In past years, as satirized on Saturday Night Live, Oprah went full out -- often causing a case of 'the vapors' for many women -- during her annual "Favorite Things" show. This was the day that so many viewers wished they could have had the luck of the draw to be in the audience for -- to be able to leave the studio with a truckload of coveted loot. But -- due to the recession, Oprah has announced over the last couple of years that it would be in poor taste to do a show that focused on such pricier items and instead concentrated on free things that could bring as much joy (oh, the crestfallen looks on the poor audience members' faces when they heard this!).
Well, this writer asks, "Why can't we do a favorite things edition, with just a little restraint, instead? In other words, why throw the baby out with the bath water?" To that end, Christabelle presents the top ten items to present your favorite lady in Mandeville this year -- and each is under $50!!!!!!!
1. Bare Escentuals Bare & Healthy Lip Polish. Ohmygosh, I'm not even a girly girl and I'm crazy for this one. If you have lips that are feeling dry and chapped from the onset of winter weather, and are tired of the sameoldsameoldsameold gloss or -- worse -- lipsticks that seem to never be the color on YOU that they are in the tube, then get yourself over to "About Face" in Mandeville http://www.aboutfaceco.com/AF_Home.html and spend the best $18 that your lips have ever seen on one of these. And it's just about impossible to go wrong with any shade.
2. bareMinerals Maximum Coverage Concealer Brush. The most important brush you will ever own. I had mine for years, then lost it several days ago and rushed over to About Face to get another. Would have eaten peanut butter sandwiches for a week to fit this $20 essential into my weekly budget!
3. About a year ago I bought -- for under $30 -- a pair of CZ stud earrings in a truly one-of-a-kind crown setting. They go with jeans, a little black dress, and even with my dance leotards when I want to feel great in ballet class. I bought them during a fun-filled neighborhood show presented by Premier Designs. Click here to find local info: https://gem.premierdesigns.com/public/contactform_pdi25.asp
4. Head over to Fresh Market http://www.thefreshmarket.com/and pick up Republic of Tea's Acerola Cherry Green Tea for your favorite tea drinker. This is one of the 'prettiest' tasting teas, with a high Vitamin C content, and it will set you back a slim $10! While you're there, pick up a fragrant bouquet of roses for your sweetheart. Their flowers last FAR longer than any I have purchased anywhere else and the price couldn't be be better -- under $10 for a dozen!
5. You can't go wrong with a PJ's http://www.pjscoffee.com/ gift card for your favorite giftee -- they start at just $10, which will provide a few fragrant lattes (I prefer chai, myself) inside an Acadian-style cottage on Highway 22.
6. Kmart -- yes, Kmart -- on U.S. 190 in Mandeville, sells a package of 15 environmentally friendly natural wood hangers,http://www.kmart.com/shc/s/search_10151_10104?keyword=wood+hangers&vName=&x=20&y=5 for $14.99. I have bought several packages of these, and they are fantastic for everything from slacks to knits, with no rough spots to snag your clothing.
7. I've got to promote my friend Abby Sands Miller's latest collaborative project -- with OR nurse by day/cougar by night, Rosemary Donnelly: a one-of-a kind cookbook that's fraught with cougar-isms! Being released this month! http://www.cougarinstincts.com/
8. That piano in your living room shouldn't be a still life during the holidays -- it's meant to make music. Why not start making THAT, instead of the television over the mantel (ugh -- whoever came up with that decorating faux pas?!?!?!?!) the focal point of the room? Just a $40 registration fee at the Louisiana Academy of Performing Arts, with its several locations, including one on Girod Street in Old Mandeville, will get the love of your life started or re-started as a musician.
9. While you're out and about, why not take a lunchtime breather at La Madeleine in the Premier Centre, on Highway 190 in Mandeville, with its consistently good fare. My favorite is the grilled chicken Caesar salad with an accompanying cup of hot potato soup, topped with cheddar http://www.lamadeleine.com/menu/lunch#fresh%20salades. If fate shines upon you, you'll be able to snag a table by the fireplace. Cost, including a glass of wine -- under $20 apiece. Yum!
10. Although dessert is tempting at La Madeleine, you might want to take a walk over to T.J. Maxx, also in the Premier Centre, and pick up a few boxes of Harry & David high quality chocolate truffles, discounted at just $5.99 for a dozen! Right now, for the holidays, you can find the special edition of Peppermint Truffles. Double yum!
See, it really doesn't take a whole lot to make a Mandeville lady's holidays a bit brighter. Enjoy!
Monday, December 7, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Fleur de Fall ... From My Diet
Last night was Mary Queen of Peace's 3rd annual Fleur de Fall, a fundraiser of food, music and auctioning. I have never, and I mean NEVER, seen that array of food anywhere else in my life. And I partook of most of it. From station to station, I noshed on pecan crusted fish; vegie spring rolls and mini chicken tenders with hot mustard sauce; an incredible (worth 2 servings) roasted sweet pepper and smoked chicken bisque with cilantro cream; fried catfish and garlic fries (decadent!); turtle soup, salad remoulade (3 servings worth -- amazing!); chicken and andouille gumbo; jambalaya; a variety of cheeses; some wonderful chocolate truffles; and several tastings of dry red wines. For a church function, this felt rather gluttonous, but all for a good cause, and I intend to work off those calories and concomitant sluggishness in a few minutes.
Despite a little gastronomic over-indulging, I can at least congratulate myself for not being tempted by all those odd-colored drinks I saw making their way about. Bright blue liquor -- especially with food -- just doesn't hold much appeal. I understand they fit in with the "sailing the high seas" theme, but those kinds of beverages would likely find their way into the high seas of my bathroom commode at some point in the wee hours of the morning. "Let's not and say we did," is my motto for such whimsical drinks.
The silent auction was every bit as impressive as the food in terms of quality and quantity. I was particularly impressed by some of the art that the school children turned out. In fact, my sole bid was on a wonderful seafood platter that depicted a large red crab in the shape of a fleur de lis with lots of tiny little crabs created by thumb prints (it was accompanied by a gift certificate for seafood), but I did not let the spirit of the evening let me lose all control of my senses and bank account.
Speaking of bank accounts, I feel like the poor relation of this entire city after sitting in awe, watching numerous high rollers bid thouands and thousands of dollars, with apparent abandon, at the live auction. Trips to sporting events, travel packages for Vegas, the French Quarter and so forth, all manner of items signed by the Saints coach or players ... even a meal for four prepared by Monsignor Bill and served at his home went for something like $5,500! The one thing I especially would have loved to have been sufficiently flush to buy ($4,000 was the winning bid) was a very large, antique icon Father Ronnie brought back from Greece. Having studied Russian architecture and icons while at Tulane, and possessing one small icon from my former ballet instructor (now retired in his homeland of Yugoslavia), I really felt the pull for this item, but it was not to be at this time.
I'll bet a lot of parishioners are sleeping in this morning ...
Despite a little gastronomic over-indulging, I can at least congratulate myself for not being tempted by all those odd-colored drinks I saw making their way about. Bright blue liquor -- especially with food -- just doesn't hold much appeal. I understand they fit in with the "sailing the high seas" theme, but those kinds of beverages would likely find their way into the high seas of my bathroom commode at some point in the wee hours of the morning. "Let's not and say we did," is my motto for such whimsical drinks.
The silent auction was every bit as impressive as the food in terms of quality and quantity. I was particularly impressed by some of the art that the school children turned out. In fact, my sole bid was on a wonderful seafood platter that depicted a large red crab in the shape of a fleur de lis with lots of tiny little crabs created by thumb prints (it was accompanied by a gift certificate for seafood), but I did not let the spirit of the evening let me lose all control of my senses and bank account.
Speaking of bank accounts, I feel like the poor relation of this entire city after sitting in awe, watching numerous high rollers bid thouands and thousands of dollars, with apparent abandon, at the live auction. Trips to sporting events, travel packages for Vegas, the French Quarter and so forth, all manner of items signed by the Saints coach or players ... even a meal for four prepared by Monsignor Bill and served at his home went for something like $5,500! The one thing I especially would have loved to have been sufficiently flush to buy ($4,000 was the winning bid) was a very large, antique icon Father Ronnie brought back from Greece. Having studied Russian architecture and icons while at Tulane, and possessing one small icon from my former ballet instructor (now retired in his homeland of Yugoslavia), I really felt the pull for this item, but it was not to be at this time.
I'll bet a lot of parishioners are sleeping in this morning ...
Sunday, November 8, 2009
When a Treehouse Turns on You ...
Quel weekend! And it's not even over yet. Friday afternoon, I had just finished a stint at the keyboard, doing some legal writing, when I started experiencing what I not-so-nicely (but accurately) refer to as "butt death." Time to stretch, get out of the PJs, get cleaned up, go over to Franco's for a workout, and then resume some writing in the evening. After washing up, I gave my vanity mirror a typical quick wipedown when I heard and felt its mammoth weight descend upon me.
This is no ordinary vanity mirror. It's bigger than a door -- covers the entire wall. So when it started coming down, I knew, at once, one really good reason to be married. So I could shout, "Honey, the vanity mirror is falling on me!" But since there was no such person to shout that to, I mustered up all the brute force I could, one bicep supporting the mirror, while the other tended to clearing the counter below. Then, using both arms and not just a little bit of lumbar spine, I eased the mirror down to the cabinet to rest for the time being.
Since the mirror now was taking up the entire dressing room, which leads to the commode and shower, I needed to create an alternate path, through my home office. My office was all a'clutter, so this took well into the evening. A task I'd wanted to get to eventually, but was now necessitated. Meanwhile, I checked on line and in the yellow pages under headings like "rent a husband" or "save writer from losing her mind with one more way her house is betraying her" and left voice mail messages on a couple of home repair numbers.
I received one call back eventually from a guy who said he could be there no earlier than Monday. Meanwhile, my real estate agent/friend called me back -- I'd also left her a message asking if she knew of resources. She said that maybe her very capable husband could find some time over the weekend.
On the bright side, the mirror was not broken. On the not so bright side, I was envisioning another unexpected hit to my bank account, just after, earlier in the week, I'd forked over nearly $700 for new eyeglasses -- and that's with a vision plan discount! On the even dimmer side, was the backache starting to manifest itself, after the initial adrenaline had enabled me to hoist that mirror while emptying the counter -- an awkward and cumbersome task.
My lower back is a cautionary area to begin with, by virtue of my having a hypermobile SI joint. Added to that, I'm not anywhere in the kind of shape I was when I retired from the dance company some 14 years ago. And, I took a brutal trip and fall in August. But -- having decided to give it a go this year for their 30 year anniversary, I was elated last Wednesday night at having a really great rehearsal. I hated to think that my behemoth vanity mirror could be my ultimate downfall.
The next day, I went into the city to teach my round of Saturday morning classes to preschool ballerinas who were in some kind of collective mood. Due to a major function going on in Audubon Park, traffic was crazy and I arrived with no time to catch my breath, cue all of my music, greet the children individually, and proceed calmly. Instead, I felt as out of sorts as they apparently were. It's true, I think, that children do mirror (no pun intended) our own moods. On this particular day, I was all too happy to get out of there, skip afternoon company rehearsal, and get back to Mandeville to see about home repairs. It was small consolation, as I left the studio, to have my arm grabbed by one of the mothers who told me, "Sophie just LOVES you! She thinks you're SO funny!" I mustered up some response about how desperation makes me a real riot by the third class of the day.
As it turned out, my friend's husband had a small window of opportunity, before an LSU game/party, to fix my mirror. He assessed the situation, made a 20-minute run to the hardware store to get what he needed, and then -- following some justifiable cursing about not finding the studs where they should be in the wall -- got the mirror back up there to stay with 35 minutes to spare before his. Turns out that the mirror had never been properly anchored in the first place and was an accident waiting to happen -- much like, I am sorry to say, other aspects of this often traitorous treehouse.
While Mark was re-affixing the errant mirror, I noticed something familiar happening outside my window. Once a year, in late autumn, dads and sons pitch tent out on the Cedarwood School lawn that abuts my back yard. It's a time for a little cross-generational male bonding under the stars. I watched as more and more multi-colored geodesic domes dotted the landscape, resembling a convention of hot air balloons that have made a happy landing. At this point, the boys were dashing about in happy delirium.
What I needed after all of that was some time at Franco's. Nothing like a workout, a long shower, and a sauna to set me right. I stopped home to change, noting that as nightfall loomed, the boys on the school yard were now bursting with excitement, shrieking and running barefoot about the lush green grounds. Minutes later, I headed over to the grand opening of Jose Balli's new gallery/store in Covington featuring his Louisiana-inspired art and jewelry http://www.joseballi.com/?show=Home. N'tini's http://www.ntinis.com/ was on hand with some crab meat dressing, turkey gumbo, jambalaya and bread pudding.
By the time I arrived home, the evening was well settled in. The din from the school yard had abated to just a few young voices in the moonlight calling out "hello,"to anyone within earshot. They couldn't see my responsive smile. I was not without memories of my own about such nights. I recognized their invitation to note, "hey, look at us, we're still up and we're sleeping outside, isn't it great?" Yes, it was. All was right with the world again.
This is no ordinary vanity mirror. It's bigger than a door -- covers the entire wall. So when it started coming down, I knew, at once, one really good reason to be married. So I could shout, "Honey, the vanity mirror is falling on me!" But since there was no such person to shout that to, I mustered up all the brute force I could, one bicep supporting the mirror, while the other tended to clearing the counter below. Then, using both arms and not just a little bit of lumbar spine, I eased the mirror down to the cabinet to rest for the time being.
Since the mirror now was taking up the entire dressing room, which leads to the commode and shower, I needed to create an alternate path, through my home office. My office was all a'clutter, so this took well into the evening. A task I'd wanted to get to eventually, but was now necessitated. Meanwhile, I checked on line and in the yellow pages under headings like "rent a husband" or "save writer from losing her mind with one more way her house is betraying her" and left voice mail messages on a couple of home repair numbers.
I received one call back eventually from a guy who said he could be there no earlier than Monday. Meanwhile, my real estate agent/friend called me back -- I'd also left her a message asking if she knew of resources. She said that maybe her very capable husband could find some time over the weekend.
On the bright side, the mirror was not broken. On the not so bright side, I was envisioning another unexpected hit to my bank account, just after, earlier in the week, I'd forked over nearly $700 for new eyeglasses -- and that's with a vision plan discount! On the even dimmer side, was the backache starting to manifest itself, after the initial adrenaline had enabled me to hoist that mirror while emptying the counter -- an awkward and cumbersome task.
My lower back is a cautionary area to begin with, by virtue of my having a hypermobile SI joint. Added to that, I'm not anywhere in the kind of shape I was when I retired from the dance company some 14 years ago. And, I took a brutal trip and fall in August. But -- having decided to give it a go this year for their 30 year anniversary, I was elated last Wednesday night at having a really great rehearsal. I hated to think that my behemoth vanity mirror could be my ultimate downfall.
The next day, I went into the city to teach my round of Saturday morning classes to preschool ballerinas who were in some kind of collective mood. Due to a major function going on in Audubon Park, traffic was crazy and I arrived with no time to catch my breath, cue all of my music, greet the children individually, and proceed calmly. Instead, I felt as out of sorts as they apparently were. It's true, I think, that children do mirror (no pun intended) our own moods. On this particular day, I was all too happy to get out of there, skip afternoon company rehearsal, and get back to Mandeville to see about home repairs. It was small consolation, as I left the studio, to have my arm grabbed by one of the mothers who told me, "Sophie just LOVES you! She thinks you're SO funny!" I mustered up some response about how desperation makes me a real riot by the third class of the day.
As it turned out, my friend's husband had a small window of opportunity, before an LSU game/party, to fix my mirror. He assessed the situation, made a 20-minute run to the hardware store to get what he needed, and then -- following some justifiable cursing about not finding the studs where they should be in the wall -- got the mirror back up there to stay with 35 minutes to spare before his. Turns out that the mirror had never been properly anchored in the first place and was an accident waiting to happen -- much like, I am sorry to say, other aspects of this often traitorous treehouse.
While Mark was re-affixing the errant mirror, I noticed something familiar happening outside my window. Once a year, in late autumn, dads and sons pitch tent out on the Cedarwood School lawn that abuts my back yard. It's a time for a little cross-generational male bonding under the stars. I watched as more and more multi-colored geodesic domes dotted the landscape, resembling a convention of hot air balloons that have made a happy landing. At this point, the boys were dashing about in happy delirium.
What I needed after all of that was some time at Franco's. Nothing like a workout, a long shower, and a sauna to set me right. I stopped home to change, noting that as nightfall loomed, the boys on the school yard were now bursting with excitement, shrieking and running barefoot about the lush green grounds. Minutes later, I headed over to the grand opening of Jose Balli's new gallery/store in Covington featuring his Louisiana-inspired art and jewelry http://www.joseballi.com/?show=Home. N'tini's http://www.ntinis.com/ was on hand with some crab meat dressing, turkey gumbo, jambalaya and bread pudding.
By the time I arrived home, the evening was well settled in. The din from the school yard had abated to just a few young voices in the moonlight calling out "hello,"to anyone within earshot. They couldn't see my responsive smile. I was not without memories of my own about such nights. I recognized their invitation to note, "hey, look at us, we're still up and we're sleeping outside, isn't it great?" Yes, it was. All was right with the world again.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Dear People of Mandeville
For all who were not at City Hall yesterday, I'd like to share the gist of my initial address in my quest to become interim mayor.
Five months. That doesn't seem like a lot of time in the great scheme of things, does it? More on that in a moment. I first want to establish that I am well acquainted with the mechanics of local government. As a young journalist, I spent many years covering both state and local news, from city hall meetings -- like the one we're having today, to elections -- such as we anticipate here in the spring, to public works projects projects -- ranging from something as enormous as deep tunnel sewers in a large city, to getting a working snow blower in a small town. But in addition to my experience in journalistic and legal matters, I also know a thing or two about children. I not only grew up the oldest girl of 10 of them, but I've also been an educator for nearly 20 years. I have taught children of all economic backgrounds, ethnicities, and capabilities -- both physical and intellectual. One of the local papers reported that "Rukavina's focus seems to be on children." Well, yes it is. Because they comprise a large segment of this community's population. And what all of these children have in common is one thing: They are going to inherit, in a few short years, the vestiges of the mess that this country is in. I want to put a positive spin on that looming challenge. As interim mayor, I intend to light a fire under them -- to get them excited and interested in local government as a living, breathing entity that not only affects them, but which they themselves can positively and profoundly affect, long before they reach voting age. This is not only an important step in their development, but will also serve the rest of us well, as we all become older and they assume more responsibilities and control. I know something else about children, too. They are a lot quicker on the uptake than you or I. They have shown me time and again just how much they can learn in a few short weeks. What I can do with them in just five months as interim mayor could be astounding. On another note, you are all aware that this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and accordingly, I am also doing this for all the women like myself who have to fight this insidious disease -- to urge all of them to dream big. I have already demonstrated that a 48-year-old cancer survivor can become the oldest person ever accepted into a dance major program in the history of Louisiana, and achieve a 4.0. I would love to show you what I can also do with the challenge of serving as interim mayor. Thank you.
Five months. That doesn't seem like a lot of time in the great scheme of things, does it? More on that in a moment. I first want to establish that I am well acquainted with the mechanics of local government. As a young journalist, I spent many years covering both state and local news, from city hall meetings -- like the one we're having today, to elections -- such as we anticipate here in the spring, to public works projects projects -- ranging from something as enormous as deep tunnel sewers in a large city, to getting a working snow blower in a small town. But in addition to my experience in journalistic and legal matters, I also know a thing or two about children. I not only grew up the oldest girl of 10 of them, but I've also been an educator for nearly 20 years. I have taught children of all economic backgrounds, ethnicities, and capabilities -- both physical and intellectual. One of the local papers reported that "Rukavina's focus seems to be on children." Well, yes it is. Because they comprise a large segment of this community's population. And what all of these children have in common is one thing: They are going to inherit, in a few short years, the vestiges of the mess that this country is in. I want to put a positive spin on that looming challenge. As interim mayor, I intend to light a fire under them -- to get them excited and interested in local government as a living, breathing entity that not only affects them, but which they themselves can positively and profoundly affect, long before they reach voting age. This is not only an important step in their development, but will also serve the rest of us well, as we all become older and they assume more responsibilities and control. I know something else about children, too. They are a lot quicker on the uptake than you or I. They have shown me time and again just how much they can learn in a few short weeks. What I can do with them in just five months as interim mayor could be astounding. On another note, you are all aware that this is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and accordingly, I am also doing this for all the women like myself who have to fight this insidious disease -- to urge all of them to dream big. I have already demonstrated that a 48-year-old cancer survivor can become the oldest person ever accepted into a dance major program in the history of Louisiana, and achieve a 4.0. I would love to show you what I can also do with the challenge of serving as interim mayor. Thank you.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
An Elevated Lifestyle
Back in the late 1970s, when I first began my newspaper career, I researched and wrote a piece about underground homes. Even in the smalltown, semi-rural area where I cut my teeth as a journalist, there were a few mavericks who opted for this type of residence. What fueled interest in such homes at that time was a combination of the energy crisis and heightened fear about the prospect of nuclear winter. But make no mistake about it -- these new age dwellers wanted you to know that their homes might be "low" in stature but high in amenities and comfort.
In fact, not long after I wrote my article, the founder of Celestial Seasonings Tea Company, John Hays, "carved out" what had to be the most opulent underground dwelling of all, in an Arkansas mountainside, complete with stalactites, in preparation for what he believed was the looming holocaust. This luxurious bomb shelter later became the subject of a layout in People magazine, when John's wife, several years later, decided that the couple was no longer in imminent danger and tried to sell the multi-million dollar property.
The property was sold to a fellow who thought it would make a fantastic nightclub; he fixed it up further and even added a heliport. The grand opening saw the likes of Michael Jackson, Liz Taylor, Tom Selleck and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Although the club was an initial hit, it closed after a year for not being sufficiently profitable. The property was sold again and again (in fact, at one point, back to the original owner) and went through various troubles until finally being converted into a lodge in 1998 which has served it well ever since.
Now I bring all of this up because the topic of underground living has been making recent headlines -- but not at all in the same way or for the same reasons as previously.
You see, in the several years that I've owned my "treehouse," I've come to love the feeling of sleeping in the trees, even though that might be a bit of a stretch -- literally. That is, if I reached my hand outside any window on the 2nd floor, I could touch one of the towering pines that surround my home, and so I feel I have made a presentable case for deeming this a "treehouse," which, by definition, connotes a physical loftiness. A sanctuary in which to transcend the travails of common life.
That is why I've lately become fascinated with the lives of underground dwellers, such as those romanticized in the former TV series, "Beauty and the Beast." TV magazine shows have focused recently on people who live in the underground drains in Las Vegas. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people there have found a niche in these dank, cavernous places, and somehow made them "home," with beds, books, perhaps even a rigged up shower. There is no ventilation, no light except for flashlights or candles. There is the ever present danger presented by co-residing black widow spider, as well as by the prospect of rain/flooding, which has claimed some 20 lives to date.
These creatures, which call to mind the "Omega Man" mutants who can't stand daylight, periodically emerge to make their "living," scouring the slot machines for coins and credit slips, "earning" as much as $500 a day. Yet, they still cannot permanently pull themselves out from their hovels. As it turns out, many of them found their way into this lifestyle via drug and alcohol dependency which they now claim to have beaten, although a few still fear coming back up in to the general populace due to outstanding drug-related arrest warrants.
Reading between the lines, it also seems that these folks have found a strange comfort level in living immediately below the glitz and glamour and cacophony that defines the Vegas strip. And who's to say which is more aberrant?
This way of life is getting a lot of press because of the ongoing deep recession that has affected all of us.
But, it is actually nothing new. Decades back, stories abounded about the "mole people" of New York such as this one dating back to 1990: http://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/13/nyregion/in-tunnel-mole-people-fight-to-save-home.html
And now that more people than ever are out of work or underemployed, uninsured or underinsured, such tales of Hades-esque survival are resurfacing: http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/notes_from_the_underground_cBpY2m15R9J0ysIm58QK1M .
Not exactly the kind of New York that would ever show up in a segment of "Sex and the City," but compelling nonetheless.
Oddly, resorting to the underworld is not relegated solely to major metropolises: http://www.clickorlando.com/news/14673988/detail.html
In these times, I am more grateful than ever to be "above ground."
In fact, not long after I wrote my article, the founder of Celestial Seasonings Tea Company, John Hays, "carved out" what had to be the most opulent underground dwelling of all, in an Arkansas mountainside, complete with stalactites, in preparation for what he believed was the looming holocaust. This luxurious bomb shelter later became the subject of a layout in People magazine, when John's wife, several years later, decided that the couple was no longer in imminent danger and tried to sell the multi-million dollar property.
The property was sold to a fellow who thought it would make a fantastic nightclub; he fixed it up further and even added a heliport. The grand opening saw the likes of Michael Jackson, Liz Taylor, Tom Selleck and Arnold Schwarzenegger. Although the club was an initial hit, it closed after a year for not being sufficiently profitable. The property was sold again and again (in fact, at one point, back to the original owner) and went through various troubles until finally being converted into a lodge in 1998 which has served it well ever since.
Now I bring all of this up because the topic of underground living has been making recent headlines -- but not at all in the same way or for the same reasons as previously.
You see, in the several years that I've owned my "treehouse," I've come to love the feeling of sleeping in the trees, even though that might be a bit of a stretch -- literally. That is, if I reached my hand outside any window on the 2nd floor, I could touch one of the towering pines that surround my home, and so I feel I have made a presentable case for deeming this a "treehouse," which, by definition, connotes a physical loftiness. A sanctuary in which to transcend the travails of common life.
That is why I've lately become fascinated with the lives of underground dwellers, such as those romanticized in the former TV series, "Beauty and the Beast." TV magazine shows have focused recently on people who live in the underground drains in Las Vegas. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people there have found a niche in these dank, cavernous places, and somehow made them "home," with beds, books, perhaps even a rigged up shower. There is no ventilation, no light except for flashlights or candles. There is the ever present danger presented by co-residing black widow spider, as well as by the prospect of rain/flooding, which has claimed some 20 lives to date.
These creatures, which call to mind the "Omega Man" mutants who can't stand daylight, periodically emerge to make their "living," scouring the slot machines for coins and credit slips, "earning" as much as $500 a day. Yet, they still cannot permanently pull themselves out from their hovels. As it turns out, many of them found their way into this lifestyle via drug and alcohol dependency which they now claim to have beaten, although a few still fear coming back up in to the general populace due to outstanding drug-related arrest warrants.
Reading between the lines, it also seems that these folks have found a strange comfort level in living immediately below the glitz and glamour and cacophony that defines the Vegas strip. And who's to say which is more aberrant?
This way of life is getting a lot of press because of the ongoing deep recession that has affected all of us.
But, it is actually nothing new. Decades back, stories abounded about the "mole people" of New York such as this one dating back to 1990: http://www.nytimes.com/1990/06/13/nyregion/in-tunnel-mole-people-fight-to-save-home.html
And now that more people than ever are out of work or underemployed, uninsured or underinsured, such tales of Hades-esque survival are resurfacing: http://www.nypost.com/p/entertainment/notes_from_the_underground_cBpY2m15R9J0ysIm58QK1M .
Not exactly the kind of New York that would ever show up in a segment of "Sex and the City," but compelling nonetheless.
Oddly, resorting to the underworld is not relegated solely to major metropolises: http://www.clickorlando.com/news/14673988/detail.html
In these times, I am more grateful than ever to be "above ground."
Friday, September 18, 2009
Last one out, please shut off the lights ...
There's a reason, I'm beginning to see, that I have somehow found myself residing in a treehouse of sorts in Mandeville, Louisiana. It's apparent that divine intervention led me to a place which -- although creating the inherent need for me to commute quite a bit -- offers me solace during stressful times.
It's not just the stress that is concomitant with continuing to assemble a new life after Katrina.
And, it's not just the stress that accompanies the enormous medical and financial challenges I've dealt with since May 2008, arising from the actions of an unscrupulous dentist.
There's something else going on. Something much bigger. It's the animosity that people display these days. Ted Kennedy dies and the Times Picayune's comment section below the story is bursting with largely vitriolic barbs, seemingly written with great pleasure. Not only do the posters jab at the deceased, but at each other, with a "can you top this" relish.
Just when I wonder if perhaps this is something attributable to demographics, I read, several days later, in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel (the newspaper of my hometown where I maintain a very modest lake retreat), that the Wauwatosa (suburb) school superintendent now regrets his decision regarding our president's recent address to school children. Seems that Mr. Ertl actually "banned" the address from being heard. And now -- perhaps due to not gaining as much support for his decision as he'd anticipated -- he waffles after the fact.
You know, I remember these comic books we received in grade school in the early 1960s, during the Cold War. They actually more resembled the type of graphic/comic works that have become quite the trend as of late. The ones I recall reading as a 10-year-old portrayed Russians as being sinister creatures lurking everywhere, under my bed, just outside my door, in the closet ... just waiting to pounce upon me and turn me into a Communist.
Well, I have news. The bogeyman is alive and well. And he's right here, even in my bucolic semi-rural setting. He lives in you and he lives in me, every time we pre-judge and condemn, every time we practice intolerance, every time we react with knee jerks and fear and ignorance, instead of with compassion, independent judgment, critical thinking, and the willingness to lend consideration to the beliefs and ideas of others.
We don't need anyone else's help to diminish our country and the principles upon which it was founded. We are doing just fine on our own.
It's not just the stress that is concomitant with continuing to assemble a new life after Katrina.
And, it's not just the stress that accompanies the enormous medical and financial challenges I've dealt with since May 2008, arising from the actions of an unscrupulous dentist.
There's something else going on. Something much bigger. It's the animosity that people display these days. Ted Kennedy dies and the Times Picayune's comment section below the story is bursting with largely vitriolic barbs, seemingly written with great pleasure. Not only do the posters jab at the deceased, but at each other, with a "can you top this" relish.
Just when I wonder if perhaps this is something attributable to demographics, I read, several days later, in the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel (the newspaper of my hometown where I maintain a very modest lake retreat), that the Wauwatosa (suburb) school superintendent now regrets his decision regarding our president's recent address to school children. Seems that Mr. Ertl actually "banned" the address from being heard. And now -- perhaps due to not gaining as much support for his decision as he'd anticipated -- he waffles after the fact.
You know, I remember these comic books we received in grade school in the early 1960s, during the Cold War. They actually more resembled the type of graphic/comic works that have become quite the trend as of late. The ones I recall reading as a 10-year-old portrayed Russians as being sinister creatures lurking everywhere, under my bed, just outside my door, in the closet ... just waiting to pounce upon me and turn me into a Communist.
Well, I have news. The bogeyman is alive and well. And he's right here, even in my bucolic semi-rural setting. He lives in you and he lives in me, every time we pre-judge and condemn, every time we practice intolerance, every time we react with knee jerks and fear and ignorance, instead of with compassion, independent judgment, critical thinking, and the willingness to lend consideration to the beliefs and ideas of others.
We don't need anyone else's help to diminish our country and the principles upon which it was founded. We are doing just fine on our own.
Friday, September 11, 2009
Sometimes an ordinary notion ...
It's been 8 years since 9/11. A little over 4 since Katrina. And, gosh, how many years, or months, or weeks, or days, can we say since THE RECESSION began? No wonder, that feeling unsettled has become my modus operandi.
Of course, we know it's important to be present and to live in the moment. We're told that all the time by many who are sagacious on paper. People who never really needed reason to be counseled about fixating on the moment at hand. But when the timeline of your life really is a roller coaster, it's not so romantic a notion.
I love my treehouse in the semi-woods. And, I love my Sarah Crewe garret in Wisconsin. And, I don't mind working hard to hang onto both of these places. But, I do mind working at my main job in an atmosphere in which I really don't know, from day to day, what will happen in terms of staff, much less raises, bonuses and such. There's a pall, like a heavy duty nun's umbrella that casts a shadow so vast that sometimes I have to stretch very hard to see the sun.
The truth is, I wouldn't mind these days being a little bored. To have a routine that is fixed and stable long enough for me to exhale for a minute or two. And I wish that for those of my friends whom I know to be going through similar breath-holding.
It's not easy to be optimally creative when what's just outside the proverbial cave is potentially ominous.
So, tonight I won't write of the traveling I've done, the people I've reconnected with, or the various irons in the fire that I've got going on these days. Instead, on this anniversary of an event that took more than a little of our collective innocence away, I'll just sip a glass of red wine, take a hot bath, and pray for a tomorrow for all of us that contains just a little more joy and a little less stress.
Good night.
Of course, we know it's important to be present and to live in the moment. We're told that all the time by many who are sagacious on paper. People who never really needed reason to be counseled about fixating on the moment at hand. But when the timeline of your life really is a roller coaster, it's not so romantic a notion.
I love my treehouse in the semi-woods. And, I love my Sarah Crewe garret in Wisconsin. And, I don't mind working hard to hang onto both of these places. But, I do mind working at my main job in an atmosphere in which I really don't know, from day to day, what will happen in terms of staff, much less raises, bonuses and such. There's a pall, like a heavy duty nun's umbrella that casts a shadow so vast that sometimes I have to stretch very hard to see the sun.
The truth is, I wouldn't mind these days being a little bored. To have a routine that is fixed and stable long enough for me to exhale for a minute or two. And I wish that for those of my friends whom I know to be going through similar breath-holding.
It's not easy to be optimally creative when what's just outside the proverbial cave is potentially ominous.
So, tonight I won't write of the traveling I've done, the people I've reconnected with, or the various irons in the fire that I've got going on these days. Instead, on this anniversary of an event that took more than a little of our collective innocence away, I'll just sip a glass of red wine, take a hot bath, and pray for a tomorrow for all of us that contains just a little more joy and a little less stress.
Good night.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Bigger than Picasso?
Blessed be the month of August. On one hand, it is deplorably hot and humid in Louisiana. On the other, it is the month in which I get a reprieve of sorts. Ballet camps are over. Children's ballet lessons are on hiatus until the fall. And I have met my latest magazine deadine in good stead.
So, there is much I could be catching up with. But instead, I have chosen to do summertime things. Yesterday, I rose fairly late, then browsed briefly through Barnes & Noble (which, in Mandeville, is in a tasteful, laid back shopping center -- no malls in this neck of the woods -- with an assemblage of pines offering nice curb appeal).
Then on to a hair salon for a "serious" haircut. The salon is named after the owner who is named after a goddess. A good omen, I'd hoped. Over the years, I have resorted to taking a scissors to my own mane, due to traumatic experiences with "professionals" who are either hearing impaired or simply don't really care about the customer's stated specifications.
The end result was okay. I'd asked for layers -- lots of 'em -- as I have a great deal of natural wave that I'd rather not have to keep fighting into submission. I got some nice layers, although I would have preferred hanging onto more length. However, hair, unlike many other aspects of the human body, can grow quickly back. Anyway, it is a fait accompli for now, a great haircut for the dog days of summer.
Today, after 9:30 Mass where we were once again graced by our wonderful storytelling priest, I found myself driving past the intersection where I'd normally turn onto my street and kept heading straight towards Ponchatoula. From Mandeville over the bridge to the quaint town of Madisonville on the Tchefuncte River, and then nothing but miles of country road flanked by unwieldy shrubbery, wildflowers and all manner of tree life taking shapes and forms as if in some kind of strange competition.
The area prior to Ponchatoula is Bedico. It's hard to explain. You can't see much of any type of community. Most of the homes are (apparently) well off the main roadway. The homes that lie alongside the road are in no apparent pattern. Everything from shanties to one sort of Gone With The Wind inspired mini plantation. Besides that, there are a few Baptist churches, one or two independently owned gas stations, and a storage facility that boasts temperature control.
Along the way, I also saw for sale a vintage orange pickup with cream colored roof and a red sports car. A stuffed armchair in faded plaid was there for the taking. And signs affixed to telephone poles offered phone numbers for vinyl siding, tree grinding and such.
I arrived in the "antiques capital of America" shortly before noon. Since no shops were yet open, I went to Paul's Cafe, which is straight out of Lake Woebegon. Right before I entered the eatery, I noted that in front of the shop next door, which sells religious articles, was a display -- a resin version of the 10 Commandments tablets set upon an easel. Immediately behind them in the window was a sign advertising how to get certified to carry a concealed weapon. Interesting juxtaposition there.
I stood for a moment allowing a man in a Stetson and his missus to leave before I entered and proceeded to the sink in the back hallway to wash my hands. About half of the tables were full --it was not yet peak time at the cafe, but I opted to sit at the counter where I bravely ordered onion rings and an Abita beer. I don't think I've had onion rings in 15-20 years, but it seemed like the thing to have at the moment.
As I munched away, I thought of what a far cry this was from the fare I'd seen whipped up in the movie "Julie and Julia" last night. I'd gone with a friend and even though I'd had the foresight to pick up the tickets that afternoon to avoid standing in long lines in the muggy weather, I hadn't counted on most other people having the same idea. The theater was almost completely full when we entered leaving us no recourse but to sit in the 3rd row from the front, which I couldn't recall doing since childhood. My friend swore that when Julia Child was served this beautiful plate of fish in a Paris restaurant early in the film, she could actually smell the butter. It was that kind of movie -- just had you aching for some splendid fare, preferably al fresco in some cool night air with great companionship.
And yet, here I was the next day, making onion rings and a frosty beer my choice of 'delicacy.' Well, in Rome -- or, in this case, Ponchatoula ...
After leaving the cafe, I wandered in and out of a few shops. The last was one of those antique stores that is chock-a-block with vintage items that must have taken years to find their way to this destination. The owner was sitting comfortably behind his makeshift counter, chatting away with an old friend.
"Do you need some help?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Doesn't everyone?" I responded. We laughed together like old friends. I swear there is something about these communities and their Americana appeal that brings out a relaxed side of me -- as if there is nothing more pressing to do that day than muse about everyday things. And so we did. We spoke of the double-edged swordedness of the internet, the escalation of crime even in smalltown America, and eventually, of the recent passing of an artist in the town.
Bill Hemmerling was a window dresser for a Sears store. He didn't even know he was an artist until the last few years of his life. He was an innocent man who one day approached a furniture store and asked if he could have a go at decorating its front window display. He put his paintings in that window, and within no time, his Louisiana themed works, laced with pathos and history, were embraced by art collectors throughout America.
The antique shop owner (who sold me a vintage bookcase and hauled it into my vehicle for me, for the total price of $131) said that "Bill" had been a close friend of his. "I do some painting myself," he told me. "You know, Bill made a new painting every single day. He never was at a lost for subject matter. Me, I was always trying to find something new. But not Bill."
He became emotional when describing the funeral of Hemmerling, who succumbed to cancer after his glorious but all too brief artistic career. "You know Rodrigue, the blue dog artist?" he asked me. I nodded. "Rodrigue told me, in all seriousness, that in years to come, Bill's fame will surpass Picasso's."
The shopkeeper still keeps a couple stack of postcards of Hemmerling's work on the counter. I took a couple of them as lagniappe to my purchase. It's funny -- I actually touched, with my bare fingers, a Picasso sculpture at the Milwaukee Art Museum, last spring (it only lasted a split second and I couldn't help myself right before the security guard gave me a cautionary glance). But these postcards, they're the closest I've gotten so far to the work of this small town Louisiana folk artist.
So, there is much I could be catching up with. But instead, I have chosen to do summertime things. Yesterday, I rose fairly late, then browsed briefly through Barnes & Noble (which, in Mandeville, is in a tasteful, laid back shopping center -- no malls in this neck of the woods -- with an assemblage of pines offering nice curb appeal).
Then on to a hair salon for a "serious" haircut. The salon is named after the owner who is named after a goddess. A good omen, I'd hoped. Over the years, I have resorted to taking a scissors to my own mane, due to traumatic experiences with "professionals" who are either hearing impaired or simply don't really care about the customer's stated specifications.
The end result was okay. I'd asked for layers -- lots of 'em -- as I have a great deal of natural wave that I'd rather not have to keep fighting into submission. I got some nice layers, although I would have preferred hanging onto more length. However, hair, unlike many other aspects of the human body, can grow quickly back. Anyway, it is a fait accompli for now, a great haircut for the dog days of summer.
Today, after 9:30 Mass where we were once again graced by our wonderful storytelling priest, I found myself driving past the intersection where I'd normally turn onto my street and kept heading straight towards Ponchatoula. From Mandeville over the bridge to the quaint town of Madisonville on the Tchefuncte River, and then nothing but miles of country road flanked by unwieldy shrubbery, wildflowers and all manner of tree life taking shapes and forms as if in some kind of strange competition.
The area prior to Ponchatoula is Bedico. It's hard to explain. You can't see much of any type of community. Most of the homes are (apparently) well off the main roadway. The homes that lie alongside the road are in no apparent pattern. Everything from shanties to one sort of Gone With The Wind inspired mini plantation. Besides that, there are a few Baptist churches, one or two independently owned gas stations, and a storage facility that boasts temperature control.
Along the way, I also saw for sale a vintage orange pickup with cream colored roof and a red sports car. A stuffed armchair in faded plaid was there for the taking. And signs affixed to telephone poles offered phone numbers for vinyl siding, tree grinding and such.
I arrived in the "antiques capital of America" shortly before noon. Since no shops were yet open, I went to Paul's Cafe, which is straight out of Lake Woebegon. Right before I entered the eatery, I noted that in front of the shop next door, which sells religious articles, was a display -- a resin version of the 10 Commandments tablets set upon an easel. Immediately behind them in the window was a sign advertising how to get certified to carry a concealed weapon. Interesting juxtaposition there.
I stood for a moment allowing a man in a Stetson and his missus to leave before I entered and proceeded to the sink in the back hallway to wash my hands. About half of the tables were full --it was not yet peak time at the cafe, but I opted to sit at the counter where I bravely ordered onion rings and an Abita beer. I don't think I've had onion rings in 15-20 years, but it seemed like the thing to have at the moment.
As I munched away, I thought of what a far cry this was from the fare I'd seen whipped up in the movie "Julie and Julia" last night. I'd gone with a friend and even though I'd had the foresight to pick up the tickets that afternoon to avoid standing in long lines in the muggy weather, I hadn't counted on most other people having the same idea. The theater was almost completely full when we entered leaving us no recourse but to sit in the 3rd row from the front, which I couldn't recall doing since childhood. My friend swore that when Julia Child was served this beautiful plate of fish in a Paris restaurant early in the film, she could actually smell the butter. It was that kind of movie -- just had you aching for some splendid fare, preferably al fresco in some cool night air with great companionship.
And yet, here I was the next day, making onion rings and a frosty beer my choice of 'delicacy.' Well, in Rome -- or, in this case, Ponchatoula ...
After leaving the cafe, I wandered in and out of a few shops. The last was one of those antique stores that is chock-a-block with vintage items that must have taken years to find their way to this destination. The owner was sitting comfortably behind his makeshift counter, chatting away with an old friend.
"Do you need some help?" he asked good-naturedly.
"Doesn't everyone?" I responded. We laughed together like old friends. I swear there is something about these communities and their Americana appeal that brings out a relaxed side of me -- as if there is nothing more pressing to do that day than muse about everyday things. And so we did. We spoke of the double-edged swordedness of the internet, the escalation of crime even in smalltown America, and eventually, of the recent passing of an artist in the town.
Bill Hemmerling was a window dresser for a Sears store. He didn't even know he was an artist until the last few years of his life. He was an innocent man who one day approached a furniture store and asked if he could have a go at decorating its front window display. He put his paintings in that window, and within no time, his Louisiana themed works, laced with pathos and history, were embraced by art collectors throughout America.
The antique shop owner (who sold me a vintage bookcase and hauled it into my vehicle for me, for the total price of $131) said that "Bill" had been a close friend of his. "I do some painting myself," he told me. "You know, Bill made a new painting every single day. He never was at a lost for subject matter. Me, I was always trying to find something new. But not Bill."
He became emotional when describing the funeral of Hemmerling, who succumbed to cancer after his glorious but all too brief artistic career. "You know Rodrigue, the blue dog artist?" he asked me. I nodded. "Rodrigue told me, in all seriousness, that in years to come, Bill's fame will surpass Picasso's."
The shopkeeper still keeps a couple stack of postcards of Hemmerling's work on the counter. I took a couple of them as lagniappe to my purchase. It's funny -- I actually touched, with my bare fingers, a Picasso sculpture at the Milwaukee Art Museum, last spring (it only lasted a split second and I couldn't help myself right before the security guard gave me a cautionary glance). But these postcards, they're the closest I've gotten so far to the work of this small town Louisiana folk artist.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
They just keep goin' and goin' and goin'
Today marks 20 consecutive days now of wearing the same pants to the office -- and still no one has noticed/commented. What started out as an experiment in frugality during this recession has started getting more and more interesting.
Note: I do not wear the pants on casual Fridays because that would be unnecessarily pushing this little experiment. However, every Monday through Thursday, the pants go to work.
I initially wore the same blazer with the pants, but even I got a little sick of that early on, so I began rotating two different blazers (like the pants, from Goodwill).
I may, however, have to go back to wearing the same blazer each day, just to see if that makes a difference.
The result of this experiment so far:
1. People really don't notice all the little (and sometimes big) things about us nearly to the extent we think they do. (Even if they did, you can hardly be fired for wearing the same outfit to work each day).
2. It's kind of nice not having to wonder what I'm wearing each morning. Sure streamlines getting ready.
Note: I do not wear the pants on casual Fridays because that would be unnecessarily pushing this little experiment. However, every Monday through Thursday, the pants go to work.
I initially wore the same blazer with the pants, but even I got a little sick of that early on, so I began rotating two different blazers (like the pants, from Goodwill).
I may, however, have to go back to wearing the same blazer each day, just to see if that makes a difference.
The result of this experiment so far:
1. People really don't notice all the little (and sometimes big) things about us nearly to the extent we think they do. (Even if they did, you can hardly be fired for wearing the same outfit to work each day).
2. It's kind of nice not having to wonder what I'm wearing each morning. Sure streamlines getting ready.
Monday, June 29, 2009
I think that I will never see, something lovely as a tree ... house
Heavenly night. An hour and 15 minutes from the time I leave the New Orleans CBD (which abuts the French Quarter), I arrive back at the treehouse, where it smells divine. After 114 degree heat advisory, the rain has come. Not the torrential variety like we had last night, which created a plethora of lakes around the treehouse and makes me run to unplug everything that could possibly fry from lightning, but the steady, gentle, comforting kind that makes the air smell achingly sweet and fresh, and nourishes the staggering pines that surround me.
Several people asked me in New Orleans over the weekend when/if I was moving back to the south shore. They still don't understand that I'm bitten.
Bitten by all things small and wonderful. Like alighting from my car to see kids learn the basics of baseball on the green expanse out back. Like neighbors sitting on porches greeting me by name as I walk from my trusty Rocinante to the mailbox where a letter from my mother awaits. I know who's retired, who's working and where, and who's nuts. They, in turn, know me as the lady whose piano they hear while taking their dogs out for their nightly constitutionals. They like it, they say. So professional sounding, they say. Where could I find critics this generous in the city?
The thunder begins to rumble from a distance. The air conditioner hums contentedly. It's time to drain the pasta, have a glass of table wine, and curl up with a book from the library of children's literature at the top of the stairs. No ballet teaching tonight -- the children are enjoying a 4th of July holiday from the school all week.
A treehouse is a wonderful thing on a rainy evening in late June in Mandeville.
Several people asked me in New Orleans over the weekend when/if I was moving back to the south shore. They still don't understand that I'm bitten.
Bitten by all things small and wonderful. Like alighting from my car to see kids learn the basics of baseball on the green expanse out back. Like neighbors sitting on porches greeting me by name as I walk from my trusty Rocinante to the mailbox where a letter from my mother awaits. I know who's retired, who's working and where, and who's nuts. They, in turn, know me as the lady whose piano they hear while taking their dogs out for their nightly constitutionals. They like it, they say. So professional sounding, they say. Where could I find critics this generous in the city?
The thunder begins to rumble from a distance. The air conditioner hums contentedly. It's time to drain the pasta, have a glass of table wine, and curl up with a book from the library of children's literature at the top of the stairs. No ballet teaching tonight -- the children are enjoying a 4th of July holiday from the school all week.
A treehouse is a wonderful thing on a rainy evening in late June in Mandeville.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Saturday Part Two: Do As I Say, Not As I Do, and Please Don't Notice My Tiramisu
After teaching the tots, I took the barre portion of advanced ballet, during which I found that I actually need a whole barre these days before my feet will respond to flexing and pointing. Wow -- that taught me that I am going to have to start being religious about 'articulating' my feet on a daily basis.
I picked up "Rocinante," who was getting an oil change and tuneup, then headed down to my office on the edge of the French Quarter to take care of a little bit of business, before returning Uptown to have lunch with the school director at Reginelli's. Now I was just fine with my salad of mixed greens, tomatoes, feta cheese, grilled chicken, and green apples, but the director is the mother of all sweet tooths/teeth(????) and she twisted my arm into splitting some incredibly decadent tiramisu. Uh oh, if the children could have seen their teachers eating "bad food!"
We hung out in her Garden District home, musing over plans for the school in the fall. I must say, from all accounts elsewhere, we have been blessed. We've got two studios in the school and we could easily fill a third studio with the students who continue coming our way. Seems that there are many people who really do appreciate a genuine classical ballet school that remains true to what it first started out to be, with emphasis on a firm foundation of ballet taught in a nurturing but disciplined atmosphere, instead of competition or trophies or diversion into a million other dance forms. There are schools for that and they are fine for people who desire that, but it's nice to know there's still an appreciation for tradition, too.
I drove back over the bridge to the treehouse while listening to Steve Martin play his banjo on "Prairie Home Companion," followed by an account of the goings on in Lake Woebegon. It was truly one of Garrison Keillor's best monologues to date. The audience (and I, in my car) were howling. Catch it on tomorrow (Sunday's) repeat performance if you can.
I picked up "Rocinante," who was getting an oil change and tuneup, then headed down to my office on the edge of the French Quarter to take care of a little bit of business, before returning Uptown to have lunch with the school director at Reginelli's. Now I was just fine with my salad of mixed greens, tomatoes, feta cheese, grilled chicken, and green apples, but the director is the mother of all sweet tooths/teeth(????) and she twisted my arm into splitting some incredibly decadent tiramisu. Uh oh, if the children could have seen their teachers eating "bad food!"
We hung out in her Garden District home, musing over plans for the school in the fall. I must say, from all accounts elsewhere, we have been blessed. We've got two studios in the school and we could easily fill a third studio with the students who continue coming our way. Seems that there are many people who really do appreciate a genuine classical ballet school that remains true to what it first started out to be, with emphasis on a firm foundation of ballet taught in a nurturing but disciplined atmosphere, instead of competition or trophies or diversion into a million other dance forms. There are schools for that and they are fine for people who desire that, but it's nice to know there's still an appreciation for tradition, too.
I drove back over the bridge to the treehouse while listening to Steve Martin play his banjo on "Prairie Home Companion," followed by an account of the goings on in Lake Woebegon. It was truly one of Garrison Keillor's best monologues to date. The audience (and I, in my car) were howling. Catch it on tomorrow (Sunday's) repeat performance if you can.
There's nothing wrong with birthday cake!
That orange ball south of Cuba has burgeoned into quite something overnight, but the experts concur so far that it's heading towards Mexico or Florida, and those of us in the middle should not get our knickers in a twist just yet, so I'm going to heed their advice. Nevertheless, it's a good reminder to make sure I'm ready to leave on short notice any time in the next 3 months. And it's awfully nice to know, once again this year, that I've got my "Sarah Crewe" charming garret atop an English Tudor off Lake Michigan in Shorewood, WI, waiting for me -- all homey and furnished -- should I need to drop everything and go.
What a morning! I had summer ballet camp with my beloved curtain climbers and we had such a good time. Lots of warmups followed by their basic plies and tendus and piques, and then we marched and skipped and galloped until ALL OF US were exhausted and could not move another inch. So when they all collapsed onto the floor, laughing and gasping, I went with the flow and put on a tape of primeval forest sound effects. I let them act out frogs and snakes and birds (but "No," I said to little Alex, "I do NOT not allow tarantulas in my forest!").
While "in the woods," we walked on a log across a stream, dug a hole, gathered sticks, rubbed rocks together to generate a spark, ignited the sticks in the hole with the spark, and roasted marshmallows, after which we put out the fire with the dirt we initially dug out of the hole and left our campsite clean as a whistle. Imagination is a wonderful thing, no?
Eventually we came to the end of our creative movement portion whereby they do jetes (leaps) over sponges placed in the shape of a horse shoe and then proceed to hop on two feet like bunnies through a series of hula hoops in the middle of the horse shoe. They are supposed to line up in the letter "J" and await their turn to make their respective journeys across the sponges and through the hoops, whereupon they should return to the letter "J" -- the end of the letter "J" and move up gradually until it's their turn once again.
Quel mess!!!!!!!! They completely forgot how to keep the letter "J" moving along smoothly and it was nothing but collisions and turmoil and gridlock, not to mention children hanging like monkeys from the ballet barres or chatting in twos and threes like it was cocktail hour. And when I stopped the music and halted the exercise, they decided it was their cue to begin tearing around the studio like hooligans, "helping me" by collecting the sponges and hoops, all the while whooping it up.
Now, I know it's summer and time to chill in more than ways than one. But this is the kind of nonsense you have to put an end to right away or the class will get away from you and you'll never get it back, week after week. Since this was the last exercise right before snack time, where they sit and watch a portion of "The Nutcracker," I was able to scold and bribe accordingly.
"Snacks must be earned by dancers," I said sternly, as I proceeded to put the sponges back down. "Now that whole thing was pretty bad. So we are going to repeat this exercise and learn to do this like real dancers. No, no, no -- no more hoops. We are going to learn how to do this correctly, starting only with sponges. See this red star on the floor? That's where you each begin your turn. And show me your opening pose. Yes! We present our pointed foot and open our arms in second position each time. And you don't begin your turn until Miss Chrissy does what?"
Big chorus: "YOU TAP US ON THE SHOULDER!"
"And you have to keep moving after you finish your turn, right back into the letter 'J.' If the person in front of you stops, you have my permission to say nicely, 'Please keep moving.'"
This was followed by very sober looks as they quietly recreated the letter "J" and I proceeded to run them like little colts over and over the sponges, each one of them stepping right up to the red star, presenting their little pointed feet and working diligently at their leaps until they were truly tuckered out.
Lots of praise for all that good work followed by snacks and film, during which, I must say, they were very quiet and polite in asking for help with opening drinks and snack packs. This is why I really love working with children. You can see amazing progress in weeks instead of months or years. Wonderful.
We always conclude with crafts time. For the last couple of weeks, I have changed the 'layout' of this segment by creating two or three small circles of children, who then work on their project in their little part of the floor and I or my assistants can move from within the circle (like the hands of a clock) to have one on one time with each of them.
One of our projects today was for them to assess a half dozen cutouts of food as to whether they are good or bad for you and then paste them in the place for good food or bad food. The soda can and lollipop were pretty easy for the children to understand. But some of them looked quite concerned about the birthday cake with candles on it. "Is this REALLY bad for you?" they asked bewilderedly.
They had a point there. I thought quickly, then said, "It would be bad if it were your birthday EVERY day and you ate cake, but a little piece is a treat once a year." Man, who devised these cutouts? Couldn't they come up with something a little less controversial and a lot more obvious? Perish the thought that I should scare pre-schoolers about the potential of cardiac arrest from a traditional treat on their special day! Now here's a suggestion for the people who create the materials for these projects -- something a LOT MORE OBVIOUS!!!!!!!
Courtesy of Wikipedia: Deep-fried Twinkies
A deep-fried Twinkie involves freezing the popular Hostess Twinkie cake, dipping it into batter and deep frying it to create a variation on the traditional snack cake. According to the Hostess website, Christopher Sell, from Rugby, England, invented the "fried twinkie" in 2001 at the ChipShop, his restaurant in Brooklyn, New York.[5] According to CNN, the dish was adopted by Chris Mullen, but invented at a "Brooklyn restaurant."
It was described by a The New York Times story in this way: "Something magical occurs when the pastry hits the hot oil. The creamy white vegetable shortening filling liquefies, impregnating the sponge cake with its luscious vanilla flavor... The cake itself softens and warms, nearly melting, contrasting with the crisp, deep-fried crust in a buttery and suave way. The piece de resistance, however, is a ruby-hued berry sauce, adding a tart sophistication to all that airy sugary goodness."[6]
The deep-fried Twinkie was a runaway success after Mullen and his brother started selling it at county fairs in mid-August. "We sold 26,000 Twinkies in 18 days," By 2002, the Arkansas State Fair had introduced the fried Twinkie to great popular acclaim, and the notion spread to other state fairs across the U.S., as well as some establishments that specialize in fried foods.[7] Fried Twinkies are sold throughout the U.S. in state fairs, as well as ball park games.
What a morning! I had summer ballet camp with my beloved curtain climbers and we had such a good time. Lots of warmups followed by their basic plies and tendus and piques, and then we marched and skipped and galloped until ALL OF US were exhausted and could not move another inch. So when they all collapsed onto the floor, laughing and gasping, I went with the flow and put on a tape of primeval forest sound effects. I let them act out frogs and snakes and birds (but "No," I said to little Alex, "I do NOT not allow tarantulas in my forest!").
While "in the woods," we walked on a log across a stream, dug a hole, gathered sticks, rubbed rocks together to generate a spark, ignited the sticks in the hole with the spark, and roasted marshmallows, after which we put out the fire with the dirt we initially dug out of the hole and left our campsite clean as a whistle. Imagination is a wonderful thing, no?
Eventually we came to the end of our creative movement portion whereby they do jetes (leaps) over sponges placed in the shape of a horse shoe and then proceed to hop on two feet like bunnies through a series of hula hoops in the middle of the horse shoe. They are supposed to line up in the letter "J" and await their turn to make their respective journeys across the sponges and through the hoops, whereupon they should return to the letter "J" -- the end of the letter "J" and move up gradually until it's their turn once again.
Quel mess!!!!!!!! They completely forgot how to keep the letter "J" moving along smoothly and it was nothing but collisions and turmoil and gridlock, not to mention children hanging like monkeys from the ballet barres or chatting in twos and threes like it was cocktail hour. And when I stopped the music and halted the exercise, they decided it was their cue to begin tearing around the studio like hooligans, "helping me" by collecting the sponges and hoops, all the while whooping it up.
Now, I know it's summer and time to chill in more than ways than one. But this is the kind of nonsense you have to put an end to right away or the class will get away from you and you'll never get it back, week after week. Since this was the last exercise right before snack time, where they sit and watch a portion of "The Nutcracker," I was able to scold and bribe accordingly.
"Snacks must be earned by dancers," I said sternly, as I proceeded to put the sponges back down. "Now that whole thing was pretty bad. So we are going to repeat this exercise and learn to do this like real dancers. No, no, no -- no more hoops. We are going to learn how to do this correctly, starting only with sponges. See this red star on the floor? That's where you each begin your turn. And show me your opening pose. Yes! We present our pointed foot and open our arms in second position each time. And you don't begin your turn until Miss Chrissy does what?"
Big chorus: "YOU TAP US ON THE SHOULDER!"
"And you have to keep moving after you finish your turn, right back into the letter 'J.' If the person in front of you stops, you have my permission to say nicely, 'Please keep moving.'"
This was followed by very sober looks as they quietly recreated the letter "J" and I proceeded to run them like little colts over and over the sponges, each one of them stepping right up to the red star, presenting their little pointed feet and working diligently at their leaps until they were truly tuckered out.
Lots of praise for all that good work followed by snacks and film, during which, I must say, they were very quiet and polite in asking for help with opening drinks and snack packs. This is why I really love working with children. You can see amazing progress in weeks instead of months or years. Wonderful.
We always conclude with crafts time. For the last couple of weeks, I have changed the 'layout' of this segment by creating two or three small circles of children, who then work on their project in their little part of the floor and I or my assistants can move from within the circle (like the hands of a clock) to have one on one time with each of them.
One of our projects today was for them to assess a half dozen cutouts of food as to whether they are good or bad for you and then paste them in the place for good food or bad food. The soda can and lollipop were pretty easy for the children to understand. But some of them looked quite concerned about the birthday cake with candles on it. "Is this REALLY bad for you?" they asked bewilderedly.
They had a point there. I thought quickly, then said, "It would be bad if it were your birthday EVERY day and you ate cake, but a little piece is a treat once a year." Man, who devised these cutouts? Couldn't they come up with something a little less controversial and a lot more obvious? Perish the thought that I should scare pre-schoolers about the potential of cardiac arrest from a traditional treat on their special day! Now here's a suggestion for the people who create the materials for these projects -- something a LOT MORE OBVIOUS!!!!!!!
Courtesy of Wikipedia: Deep-fried Twinkies
A deep-fried Twinkie involves freezing the popular Hostess Twinkie cake, dipping it into batter and deep frying it to create a variation on the traditional snack cake. According to the Hostess website, Christopher Sell, from Rugby, England, invented the "fried twinkie" in 2001 at the ChipShop, his restaurant in Brooklyn, New York.[5] According to CNN, the dish was adopted by Chris Mullen, but invented at a "Brooklyn restaurant."
It was described by a The New York Times story in this way: "Something magical occurs when the pastry hits the hot oil. The creamy white vegetable shortening filling liquefies, impregnating the sponge cake with its luscious vanilla flavor... The cake itself softens and warms, nearly melting, contrasting with the crisp, deep-fried crust in a buttery and suave way. The piece de resistance, however, is a ruby-hued berry sauce, adding a tart sophistication to all that airy sugary goodness."[6]
The deep-fried Twinkie was a runaway success after Mullen and his brother started selling it at county fairs in mid-August. "We sold 26,000 Twinkies in 18 days," By 2002, the Arkansas State Fair had introduced the fried Twinkie to great popular acclaim, and the notion spread to other state fairs across the U.S., as well as some establishments that specialize in fried foods.[7] Fried Twinkies are sold throughout the U.S. in state fairs, as well as ball park games.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Tumultuous Times
Well, it's that time of year -- when folks like me in the Gulf make a daily trip to the website of Jeff Masters, "Weather Underground," to find out what kind of turbulence might be developing in the Atlantic or Pacific. That's typically followed by a stop at the National Hurricane Center website. Tonight, there's a good sized orange circle just south of Cuba. It's a little early in the season to be fixated on such things, but then again, it's been unusually hot in these parts.
Just how hot? Well, we had the hottest day ever recorded in New Orleans this past week. And what's even more peculiar about that to me is that I recall decades ago experiencing weather at least that hot in Chicago. Go figure.
So, I'll be staying tuned for the weather that's about to come on after a repeat airing of "Farrah's Story." Brave, beautiful, and very complex woman. I'm only glad for her that her ordeal was relatively short in terms of time to endure the pain and frustration. But long enough for her to make her peace with her life and loved ones. I'm also glad for her that she still had her lovely dad there for her, the love of a committed man, and a few good friends.
As a fellow dancer flatly stated to me after I came back to performing after cancer years ago, "I never understood what is meant by a mortality rate. Don't we all have a 100% mortality rate?" Yes, we do. So the most and the best we can do is treat our time as the precious commodity that it is and hope that, like Farrah, we have the support and care of family and friends. A true romantic love is the icing on the cake.
This past year, I've had a different medical issue to deal with -- one that blindsided me and pretty much stole the whole year from me as I spent an inordinate amount of time treating for it and working to pay for it ... and the rest of the time worrying about it. But it's time for that to stop. A change is going to come. That's what I'm focusing my energy on these days.
This ain't a dress rehearsal.
Just how hot? Well, we had the hottest day ever recorded in New Orleans this past week. And what's even more peculiar about that to me is that I recall decades ago experiencing weather at least that hot in Chicago. Go figure.
So, I'll be staying tuned for the weather that's about to come on after a repeat airing of "Farrah's Story." Brave, beautiful, and very complex woman. I'm only glad for her that her ordeal was relatively short in terms of time to endure the pain and frustration. But long enough for her to make her peace with her life and loved ones. I'm also glad for her that she still had her lovely dad there for her, the love of a committed man, and a few good friends.
As a fellow dancer flatly stated to me after I came back to performing after cancer years ago, "I never understood what is meant by a mortality rate. Don't we all have a 100% mortality rate?" Yes, we do. So the most and the best we can do is treat our time as the precious commodity that it is and hope that, like Farrah, we have the support and care of family and friends. A true romantic love is the icing on the cake.
This past year, I've had a different medical issue to deal with -- one that blindsided me and pretty much stole the whole year from me as I spent an inordinate amount of time treating for it and working to pay for it ... and the rest of the time worrying about it. But it's time for that to stop. A change is going to come. That's what I'm focusing my energy on these days.
This ain't a dress rehearsal.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Tuesday's Child is Full of Grace
It's a rare day that I find myself all the way back home in Mandeville after work before 5 p.m. But, due to having to take care of some legal biz for our firm on this side of Lake Pontchartrain, such was the case today. I started to turn into my driveway, and then thought, "Heck, why not have a little bit of a weekend on a Tuesday night?"
So, I drove right back out, turned left on Highway 22, and a few minutes later was seated overlooking the Tchefuncte River at Friends Coastal Restaurant http://www.friendscoastal.com/which, sorry to say, I had not visited since before Hurricane Gustav. The first time I ever went to Friends was in the course of doing this piece http://www.insidenorthside.com/08MarApril/0308madison.html about the charming town of Madisonville, Louisiana. I recall alighting from the ladies' room and seeing no one outside the door but Dan Aykroyd. Apparently, he had been besieged -- moments earlier -- by fans at a fundraiser held that day in the name of saving the town's lighthouse and drawing more attention to the need to halt coastal erosion. But, for just a moment he was left alone and that is how I met him and proceeded to interview him for the piece.
The restaurant is a Phoenix that has risen from the ashes more than once -- first after being reduced to nothing but rubble after Katrina, and again, after some pretty extensive damage from Gustav. I've been craving the Caribbean salad with papaya and pulled chicken for some time now, and tonight was just the perfect opportunity to head over there and relax on that waterway with a great meal, a Bloody Mary, and a good book. I just began delving into Frank ("Angela's Ashes") McCourt's "Teacher Man," his bio about the 30 years of being a public school teacher in New York prior to his "overnight" success as an author.
I love one of the things he has to say in his introduction: Now I think it time to give myself credit for at least one virtue: doggedness. Not as glamorous as ambition or talent or intellect or charm, but still the one thing that got me through the days and nights.
That is something I at least try to identify with. But I know someone who is a true testament to doggedness, and that is my dear friend and exquisite ballet dancer, Sarah. It's coming up on two years past her stroke, and I know my other friend Trina has paid her homage in her blog as of late, but just to ensure that news of this wonderful woman reaches as wide an audience as possible, forgive me if I also post the link to this recent story: http://www.wwltv.com/video/news-index.html?nvid=372781&shu=1
After my wonderful meal, I just let my trusty Rocinante take me where it would, and I drove through the backroads to the movie theater in Covington, where I pre-purchased my ticket to Sandra Bullock's "The Proposal." I had a half hour to kill, so I went to the adjacent shops and snarfed up every last box of Harry & David chocolate truffles from Marshalls, where the price is almost worth dealing with the uninspired clerks.
The movie was fun, and a great way to get out of this 100+ degree heat index we've been dealing with for weeks here (especially because so much of the movie takes place in Sitka, Alaska).
All that before 9 p.m. As da Vinci said, "A well spent day brings happy sleep."
So, I drove right back out, turned left on Highway 22, and a few minutes later was seated overlooking the Tchefuncte River at Friends Coastal Restaurant http://www.friendscoastal.com/which, sorry to say, I had not visited since before Hurricane Gustav. The first time I ever went to Friends was in the course of doing this piece http://www.insidenorthside.com/08MarApril/0308madison.html about the charming town of Madisonville, Louisiana. I recall alighting from the ladies' room and seeing no one outside the door but Dan Aykroyd. Apparently, he had been besieged -- moments earlier -- by fans at a fundraiser held that day in the name of saving the town's lighthouse and drawing more attention to the need to halt coastal erosion. But, for just a moment he was left alone and that is how I met him and proceeded to interview him for the piece.
The restaurant is a Phoenix that has risen from the ashes more than once -- first after being reduced to nothing but rubble after Katrina, and again, after some pretty extensive damage from Gustav. I've been craving the Caribbean salad with papaya and pulled chicken for some time now, and tonight was just the perfect opportunity to head over there and relax on that waterway with a great meal, a Bloody Mary, and a good book. I just began delving into Frank ("Angela's Ashes") McCourt's "Teacher Man," his bio about the 30 years of being a public school teacher in New York prior to his "overnight" success as an author.
I love one of the things he has to say in his introduction: Now I think it time to give myself credit for at least one virtue: doggedness. Not as glamorous as ambition or talent or intellect or charm, but still the one thing that got me through the days and nights.
That is something I at least try to identify with. But I know someone who is a true testament to doggedness, and that is my dear friend and exquisite ballet dancer, Sarah. It's coming up on two years past her stroke, and I know my other friend Trina has paid her homage in her blog as of late, but just to ensure that news of this wonderful woman reaches as wide an audience as possible, forgive me if I also post the link to this recent story: http://www.wwltv.com/video/news-index.html?nvid=372781&shu=1
After my wonderful meal, I just let my trusty Rocinante take me where it would, and I drove through the backroads to the movie theater in Covington, where I pre-purchased my ticket to Sandra Bullock's "The Proposal." I had a half hour to kill, so I went to the adjacent shops and snarfed up every last box of Harry & David chocolate truffles from Marshalls, where the price is almost worth dealing with the uninspired clerks.
The movie was fun, and a great way to get out of this 100+ degree heat index we've been dealing with for weeks here (especially because so much of the movie takes place in Sitka, Alaska).
All that before 9 p.m. As da Vinci said, "A well spent day brings happy sleep."
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
A Trip to Bountiful???
I know. Why waste my breath? But, honestly. Ray Nagin, are you listening? Do you have any vestiges of a conscience? People in your city have been struggling for the past four years, and those challenges have been exacerbated by the current economy, and you have the stones to attempt to pull this one off?
http://www.nola.com/news/index.ssf/2009/06/nagin_says_city_paid_for_china.html
If you came up to me and my friend Christine Calkwood in Whole Foods again, all smooth and sweet, like you did pre-Katrina when you were gathering votes, do you have any idea what we would do now?
I can't help but be reminded of that scene in "A Year of Living Dangerously," when the sign is hung from a hotel window, "Sukarno, feed Your people." Ray, you've got to be aware of how you come across these days.
Please try to have an epiphany and to leave a legacy of something other than farce.
http://www.nola.com/news/index.ssf/2009/06/nagin_says_city_paid_for_china.html
If you came up to me and my friend Christine Calkwood in Whole Foods again, all smooth and sweet, like you did pre-Katrina when you were gathering votes, do you have any idea what we would do now?
I can't help but be reminded of that scene in "A Year of Living Dangerously," when the sign is hung from a hotel window, "Sukarno, feed Your people." Ray, you've got to be aware of how you come across these days.
Please try to have an epiphany and to leave a legacy of something other than farce.
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