GRAY

Proof that the universe likes creatures better than women?

 

Behold the highlights on my puppy.

Take a close look at the gold, brown, blond, black, caramel, white, tawny tones he wears so naturally and effortlessly.

His coat is stunning.

And he cares far more about sticks and slippers than hair hue.

Blatantly unfair.  People pay big bucks to sport such gorgeous hair colors.

And God gifts them to a dog.

God gifted me a Hair Challenge, which interpreted in any language means, “I challenge you to make something of this mop.”

It’s been the challenge of a lifetime.

Toddlerhood till youth, my mom used ‘pixie cut cuteness’ as an excuse to cut my hair as short as my brothers’.

Junior High through Senior High, I blow-dryed every curl, believing poof and frizz trumped the curly-q-fries look.

Young adult, I ignored the Challenge. Curls reigned.

Babies-to-be eventually turned every curl poker straight, and I had to accept that Hair Challenge had become Hair Crisis.

It was time to bring in the professionals.

So I delivered a 320 page manuscript. And a fourth child. Then I ventured out to get a haircut. (I tell you this so you can comprehend my mental state at the time.)

I will not name the Manhattan salon I visited (PTSD blocked it from memory.) I will not name the Scissors Master who dared to take my case (I hope he doesn’t remember mine, either.)

I sat, ruler straight, in a salon chair, waiting for my consultation with the Scissors Master. I was dressed in black stretch pants and a maternity top with flaps. My skin was a Google Sky map of stress and hormone overload. Hair Crisis was smoothed and tucked beneath a candy-cane colored headband.

Did I mention that Cindy Crawford - and a bunch of guys whose names appear on expensive hair products - were cutting, shaping, conversing and laughing behind me?

Eventually a Scissors Master looked up from Cindy. Noting my fabulous posture, he slid across the salon floor toward my chair –scissors extended in the air. (Picture Brian Boitano - in black scrubs - gliding across the ice at Rockefeller Center.) As he approached, I couldn’t help wishing I had, just once, paid attention to the names stamped on hair products.

Scissors Master stood behind me, gazing into the enormous mirror in front of me. I could not see the expression on his face, because he had confiscated my glasses, and was distractedly wiping baby smudge off one lens.

I considered asking for my specs and heading for the door. But I had waited for this appointment for four months. And Scissors Master had a clump of my hair, and would not let go.

 
“One startling patch of gray,” he said, examining IT. “Where did this come from?”

“From a pound and a half preemie.”

“Oh,” he said. “Perhaps we should avoid such things in the future?”

Spinning my chair right, then left, Scissors Master flipped and fluffed my hair. He lifted handfuls above my ears, sliding his fingers from roots to split ends. Then he tried to flatten the mess that now looked like miniature bird nests sprouting from the sides of my head.  

 

Glancing back at the mirror, he shrugged, calling out, “Mousy, mousy, mousy!”

Everything happened at once. I lifted my feet onto the bar of the chair. (Rats are a problem in Manhattan. Casual observers and tourists often mistake them for mice. It was not a reach for me to think that Scissors Masters had, too.) In military mode, a team of young men and women assembled; arranging squirt bottles and tools, pushing carts, fastening robe ties. Squinting, I could just barely make out all of the quizzical looks and nodding of heads.

It was the clicking of tongues, and horrified whispers that informed me there were no rodents in the salon.

‘Mousy’ had been used to describe my hair.

Colorist and Understudy arrived to break the bad news: “The human eye sees silver or gray, and equates that color with old.” I needed Sparkle. Glow. In any color but silver or gray.

So I caved, selecting highlights (like Cindy’s.)

Lowlights were eventually added. Then the full paint job. Ten years, and the cost of two college educations later, I have no idea what color my hair is.

Last month I stopped for coffee and noticed three women- about my age - chatting at a table. All three had salt and pepper colored hair. They looked amazing. I wondered if they were some sort of club. 

Then George Clooney began appearing on every news show and magazine cover. Each time I saw Clooney, I remembered my mortifying salon experience from a decade ago.

George is gray, so why does the human eye equate him with ‘gorgeous’ rather than ‘old’?

Confounded, I consulted my dear, wise friend, who is a doppelganger of Uma Thurman. 

“It’s OK to be gray,” she assured me, “as long as it is a bright and happy gray.”

Or you look like Uma Thurman.

Sigh. Time will tell if the colors beneath my current ‘young’ hair color are happy or sad.

Regardless, it won’t much matter.

Ann Coulter made it clear last week that I don’t stand a chance, anyway.

Even the universe prefers puppies.

QUING Hereby Decrees: Guy or gal, gray is gorgeous!

   

 

VALENTINE

Cynic, I am not.

Realist, I am.

Wife.  Mom.  Grown-Up.

   

I tell the truth.

Present the facts.

Today’s fact: Valentine’s Day is dreadful.

My teenage and twenty-something self would read the sentence I just wrote and determine that my grown-up self is sad, pitiful, and in desperate need of love and affection.

My grown-up self reflects upon my teenage/twenty-something self and longs to hurdle back through time and give that girl a clue.

Seriously. How many romantic, mushy, loving, darling, or treacle notes/ideas/plans/surprises can one person possibly imagine or execute in a decade?

Warning: Stop reading at once if you responded to that rhetorical question, and the response was “Lots!”

Truth: Valentine’s Day is not about love.

  

It has little to do with Passionate Love; love that is spontaneous, thrilling, heartbreaking, unpredictable, exhilarating.

  

It has nothing to do with True Love; love that is real. Genuine. Lasting.

Nowadays, Valentine’s Day feels like Halloween combined with New Year’s Eve - on the store shelves too soon, and packaged with way too many expectations.

Rewind to the Pre-K classroom. Valentine’s Day is Super-hero and Disney princess fold-up postcards that little fingers have little room to scribble on, little ability to fold and tuck, and little time to shove into 27 construction paper mailboxes.  (Note: it takes till 2^nd grade to learn the Will You Be My V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E song and spelling.)

Rewind to Elementary School.  Ditto Pre-K Valentine’s Day, with boxes of brittle candy hearts and chewy things that dislodge baby teeth taped onto those postcards.  Insert first stages of critical thought: “Why do I have to give all these Sour Patch Kids to a bunch of silly girls?”

Rewind to Middle School. Valentine’s day is…. ?  Sorry. I erased middle school from my memory years ago.

Rewind to High School. Valentine’s Day should be called ‘Carn-angst Day’. Will I receive any crinkly blossoms? Will I receive more than my friends? Will I receive only from my friends?  What colors will the carnations be?  Am I white- popular, pink-admired, and/or red- adored?  Am I not?

Haven’t yet found love? Valentine’s Day depresses and irritates.

Suffering from unrequited love?  Valentine’s Day hurts.

Falling in love? Valentine’s Day is a mine field of pressure, and potential disappointment.

Still in love? Valentine’s Day is the day to prove it- or at the very least, remember it.

Disclosure: I am still a Valentine’s Day groupie.

I own cookie cutters in the shapes of X’s and O’s, pouty lips, and six different sized hearts.

I turn on love songs and twinkly lights, stuff mailboxes with heart-stickered postcards, and sing that silly V-A-L-E-N-T-I-N-E song with my kids- even after they leave for college.

  

But I never understood until 24 hours ago what it means to be a Forever Valentine.

Someone’s True Love.

Back story: My mom’s lifelong friend, Julia, died a few months ago after a lengthy battle with cancer.  Her marriage to Tim was the ideal that my siblings and I aspired to when we were young, and newly married. Friends for decades, we never saw this couple argue, snap at, chide or ignore each other.

This past Labor Day, I was visiting with my parents, Julia and Tim at a weekend barbecue. The conversation segued to marriage.Tim made a joke. Julia looked at him with great annoyance and said, “Are you going to tell that joke again, dear? We’ve heard it 764 times. This week.”

The banter, teasing, and commands-veiled-as-suggestions began, and I realized that this ‘one-of-a-kind’ couple was just like the rest of us long-time couples: utterly devoted and utterly flawed.

Fast forward to yesterday morning. I called mom to ask if she had heard from Tim; now a widower of two months, spending his first Valentine's Day without his love of half a century.

 

“Just last week he sent me a birthday card,” mom answered. “Julia never missed a birthday or holiday, and Tim is determined to carry on that tradition in her memory.”

Expectations surpassed.  

Signs and songs, carnations and cut-outs, trinkets and truffles on Valentine’s Day will always just be a shout-out to the ideal that our society identifies as “love.” We can make sure every school kid gets a valentine, a box of candy hearts and a carnation, but we can never guarantee that each of us will experience Real Love.

Love that reaches long past a February day.

Love that extends even beyond life; when One Half of a Whole lives on for his beloved, sharing her love with those she left behind, though he will never again see, touch, tease, chide, laugh with or be loved by her.

  

On this earth.

Julia would be delighted that Tim, her Forever Valentine, is continuing to love and honor her in ways big and small.

  

I'd like my Forever Valentine to draw up the shades - long past bedtime - and search the night sky for the stars that I loved. Listen to children, cellos, rain and wind. Plant too many flowers and trees. Sing. Play in the surf. Make meals worthy of a colossal mess in the kitchen, and share them with family, friends, and people in need. Love too much. Travel too far.

Expectations surpassed.

QUING Hereby Decrees: Long past that February Day, by all means, love.  

VOICES

She was stunning. Youthful.  Gifted.  

When she stood regally, breathed deeply, and began singing of love or heartbreak, the angels above surely disobeyed the 10th commandment before verse ever became bridge.

    
I suspect I can still recite the lyrics to many of her songs, even though I haven’t listened to them in 25 years. I even remember the afternoon I phoned my best gal pal and played a few bars of a fabulous new Whitney song for her (note: I did that by holding the big clunky telephone receiver up to the radio.) 

Best friend listened for one phrase, then screamed over the phone line, “Is that you singing?”

I laughed out loud at the absurdity of such a question. But I was silently thinking, “Don’t. I. Wish!”

What teen didn’t wish to be Whitney Houston back in the day when, unbeknownst to all of us, the gospel choir girl's manufactured, pristinely packaged image was being peddled to all of us wannabes who would listen to her voice, then rush to buy her albums, and every magazine graced with her gorgeousness.

News of Whitney Houston’s untimely death this past weekend was mostly shocking because it was not. Shocking.

 
For decades we’ve been inundated with scandalous images and information about Houston’s lifestyle, marriage and drug dependency.  Her TV reality show and interviews left fans close to certain that we'd been duped by MTV and Sony Music all along. Was the title of Houston’s story to be: “Promising good girl ruined by series of terrible, momentous choices?” Or “Crazy-talented, impossibly-perfect-good-girl was never so perfect, or good, after all?”

Whitney Houston had a remarkable, transcendent talent.  Her voice was a gift.  Seeking to explain her untimely death, our celebrity-obsessed media will surely regurgitate every sordid detail and decision that led to the loss of her voice, image, identity.

So let’s pretend, that in the name of decency - and out of respect for her long-suffering child and family -  the media will choose to shelve clips of crack-cocaine interviews, reality TV show shenanigans, and Diva behavior; graciously celebrating a voice that thrilled, entertained, and inspired.

   
Let’s pretend that the media – so razor sharp at tearing down rather than building up - will choose to focus on women who, in an industry notorious for packaging, using, mocking and discarding talent once it becomes unhinged or passé, maintain their sense of integrity; infusing common sense and dignity to the din of 'celebrity'.

 
Consider celebrity voices of this past week:

Jennifer Hudson - a victim of devastating personal tragedy - whose voice lifted and moved viewers of last night’s Grammy Awards as she sang with a stunning combination of power, composure and grace.

Adele, whose voice restored soul to an industry so often branded by spectacle, and common sense to a populace inured by hyperbole. Adele’s recent responses to the media’s obsession with her weight are as honest as her lyrics: “My life is full of drama and I won’t have time to worry about something as petty as what I look like… That’s not what my music is about. I don’t make music for eyes, I make music for ears.”

Lady Gaga, whose voice was heard by millions of impressionable teenage girls when she answered a question about body image: "I wanted to be a skinny little ballerina, but I was a voluptuous little Italian girl whose dad had meatballs on the table every night ….Every video I'm in, every magazine cover, they stretch you -- they make you perfect… it's not real life …The dieting has got to stop. Everyone just knock it off. Because at the end of the day, it's affecting kids your age, and it's making girls sick."

Ellen DeGeneres, whose voice resonated with millions of citizens disgusted with, and exhausted by the grandstanding and character assassination of those who cannot agree to disagree, to live and let live. Explaining her character, Ellen stated, “If you don’t know me very well…. I want to be clear. Here are the values I stand for. I stand for honesty, equality, kindness, compassion, treating people the way you’d want to be treated and helping those in need. To me, those are traditional values. That’s what I stand for.”

Disclosure: Methinks Jennifer Hudson's voice is a wonder, and Adele is a revelation. Don't know much about Lady Gaga, though her tunes are Mandatory Dance Songs if rocking in my kitchen. I haven't viewed Ellen's talk show, and know little about her, either- other than she likes to dance.   

Today, as I surfed through the noise pulsing around Whitney, I discovered their voices.

I read and listened to their words, rather than their images.

Music for Ears. And Eyes.

Dare to disagree.

Dare to hope.

QUING Hereby Decrees: Common sense will be common once we use our senses. Listening gets to go first.....







 

QUING Parties at the Palace with CREAM PUFFS

Some gals have it all. Brains, charisma, kindness of heart, beauty, talent, devoted family and friends, and every gorgeous piece of jewelry ever desired. Years ago, I stepped into one of those gals’ kitchen and noted a sign on her fridge that read: "Miracles Happen." My assumption? Sign means: "It would be a miracle if this lady is as talented in the kitchen as she happens to be in every other aspect of her life."

Lucky for me (and everyone who ventures into her kitchen) my assumption was bunk. Our gal Cathy is a wonder, period. My Top 20 favorite, most sought after recipes? On a list that includes Periyali's organic salmon with spinach and herbs wrapped in phyllo, three of the recipes belong to Cathy. And that’s only because I don’t spend enough time in her kitchen.

You've already viewed her mom, Kaye's, Pizzelles. This Valentine weekend, I give you Cathy's Cream Puffs. Simple to make and spectacular to serve.
 
Sweetheart. Valentine. Darling. Beloved. It doesn't matter what you call your special someone. Make that someone Cathy's Cream Puffs, and expect unwavering devotion (and continuous demands for cream puffs!)
 
Happy Valentine's Day to you and yours.  Gustare!

CATHY'S CREAM PUFFS

Makes 20-22.  Serves 4- 22!

INGREDIENTS

Puffs: 

1 cup water

1/2 cup salted butter.  If using unsalted butter, add 1/4 teaspoon table salt.

1 teaspoon sugar

1 cup flour

4 large eggs (be sure to use large eggs for best results)

Filling:

2 small cartons of heavy cream

1/2 cup confectioner's sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla OR 1 tablespoon Kahlua or Bailey's  

 
 Bring water, butter and sugar to a full rolling boil in a large pot. Add flour all at once and stir vigorously for one minute until the batter comes off the sides of the pan. Remove from heat and cool.

While puffs cool, prepare filling. Combine ingredients in bowl of an electric mixer and whip with wire whisk until consistency of whipped cream. Refrigerate.

When batter has cooled, add eggs one at a time and beat vigorously until paste is shiny and smooth. Drop 1 tablespoon of dough 2 inches apart on a cookie sheet covered with parchment paper. Bake at 400 degrees for 30-40 minutes until golden brown, rotating pans half way through baking time. Cool completely.

Cut in half and gently spoon out doughy part. Fill with whipped cream filling. Drizzle with melted chocolate, or sprinkle with powdered sugar if desired.

METAMORPHOSIS

As the mail arrived this morning I was looking through photographs contrasting the Downton Abbey actors in character, and in 'real life'. The transformation of some of the actors is remarkable.

Unlike piles of bills, more bills and solicitations.

This morning, however, mail carrier delivered hope and joy in a single catalog: "BURPEE 2012."

Grabbing coat, coffee, camera and catalog, I headed outdoors with Pup to survey our gray gardens in slumber.

A few of my dearest friends are avid gardeners. I marvel at their knowledge and expertise. But I completely comprehend their awe of dirt and seeds, seedlings and sunshine - wonders- that with a few nips and tucks transform into colors so bold and vibrant they take one's breath away.

In the dead of winter, take a moment to marvel at the metamorphosis to summer.

Hope.

Joy.  

 

 

 

 

 

DUO

An Unlikely Duo.

 
He is blond and brash. She, dark and sensitive.

He is juvenile. She, mature.

He could use her tutelage. She could learn from his lightheartedness.

Unlikely Duo.

He sleeps at will. She paces.

He is annoying. She is annoyed.

He will persist until he wins her affection.  She sticks to ‘go away.’

Unlikely.

She detested him at first sight. He pursues her. Doggedly.

She can't be bothered.  He can’t imagine why.

She growls. He nudges a pinecone to her paw.

 
Duo.

He tilts his head and stares into her eyes. Unblinking.

She notices.

He is kind of cute.

In a Muppet sort of way.

Dynamic

Duo.

He follows her from rug to grass to woods. She is careful not to step on him.

He cowers when she barks. She lowers her head, allowing a nuzzle.

He hops and wags when the clink of tags and tip-tap of paws announces she is near.

   
She is falling for his charms; eager to guide, play, linger, protect.

Best-Buds?

Soul-Mates-to-be?

Likely.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Life is short. Give cute a chance.

CATCH

Gisele Bundchen, supermodel wife of Tom Brady, is taking some heat for calling out Tommy’s teammates in their Super Bowl loss.

   
“My husband cannot (bleeeeep) throw the ball and catch the ball at the same time,” she retorted to a Giant’s fan who ribbed her about Brady's performance. “I can’t believe they dropped the ball so many times.”

Judgment was swift.

 
But it wasn’t all negative.

Dudes were not happy with Tommy’s snappy spouse. New York Giants running back Brandon Jacobs commented, “She just needs to continue to be cute and shut up.”

But lots of ladies were impressed with this gorgeous woman - who is soon to be the world’s first billionaire supermodel. She had her guy’s back. In Giselle’s smouldering eyes, Tommy's performance was perfect.

Wives took notice. In supermarkets, post offices, athletic clubs and coffee shops across the globe; missuses defended their misters in record numbers.

Overheard (verbatim):

"My husband cannot eat cereal and place the bowl in the sink at the same time. I can't believe serving ware cannot clear itself from the table."

  
"My husband cannot exercise and smell like Old Spice Guy at the same time. I can’t believe commercials say he’s the man my man can smell like."

 
"My husband cannot drink a beer and recycle the bottle at the same time. I can’t believe Waste Management refuses to collect empty bottles from our rugs and counters."

"My husband cannot use tools and put them back where they belong at the same time. I can’t believe Siri was invented for a phone and not a toolbox."

"My husband cannot watch a game on his big screen TV and listen to me at the same time. I can’t believe TVs allows life-size athletes into our living room."

 

"My husband cannot be mesmerized by a piece of technology and be aware of anything else around him. I can’t believe that technology is engineered to be more interesting than I am."

"My husband cannot play golf and mow the lawn at the same time. I can’t believe that weekends only have two days."

"My husband cannot check out that girl who is half his age and pretend he is not checking her out at the same time. I can’t believe God makes attractive girls who are half my husband’s age."

Tom Brady’s Super Bowl may have been a bust.

But his bride’s defense was brilliant.

Can’t help but wonder if Giselle is as good at offense (....playing, not giving.)

Surely she could have one of her favorite designers create haute couture jerseys, pants and cleats.

In Super Bowl XLVII, she can don those duds and play wide receiver for Tommy.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  In victory and loss, Graciousness scores the most points. 

PERKS

The Nielson Company reported that 111.3 million people watched the Super Bowl Sunday night, making it the most-watched TV program in U.S. history, and the highest rated Super Bowl in 26 years.

Asked to recount their favorite moments, fans cited the commercials, the half-time show, and the final three minutes of the game.

My favorite moment happened right after Eli Manning stepped up to the podium to raise the Vince Lombardi trophy. Proudly, he praised his team for staying the course through adversity and injuries, turn-overs, and failed efforts in the red zone.

No quit.

All faith.

Sports Commentator Dan Patrick asked Eli a bunch of questions about the game, and then, with blue and red streamers floating over the stadium, Mr. Patrick put his hand on the victorious quarterback’s shoulder. “Congratulations, Eli Manning!" he called out. "You have been named the MVP of Super Bowl XLVI!”

Wait for it…. my favorite moment!

As the crowd roared its approval, onto the confetti-covered field marched:

50 heifers

100 sheep

99 llamas

10 water buffaloes

101 goats

10 camels

105 pigs

300 rabbits

200 beehives

200 flocks of chicks

150 flocks of ducks

149 flocks of geese

and 

150 red and blue wagons carting 300 saplings.

Dan Patrick gestured to the crowd. The cheers in the stadium diminished. A song beat punctuated with bleats, quacks, squawks, moos, shrieks, snorts, moans and groans rose to the tip of the dome. “This is the Super Bowl ending of your dreams, Eli?” he asked, incredulously.

Surveying the field, Manning leaned over to the microphone, and said, “I am most proud that the opportunity I had to win this great honor means that the poorest of the poor – families in the United States, entire regions of the developing world, and communities in 125 countries – will be empowered and transformed in their daily lives, and able to pass on their good fortune and training to their neighbors and offspring. Thank you to Chevrolet for this literally life-changing gift.”

Forget about 50-some seconds to score, Madonna lip-synching, or canine commercials.  Eli Manning’s VIP moment was the greatest TV moment of the young year, or any year.

Except that I was the only one who watched it. 

It played out in my imagination.

In Lucas Oil Stadium, Dan Patrick named Eli Manning the game MVP, then handed him the keys to a Chevrolet 2012 Corvette Grand Sport Convertible- Centennial Edition.

Top speed: 205 mph.

MSRP on the top of the line vehicle: $128,515.

Eli Manning’s net worth is upwards of 60 million dollars. In 2012, his salary is $10,750,000, not including bonuses or endorsements.

Well –deserved compensation.

Can’t he buy his own car?

Each year, athletes compete for their sport’s most coveted trophy. And all the extras. The Super Bowl MVP not only gets a stunning vehicle, he gets the world’s largest audience.

The subsistence farmers who live on $1 to $2 a day aren’t watching the Super Bowl.

But 111.3 million people who might spend $20 dollars on a flock of chicks are watching.

Imagine if MVP spoke for one minute about Heifer International's mission to work with communities to end hunger and poverty, while caring for the earth. Imagine if MVP talked about giving poor families a hand-up, not just a hand-out, empowering them to turn lives of hunger and poverty into self-reliance and hope.

Say MVP tells those fans this story: In Nepal, a group of women to whom Heifer had supplied goats “built a community meeting room because their village had nowhere for people to gather. They started a micro-financing group through the sale of ginger and marigolds, and women were borrowing for their own projects. They earned enough money to install an electric corn grinder, which eliminated a 5-mile walk up and down the mountain on which they lived. The mothers taught their children about building chicken coops and raising chickens, and the teenagers had successfully raised 1,200 chicks to maturity and were ready to begin with another group.”

The scoreboard then flashes the image of a check - written out to MVP's favorite charity - for the dollar value of the car he just won: 128,515 dollars and 00 cents.

Somewhere in the United States, the developing world, and 125 different countries impoverished families will be given a chance and a skill, along with 50 heifers, 100 sheep, 99 llamas, 10 water buffaloes, 101 goats, 10 camels, 105 pigs, 300 rabbits, 200 beehives, 200 flocks of chicks, 150 flocks of ducks, 149 flocks of geese, and 300 trees.

A perk from the Super Bowl MVP.

What might inspired fans who are watching and listening donate to those in need?

A team of 111.3 million people.

No quit.

All faith.

Super becomes Colossal.

QUING Hereby Decrees: Some perks are for passing on.