In the late Forties through the Fifties, the projects were a haven for the young family just getting started out in life. Next stop Queens or Long Island: a small picket-fenced tract house with a swing set and aboveground pool out back. In the projects we kids would play our made-up neighborhood games (with neighborhood-only rules) or go to the playground and climb the jungle gyms, swing the swings, slide the sliding ponds, and bounce up and down on the see-saws. We’d play hopscotch, double-dutch rope (which I was never coordinated enough to even turn the ropes, never mind jump the loops). Some ballgames could be played against the wall (hand ball), bounced in each other’s zone of a square concrete sidewalk, or patted by hand to the ground up and over an extended leg. Stickball was played with the handle of our mother’s sawed off broomstick. Mothers yelled at us for ruining their good brooms and mops. Skellie was played with bottle caps, which was especially good when weighted with PlayDoh for sliding across the square chalk-drawn on the concrete playing field. We got yelled at again for leaving air-exposed half-filled bottles of soda and not quite empty jars of mayonnaise in order to create our playing instruments. I liked hot summer evenings best when everyone was driven out of sweltering apartments for “a bit of fresh air.” That’s when the kids got together and played games like Red Rover, Red Rover, or Red Light, Green Light, or Johnny on the Pony. The projects were never known for being quiet, but those evenings threatened loss of hearing with the screeching sounds of laughing, sweaty children, yelling and encouraging each other to break the human rope, or jump the piled on bodies forming a head-braced and butt-in-the-air “pony” against the brick wall. Properly tapped, the energy we expended could have replaced the city’s power company for the entire year. And then somebody had to invent window air conditioners. No one came outside anymore just to hang out – not if you could cool out in your own home. Visits to each other’s house (that’s New York-speak for apartment) stopped entirely if no air conditioner was in sight. A whole summer of that isolation, and no one knew anyone by fall, through the winter, or the awakening spring. People were into themselves, and mind your own business, thank you. I can list a few things since then that has diminished/eliminated the camaraderie achieved through physical activity and the simple sense of neighborly community. But need I say much more than two words: video games. Let’s not forget also that, since more than one person in the building now owned their own TV, neighbors didn’t have to bring their kitchen chairs to that lucky person’s living room and gather to watch The Whoever’s Entertainment Show for an hour – when the TV was then turned off! – and then sometimes stayed longer to just . . . talk. I don’t care what anyone says - window air conditioners were the beginning of the end.

Dream Laughing

Sometimes I wake up laughing. For the rest of the day I’m bright yellow sunshine. Not the crystal, white sunlight of cold winter days that make me feel brittle, fragile and inconsequential. Inside I’m the child somersaulting down a grassy hill – freed from my Sunday dress and good shoes, into my play clothes and bare feet, laughing and whooping all the way down. I’m young, bold, and strong. I can do anything. I’m a good girl, bad girl, who-cares-about-anything-because-I’m-having-fun girl. Feeling that girl in me is like eating a Charlotte Rouse. For those not in the know, a Charlotte Rouse is an Italian pastry inserted in a three-inch cardboard tubing, the same width of a paper towel tube. Inside is a one-inch disc of pound cake, topped with about five inches of whipped cream custard. You push up a circular cardboard from the bottom with your finger as you slowly lick off the cream until you reach the buttery cake. You nibble on that until the last crumb. How I enjoyed being a little girl for those gastronomic moments. Out shopping the other day, I spotted an Italian bakery . . . and there they were lined up in the window, beckoning to me. Never lose an opportunity to bring out that little girl inside, I was thinking. I bought one – just one – and stole away with it to the privacy of my parked car to explore shameless youth-reviving pleasure. It was just as good as I remembered – every succulent lick. I don’t think it was fifteen minutes later that I went into such a sugar shock. The restorative nap that I surrendered to was definitely in order. Reality check – that gluttonous little girl in me had aged out. Waking up laughing is preferred.

Another Road Trip, Please

It’s time for another road trip. Love my road trips: open the top – the sunroof my consolation for not getting a convertible – and feel the sun soften and dissolve from my face thinking-too-much lines. It’s better than . . . a spa. I ride a 2000 Maxima: Black Beauty is her name. Like drawing silk over skin, she glides over the highways. The Bose sound system spreads bass notes through my chest; trebles tickle my ears. I’d close my eyes in thrilled surrender, but, oops . . . Every six months Beauty’s dressed and polished in turtle wax. Chrome teeth smiles her appreciation. Perfumed vacuuming keeps Beauty internally fresh. She’s protected from New York’s disrespectful climate by an enclosed garage. And I rarely abuse her by driving the city streets – unless necessary, like going to my most favorite store in the world, Costco. A road-trip-to-anywhere represents freedom to me. It’s American. Within thirty minutes, I can cross the border into New Jersey. In two hours, I’m in Delaware. Another hour, Maryland. And on, and on, and on. Not once do I have to show a passport. No request to leave my state or permission to enter another. No armed guards at the borders (no, State Police don’t count). When I hit the road, my head seems to expand with the giddiness of my release from urban restraints. I feel my posture relax into the leather bucket seat that’s cradling me. The speedometer climbs without a body quiver to 50, 60, 70, 80, 85 . . . easily matching the pace of my fellow roadsters. (I truly believe it's mostly law enforcement types that own SUVs. They break all the rules and NEVER get stopped!) As long as I gas up, pay the tolls (E-Z Pass, I love you), and obey, within reason, the speed limits, I’m free to travel the public highways wherever I please. I’m free.

Happy New Year!

No, I didn’t go out to celebrate it. I slept in to celebrate it. My son woke me at midnight to greet it in, while his new bride claims she slept through the whole thing. No, the honeymoon’s not over, and he’s far from being a Mama’s boy. I think he’s just checking on me because I kind of disappeared on him Christmas Day. Another story.

Frankly, I’m momentarily at peace with the world because the other day I found that, in my own way, I still connect with the twenty-somethings of the good ol’ US of A. Channel surfing one night, I landed on the first few minutes of what I guess you’d call a romantic comedy. My mind had been drifting when slowly I began to notice the movie. I would not have turned to it on purpose. It starred six twenty-somethings: some girl named Something-or-other Potter, and, I think, Freddy Prinze, Jr -- he’s cute (probably what kept me from immediately changing the station) – and four runway models. Was I ever that young (Yes), that slim (Yes), that spontaneous (Still)?

The movie was called “Head Over Heels.” It was hysterical. Even though it had the Americans-must-have bathroom humor, these scenes were actually funny. In fact, several scenes had me boisterously laughing with the requisite tears.

Can’t tell you why this movie struck me this way, because the plot was soooo predictable to this jaded reader/writer. I guess because I had no expectations, and left myself open to just enjoying it – regardless of the shifted age perspective.

I’m still me, going on sixty-something. Still learning that my spirit can enjoy some things that are twenty-something.

The universe is telling me it could be a very good new year.