Pop Pops & Wood Shops

Posted on January 18, 2014 by judisunshine

“Would you just hand a child a saw?” someone recently said, forget who, but all I could do was mentally address that rhetorical question, because 30+ years ago, I was handed a saw and taught how to cut wood by my grandfather.

When I was little, my dad worked full time; my mom worked part time in the city, and my grandmother watched me during the days that neither could be with me. Those days in my memory smell like sunshine, freshly cut grass, pink roses, and Body Buddies cereal.

As the sun went down, my grandfather would come home. He was a soldier who went to work later as a meteorologist for the Air Force. I had no idea as a kid, just how important and life-saving his work was. How he’d already served our country in so many ways, before I’d ever even met him.

Part of why I never knew that is because he was a humble man, my Pop Pop. When he got home at the end of a long day (that I also didn’t realize as a kid, sometimes was a lot more than a day), all he wanted was to enjoy the house and home he’d built for his family.

I knew that he was tired – maybe because I was fresh off my napping days, but even at four years old, I got that Pop Pop was tired when he got home. As a kid, I felt shy to take up any of his time or energy.

But he always made time and energy for his only granddaughter. I will never smell a deli and not think of how Pop Pop took me down to Ward’s Deli as the sun went down, even when I was so little as to be in a stroller, just because I was there, and he wanted to spend time with me, even if the only time he could spare that day was on errands.

I will never smell a work station without thinking of how at the end of his day, Pop Pop would go down to the basement, to the little section of the house he’d helped build, that was his and his alone. It was small, but full of his tools and wood and meteorology records on the shelf. I don’t know what he did exactly, while purposefully working away, but I know that he let me accompany him, during his down time.

And I will never forget how he handed me a saw – an old one, dulled from the years – and patiently taught me how to use it to cut a block of wood. Trusting me with tools meant for adults and in the time he grew up, men only.

Maybe (definitely) I’m still learning what it means, but that is the day my Pop Pop taught me that I could do anything. He taught me so much more, during the next 12 years.

I miss you every day, Pop Pop. Love you forever, and I’ll see you on the other side.

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Then You Can Dream About It, and It’ll Be a Whole Garden.

Posted on December 24, 2013 by judisunshine

You know, George, I feel that in a small way we are doing something important. Satisfying a fundamental urge. It’s deep in the race for a man to want his own roof and walls and fireplace, and we’re helping him get those things in our shabby little office. 

~ Pa Bailey

The Dorothy ornament is the first I remember loving. Before Annie, before The Baby-Sitters Club, before “Buffy, the Vampire Slayer,” “The Wizard of Oz” was my obsession. When I was very little, we had IIRC, all of the OG “Wizard” Christmas ornaments, but of course, Dorothy was my favorite. Long after the others had been lost somewhere, I held onto her. Long after her plastic face had started to melt and her cheaply ‘70s-made “clothes” had started to morph with her body, Dorothy was My Christmas Moment – when I pulled her out of the ornament box, even when I was 32, I was five again.

There was the Annie ornament as well, the one I’d gotten on St. Nick’s Day in 1982. She was plastic too, and holding a snowman. That ornament probably cost a dollar to make, but she meant so much to me, for 29 years.

And then there were the balls with the years on them, like my round Holly Hobbie ornament. Its fragility and age made the ornament stamped with “1979” feel as though it were made of gossamer.

As the years went on, there were other ornaments. They didn’t hold the age status of the aforementioned ones, but they meant everything to me, all the same. Like the handwritten/homemade one from Shannon when we lived together in my first apartment, that she and I shared.

There were ornaments from vacations and cruises, that I’d gathered as I grew up, knowing that each one would transform the annual ornament box into an even more magical place. One that no matter how old I got, would hold time in a bottle.

As I got older, there were other Christmas-y things I acquired, that helped me transform into An Adult. When I read A Day Late, and a Dollar Short by Terry McMillan, I was inspired by the sister who always decorated every inch of her place with seasonal cheer. She reminded me of my Nanny Posch, who always had the same Santa soaps in the bathroom, and filled her home with crafts and gifts, accumulated through the years.

I lost all of my personal Christmas accumulation in Hurricane Sandy. Not to act as though I was one of the many from my home who lost so much more. By that time, the CO fires were over, and my friends from my home state were getting devastated, while I watched helplessly, via the news and personal accounts from friends, family, and neighbors I’d left behind.

When I moved out of New York, it was May 2011. I knew my Christmas stuff (what a mild word, for such intense memories) was back in boxes, in a side room. Because my ex and I parted as friends, I knew it would be there waiting, when I needed it again.

Until it wasn’t. Last Christmas, I was boycotting the holiday. Everything felt just too sad. Loved ones across the country were hurting, and I felt set adrift, minus the memory bliss.

This year, I decided to try again. “I believe, I believe. It’s silly, but I believe.” I tried to channel Natalie Wood. Still, I was minus both money and memories.

Then my mother bought me an artificial tree – a really nice one, that already had the lights set up. She also got me a new Fontanini nativity set, just like she’d gotten when I moved in with Shannon, 12 years ago, that was lost in Sandy. It is missing the cat, and a couple of other aforementioned accumulations, but it has Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus that I hid away for Christmas Eve.

“Judith, it is my wish this Christmas, that if I can show you my love and help give you Christmas back, then you will believe in God’s love for you,” she said. I’m paraphrasing, as she said it better.

The night after she told me that, I went home, determined to transform all of these new Christmas belongings into new memories.

My mother had also given me a few ornaments, including THE ornaments. Even before Dorothy when I was alive, my mother had been a newlywed with my dad in 1974. They had very little, but my mother was an art major, and had handpainted all of these little wooden ornaments. She saw it just as a way of filling out a tree, but even when I was little, I recognized the glory in the art that she’d created, as a 22-year-old.

Some of those ornaments, my favorites, were also lost in the floods. But this year, that night that I was trying to believe though it was silly, in the Christmas spirit and in God Himself, I pulled out one ornament that I hadn’t seen in years. It was a little boy in a wagon, one that my mom had painstakingly created 39 years ago.

I pulled it out, alone in my apartment, and just lost it. I was wracked with sobs and ugly cried, because no one could see me, and because this was Christmas.

I will never get back the other ornaments, nor the Christmas stocking with the faded, multi-colored “Judith” glitter from when I was super little. But I have a Christmas tree that spins around, and that my cat loves to sleep under. I have a man who loves and comes home to me, and has added his own memories to our tree. And I have family just across town, including a mother who’d take time in such a busy season, to try and show me that God loves me so much, just because she does, too.

Maybe I will never stop crying at Christmas, about that which was lost in the flood. But I also know that thanks to my mother, I will never stop looking at what I do have, and in trying to believe in what she does.

Merry Christmas to all ❤

Posted in Apartments & Other Domiciles, Cats, Childhood, Family, Friends, The '80s, Work | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

It’s Christmas Time In the City

Posted on December 8, 2013 by judisunshine

I never went to see the ball drop in Times Square on New Year’s Eve. I never took a carriage ride in Central Park. I never even went ice skating in Rockefeller Center. But as my third Christmas in Colorado approaches, I’m missing New York more than ever, even more than in summertime when I can’t go to the beach.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m blessed to be living in a little town that looks like a story book, especially at this time of year. And it’s surrounded by gorgeous, snow-covered mountains. I dreamed my whole life of living in a place like Manitou, and am grateful to be here.

But for 35 years, New York City was only a 40-minute train ride away, and it was rare that I didn’t make it there at some point in December. Growing up, my family would go every single year on the day after Christmas. It was less crowded, but still felt like Christmas, because the whole place was still decorated, and because for my family, going to the city that day was like an extension of Christmas itself.

There was something about going to the city at that time, that washed away everything else that was going on. For one day a year, time was irrelevant and the world was magical. The air was crisp or cold, sometimes downright freezing. The wind would be biting or not so bad, depending on how many skyscrapers surrounded you. Lights were everywhere. The shop windows were works of art.

And then there was the smell. Nothing else in the world smells like New York City at Christmas. It’s a burning smell, a mix of chestnuts and cigarettes and gasoline and cold and energy. It is indescribable, and it is intoxicating.

My very favorite moments of those trips to the city were the ones I took for myself, when I’d breathe in that scent and look down at the ground. I don’t know why the city sidewalks sparkle, but it’s as if someone poured glitter on them. So once a year, no matter how much life had changed, I could have that one same moment, where I stared at the ground and breathed it all in.

My best friends from New York posted a bunch of pictures from their date to the city the other night. They were all bundled up and looked cold but happy, surrounded by so, so many lights. It looked like the city the way I always remembered it, and my heart ached to be there with them. I knew that they were having a night they would never forget, because that’s what New York City gives you without fail, every single time.

I miss it. I miss being only a train ride away from my favorite city in the world. I miss the bar crawls where people would come from different states just to roam around the Village and have weird drinks.

But I also know that if I ever moved back to New York, I’d miss Manitou so much, as well. That’s a pretty amazing conundrum to have.

I didn’t get to visit NYC when I went back to New York this past March. Next time, a city visit is in order. And I’ll appreciate in a whole new way, the place that for 35 years, I was blessed to have as a virtual backyard.

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The Best Postcard

Posted on November 21, 2013 by judisunshine

I was eight years old when I sent Beverly Cleary a very long and urgent handwritten letter, wherein I patiently explained that she and her writing meant – well, absolutely EVERYTHING to me.

In my very-best penmanship (which, if you’ve met me, understand takes a lot of effort), I painstakingly explained for pages, just exactly why I needed Beverly Cleary to understand me. She was the only one who could, for the love of God and Henry Huggins!

That was back in early ’84. We as kids were patient, back then. Most letters sent to any kind of celebrity were usually greeted with vague indifference at best. Politicians were better, and many my age had a Reagan-autographed pic of him on a horse.

But nothing would ever compare to the letter that I received back from Beverly Cleary.

I’ll never forget the day that I got it. It was a hot, humid summer day on Long Island, and a postcard came in the mail, addressed to me! The front side was a garish and glorious yellow, combined with Alan Tiegreen’s signature Ramona-head depiction.

The back side, where the text goes, was filled with the handwriting of my goddess, Beverly Cleary herself.

I knew that it was her handwriting for real, because for some reason I’d somewhere along the line acquired a copy of Mitch and Amy, in which Ms. Cleary had inscribed a dedication. The writing on the postcard matched that.

“Dear Judith,” she wrote. I sadly do not have the postcard anymore, but remember the chills I got, seeing my name scrawled by Beverly Cleary’s hand.

She went on to say what you’d expect – thanks for the props, etc.

But then she went on even further to address my personal angst, over wanting to be a writer When I Grew Up.

Beverly Cleary knew that I worshipped her. I’m pretty sure that in 1984, she knew that she deserved to be worshipped. Yet/so, she was still so humble, and gave amazing advice:

She told me that writers become writers when they’re meant to become them. That some start when they’re kids, some in their 20s.

Cleary went on to say that she herself didn’t complete her first book until her 30s, and that Laura Ingalls Wilder (another personal fave of mine) didn’t publish her first until she was in her 60s!

Bottom line: everyone’s path is different, and even the best of the best are sometimes really late bloomers.

For years, I had that lesson hanging on my wall, in Beverly Cleary’s delicate yet perfect handwriting.

I wrote to her again in 2002, after devouring both her memoirs on the train while I worked in the city. I just wanted to, as an adult, say Happy Birthday and Thank You one more time. She wrote back then, as well. “Thank you Judith; it was so nice to hear from you again,” she said. It wasn’t quite the same as the postcard from ’84, but it was so amazing to hear back from Beverly Cleary, once again. On that day, 18 years later, it really felt like maybe not so much had to change, after all.

In 2007, I wrote to Beverly Cleary again. It was the first day in a decade that I spent hours at Kinko’s, and this time it was to print out my blog that my friend Rebecca envisioned as a book and transformed into art. For the first time in my life, I felt like a real writer, thanks to my visual-artist friend.

Maybe it sounds foolish, but I really, really wanted Beverly Cleary to have a copy. I just wanted her to see it, to have it. To know that the little girl she encouraged 23 years earlier was going for it, after all.

I mailed her a copy. And I did get a response, only this time it was one saying that Beverly Cleary was in poor health, and couldn’t respond to all of her mail.

I think in a way, that I’ve been a little lost since then. She and my grandmother are both rocking their ‘90s, and there is something so precious and precarious about that. Both women are beautiful, hilarious, and vibrant, yet have not only reached undeniably old ages, but have also lost their awesome life partners.

Beverly Cleary quoted a friend in one of her memoirs that she “dreads the day someone calls her spry.” My grandmother has expressed similar sentiments.

Neither woman will ever seem “old” to me. And though I don’t have that yellow postcard hanging on my wall anymore, when I think of it, I go back to a time. When my grandparents were right outside my door, waiting to see me off to my 8th-grade graduation, as I fretted about my bangs. When Beverly Cleary wasn’t frail, even if she was getting older.

I want it back – all of it. But the ‘80s were a long time ago, now. So I’ll take with me the postcards, and extend one more heartfelt Thank You to Beverly Cleary, my grandmother, and every woman who paved a way that may not always be clear, but is always full of passion and imagination.

beverlycleary

Posted in Celebrities, Childhood, Family, Friends, Miscellaneous, The '80s, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments

A Good Memory From My Most-Hated Grade

Posted on November 8, 2013 by judisunshine

I hated sixth grade. It was the year my parents made me go to Christian school, after I’d finally and painstakingly eked out an identity for myself at Chatterton, the public elementary school in my district. I wasn’t the prettiest, the most popular, or the best actress, AND I’d gotten dumped in fifth grade for a girl in the nearby Catholic school. But by the end of that year, I could imitate most of Madonna’s Virgin Tour dances, and could kick anyone’s ass at Connect Four. What more does anyone need, really, in terms of carving out a place in this world?

But I was wrenched from public school, and forced to mingle at South Shore Christian with people from all over Long Island, who were pretty devout in their faiths that I didn’t understand. Like, all of a sudden I was supposed to stop trick-or-treating because those creepy comics from The Rock said so? Screw that. I loved that store, bought my performance tracks, wavy-pastel stationery, and “Jesus is Cool, Haters!” tees, while feeling just as close to God as ever when I came home with a pillowcase full of Snickers bars.

Then there was that one day. At SSCS, we didn’t get to dress up for Halloween or dance, ‘cause, offensive, so we did what anyone would do – skirt around the law. No Halloween costumes? We’ll have a costumed party in the gym! No dancing? We’ll have banquets with fancy dresses and corsages! Also in the gym! Except for prom! Which will not be called prom!

One particular day in sixth grade, we were having a Christmastime “Represent your ethnic background!” party. It was the reward for an ongoing series of projects that I actually really enjoyed. Lots of research, essays, and even a topographical map assignment 😮

I came home one Autumn day in ’86, SUPER excited about all things school, thanks to the excuse to work with clay and magic markers, not to mention costumes and recipes in the final leg of this wonderful academic challenge.

If you’ve ever met me, you know I get annoyingly excited about future endeavors, and that was still the case 27 years ago, when I begged my mother, after weeks of creating my 3D map on the dining room table, in between frantic paper writing, to make Swedish meatballs for the end-of-project-Christmas party.

“You never make them, but I can’t imagine anything else,” I said with great urgency, as the memory of last year’s fifth grade food party weighed heavy on my soul. Then, I was scheduled to bring in my mother’s famous Chinese chicken with walnuts, but everything got derailed when she and a few other Catholic mothers got upset that the party was on a Friday in Lent. So my mom made cookies instead.

Delicious, but not the same, even though I understood her crisis of faith. Still, a year later it was like, we’re not even Catholic anymore, thanks to YOUR decision, so can you please make these meatballs, for the love of God?

My mother raised a figurative eyebrow, and indulgently nodded at my 11-year-old angst, before responding with:

“Sure, Judith. But, you know you aren’t Swedish?”

WHAT!

Apparently, I’d gotten confused somewhere along the line, thanks in great part to my mother’s Swiss-dotted dress from the ‘70s that I grew up seeing in the (satanic?) Halloween clothing pile, but always rejected because it wasn’t that cute.

And yes, I do realize that Swiss is also not Swedish. Hindsight.

But after my mother’s irritating laughter and my own humiliation had subsided, I ran with it. NO ONE HAD TO KNOW, as my mother pointed out, that I was not in fact Swedish.

Swiss-dotted dress? Check. Ambitious posterboard map of a country that vaguely resembles Long Island? Check. Backstory of Saint Lucia memorized? Check.

And of course, they were all accompanied by creamy meatballs – something that even before I shunned meat, would not partake in, as I hate cream sauce. But when representing one’s fake nationality, one must be authentic.

I don’t remember how Mary Kate and Shannon worked it out in terms of who was going to be Irish that day – all three of our actual backgrounds, but I’ll never forget Mary Kate’s moment in the spotlight, when she performed an amazing Irish jig and it was like whoa, who let the professional dancer into our sixth grade classroom? There will NEVER be a time, since that day, where you can’t hand me a beer and put on a Dropkick Murphys song, and not expect me to do the little bit of the jig she taught all of us afterwards.

And I don’t remember when exactly she and Shannon became my friends, along with Ruth and Adenike, but they did.

Sixth grade sucked. But it was worth riding the rocky waters to get to the awesomeness that was to come, and even existed in little pockets, on days like this.

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The Costumes of My Life! Part I

Posted on October 24, 2013 by judisunshine

As many of you already know, I’m in love with Halloween, and costumes especially. Were I a more knowledgeable geek (and also had more money (which I probably would if I were a more knowledgeable geek)), I’d be at every Con there is in elaborate costumes. For now, I must settle for Halloween.

This year, as per usz, I’m getting down to the wire and still have not committed to a costume. So I figured, why not write about the other costumes that went before! When I was a kid, I asserted that I would always go trick-or-treating. Save for one glorious time that I got my 30-year-old friend to go with my 22-year-old self to a random house where no one would ever see us again, the trick-or-treating has sadly fallen by the wayside, over the years. But the costumes have not! And with no further ado (Hey, I finally learned how to spell it correctly, at 38!), I now present:

The Costumes of My Life!

(Birth–Elementary School)

1975-1979 ?

There are pictures of me from these years dressed as an angel, but I’m also opening Christmas presents. In preparation for life in Manitou, my parents used to bring me to non-Halloween events in costume! But I don’t know if I was an angel for Halloween or not.

1980 The Wicked Witch of the West

Before “Annie,” my major obsession was “The Wizard of Oz.” Rather than dress me up like Dorothy or the lovely Glinda, my mom sewed by hand a black costume, complete with floppy hat, and put some truly elaborate green and black makeup all over my face. I think going around as such a scary creature at such a young age paved the way for my needing future costumes to be at least vaguely cute.

1981 Gypsy

My brother Robb went as a thief, and our friend went as a tramp. Jk, though that would have been awesome. This costume sprung not so much from anything having to do with anything, and more from what my mother had left over in her closet from the ‘70s. It was fun though, because I got to wear a wig and clip-on earrings (pierced ears were not allowed until 12, so I always looked for loopholes, no pun intended).

1982 An Angel For Sure

My mother sewed some white pieces of cotton together, then affixed some garland to a hanger. Bam! Costume. I was grateful for her efforts, but very jealous of my friend Kelly’s elaborate Annie costume.

1983 Fairy

This was the first costume that “I did.” When we moved into our Merrick house in ’81, there had been left behind in the basement what I’m guessing was a dance costume. Since the moment I saw it hanging mysteriously in the laundry area, all I could think of was wearing it to be a fairy, but it didn’t fit me until two years later. In third grade, I paired it with a little tiara, tights, and wings, and felt very glamorous indeed, walking in the library kids parade with my friend Amy.

1984 Thingamajig

This costume made about as much sense as the name; i.e., none. But man, was it fun, as this costume didn’t just last for one day. This costume took many weeks, perhaps months, as my friend Kelly and I would prepare to be Thingamajigs. Where the idea came from, I have no idea. But at least once a week, we’d pick out clashing clothes, and work on the craziest makeup and hair that we could think of. The end result looked much like Janis Joplin meets Thundercats.

1985 Punk Rocker

Looking back on this list, I realize that I spent every year up until I was allowed to wear makeup, finding Halloween costumes that necessitated makeup. My Punk Rocker costume was basically an early version of today’s ’80s parties – side ponytail, pink hairspray, blue eye shadow, cut-off, oversized white sweatshirt with puffy paint scribble-scrabble, bright leggings, and fluorescent socks! As my 10-year-old self was coming fresh off of a breakup,, it felt very (if misguidedly) empowering to dress up like someone beyond my years.

1986 Gypsy

Retread! Since I never grew to be that tall, I was able to wear the same dress as in ’81. The wig and accessories were still there. This costume redux sprung from two things: 1) procrastination from self doubt and 2) political protest.

As to the first: I’m not sure WHY I gained possession of a mime makeup pack, but I did. The picture on it was of a lovely and mysterious girl whose face was black and white, and filled with hearts. I wanted that to be my face, at least once.

I also remember gazing at the picture and planning my costume in the lobby of First Baptist Church of Merrick. I’d been Catholic my whole life, and while (SPOILER ALERT!) I got into the Pentecostal scene later on, I knew somehow that while I respected Baptists, I wasn’t one myself, per se.

Because as to the second, 1986 was the year that not only did my parents switch churches, but they also put me in SSCS, an interdenominational Christian school. A lot of things were said, about the evils of Halloween. My mother was concerned. But this was a battle I was willing to choose. I was already forced to leave my old school in sixth grade and wear a bolero and an itchy, unflattering skirt. I was not going to lose my Halloween!

Still, I didn’t want to totally upset my mother, so instead of dressing as a forward-future goth, I quietly re-pieced together a costume of yore, and waited for seventh grade to kick it back up a notch.

~ TO BE CONTINUED ~

Posted in Childhood, Family, Friends, Going Out, Lists, Miscellaneous, School, The '80s | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Along Came a Spider

Posted on September 28, 2013 by judisunshine

I’m sitting in the office of my apartment as I type, and right in front of me is a huge window. I can hear the breeze rustling the leaves, and can see the effects as the branches bend.

But I cannot open the window, because there is no screen. Last night I woke up at 2:30 in the morning after having been asleep for a few hours. I wandered around waxing philosophical about how it used to be 4:30 before I’d have even thought about going to sleep in the first place, but while I’ll always look back with fondness at greeting the morning commuters with Carly and Natty as we were just heading towards bedtime, now I have the memories of that, and I have my best friend sleeping in the next room. Often when I wake up in the middle of the night, it’s because I’m very anxious, so I try to count my blessings instead. Last night, two came to mind without even having to try.

Filled with peace, I knew that sleep would return easily, and prepared to go back to bed. It was then that I saw The Spider.

Now, I actually like spiders. I don’t kill them, and I don’t ask my boyfriend to kill them for me. But damn if last night I didn’t have the immediate urge to go wake up Josh and tell him there was a spider in the bathtub, and could he please deal with it!

Because this spider was kinda big and though I wasn’t exactly afraid of it, it was startling. I also didn’t want the cats battling it, nor did I want it crawling around my bed.

Then I remembered thinking not one minute ago how peaceful Josh seemed, and I realized I had to Woman Up and deal with The Spider myself. I went downstairs and got a glass, then wished desperately for just one of our new coasters at Townhouse. Instead, I grabbed an envelope, unopened because it’s just Capital One taunting me for more credit cards I’ll never get, and headed back upstairs.

The Spider was still there, playing dead. While capturing him, I tried to explain that I wasn’t going to hurt him, which of course got me thinking about “Dexter,” until I got frustrated as the bathroom window wouldn’t open.

“We’re going to have to relocate, Spider; stay put,” I said as we went into the office. This screen appeared to have a latch, but as I pressed on it, the screen fell out of the window and went down, down, and landed. Though it didn’t weigh much, it was good to hear it land without the accompanying sound of an animal yelping or running. It seemed to just lightly fall into some leaves and sticks, as the back area of our place is just a little space of trees and a hill.

While I was willing to take care of the Spider situation in the middle of the night, I was not so much willing to climb through a dark expanse of land to retrieve a screen. Instead, I said goodbye to the Spider and wished him well before letting him go join the screen below. Then I went back to bed.

This morning or rather should I say this afternoon, I woke up to fetch the screen. Even though I’ve passed the little valley behind my house, and have seen it from the windows a million times, I’ve never actually been in it. It was pretty exciting, clambering through the branches and crackling through dead twigs and leaves, even moreso when I saw the screen, still intact.

Since it was the afternoon (though to my credit, I did take a shower first), the sun was streaming through the tops of the trees, and since it is September, the valley behind my house today was this perfect combo of two of my very favorite places to be – in the woods on a late-summer afternoon, and in the autumn leaves, anywhere.

Just one of those moments a year can make it feel like a successful Autumn. And now when I look out the office window, I can appreciate the beauty in a more visceral way, though the window remains closed. Because while I also set up a cat perch by myself today, re-installing the screen is where I break down and ask Josh for help, as clearly, I cannot be trusted with windows.

Godspeed, Spider. Thank you for such an unexpectedly lovely day!

Posted in Animals, Apartments & Other Domiciles, Family, Manitou, Miscellaneous, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

My Second Tattoo

Posted on September 15, 2013 by judisunshine

It’s been fifteen years since the day I spontaneously went with Shannon to DaVinci Tattoo in Wantagh. We weren’t planning on getting tattoos that day, but we did. I didn’t think I’d ever get one, but Shannon had paved the way by getting a shamrock on her ankle a year before. So it seemed less scary and foreign to walk in that day, to the place that sounded like a dentist’s office and felt full of possibility.

That day, Shannon and I both got the Chinese symbol for “friend” on our back right shoulders. That evening, we met up with our Bible study friends to see “Blade” in the theaters, and spent the whole time going “Ouch!” whenever our backs touched the seats. That night, we had a sleepover in the same bed, and spent the night tossing and turning because our backs stung a lot. Don’t get too excited, readers at home – it was a big bed, and Shannon is my Sister.

The next morning when I woke up, despite the fitful & stingy sleep, I had no regrets. Throughout the years, those tattoos kept us friends IMO, as well. I think we would have stayed friends regardless, but there’s something about knowing how dumb your tattoo will feel if you Break Up that forces you to work through the hard times.

So basically, my one and only tattoo meant a lot to me. But I also really liked the sentiment of my co-worker Tommy, whom I met nine years after my tattoo. He was working on some very nice sleeves, and one day lamented how everyone seemed to want a story behind every tattoo. As he put it, some of his tats had stories, but he mostly saw tattoos as art. And why does one need to explain art?

Back in 2007, I really wanted to get another tattoo, and nearly a decade later, I planned to take my born-again-maiden-tattoo voyage via Margaret Atwood’s Cat’s Eye. This book is one of my favorites of all-time. As with most things good in life, it was introduced to me by Sars from Tomato Nation. It’s a novel about how brutal even 10-year-old girls can be as bullies. In a pivotal scene, the protagonist gets ditched into a ravine in a snowstorm. Death is certain. But before she passes out, she has a vision of a black-cloaked Virgin Mary holding a cat’s eye marble. Next thing she knows, she’s not totally out of the figurative woods, but she’s out of the ravine, lying next to it.

cat's eye

The cat’s eye marble in the book and on the cover is aqua/teal/turquoise. Back in ’07, my friend Marc was helping me design a gorgeous depiction of it, but then money got tight, and time ran away.

Here in 2013, my coworker and friend Jackie’s boyfriend was doing a Friday the 13th special at his shop where he is a tattoo artist. So long as your tattoo is smaller than a 50-cent piece, requires only one color, and has the number “13” in it, you can get it inked on you for only 13 dollars!

My friends at work Ed and J.J. , who both literally don’t seem to know the number of tattoos they have, chomped at this bit, hurriedly requesting to be done at work by two that day. Whether they were just being polite or what I don’t know, but they invited me to join them.

After 15 years of debating over what tattoo to get after my First Important Experience, it just felt right, to sign onto the adventure. I found a delicious irony(? I still never know) in the idea of having my long-awaited sophomore tattoo effort to my one and only super-meaningful tattoo, be vaguely meaningless.

“Meaningless” is probably not the right word. But basically I liked the idea that I had to work within guidelines, and sport “13” on my body, in order to participate.

I’d chosen a tattoo in my head the other night, while talking to Josh. I wanted a black cat. It would be to go with the Friday the 13th theme. It would be in honor of Scrubbins, and the Summer of the Kitties of 2013, and the friends I made that year. I would go with friends from Townhouse, to commemorate our time at Townhouse – a job I never saw coming, but has meant everything to me.

And I could still get the sea-colored cat’s eye marble, only it would be literally in a cat’s eyes. There on my body, I could brand into me a symbol of hope. So even when it seems like bad luck is crossing my path at every turn, maybe it’s just a Joker or a Jigsaw, seeing how I will react to it.

Jackie invited me to go outside when I was at the tattoo shop, and while I wavered among various tattoo ideas, it was pretty awesome to see a black cat with gorgeous mint-green eyes cross our path and come up for da pets and da rubs. And it was pretty awesome to see the people who fostered Scrubbins come up to us at Townhouse tonight, as they told us that both he and Sassy were doing very well in their adoptive homes.

This has been a really special summer. And as I had no morning-after regrets after my first tattoo with Shannon, I have none for the black cat that now graces my left wrist. Both pictures speak two thousand words on my body. I kind of think I’d like at least a couple thousand more, before all is said and done.

tats

Posted in Body Image, Books, Friends, Going Out, Miscellaneous, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Trendz

Posted on September 5, 2013 by judisunshine

While I’m no slave to fashion, I’m not immune to what’s all the rage, especially when I was a kid. Here are seven examples!

Golddiggers/Termites

When I was five, I really didn’t watch much TV. It was mainly the ‘70s PBS trifecta (“Sesame Street,” “Mister Rogers Neighborhood,” and “Electric Company”), plus once-a-week “Little House” that we watched as a family. So I’m not sure when these commercials for Golddigger jeans seeped into my consciousness. I can still sing the three notes of “GoldDIGger!” from the commercial, and remember kids in the playground.

Anyhoo, my mother told me in no uncertain terms that I may absolutely not have a pair of designer jeans that a) I would grow out of and b) were called Golddigger.

And also no, I could not have a pair of high heels, because they were for grown ups. I argued that these shoes were different, because they had a chunk cut out of the heel. Hence the name. Honestly, I have no idea where and how I heard about Termites. Perhaps there’d been a commercial since forgotten, or a neighbor in my apartment building had them. Maybe one of the more fashion-forward parents had bought them for my classmates but even though we didn’t have to wear uniforms until first grade in my Catholic school, I highly doubt that high heels on kindergarteners would have met even a loose dress code.

It was clear to me that my mother was being completely unreasonable, not wanting her five-year-old to traipse around in tight designer jeans and heels. So I found a loophole in the form of jeans leftover from when I was three. Paired with pumps surreptitiously absconded from my mother’s closet, I felt very glamorous indeed, traipsing around our apartment, singing “GoldDIGgers!”

Stickers!

 Oh, stickers. How I have always loved you. We moved before I started first grade to a house in the suburbs, and all of my neighbors had sticker books. The kids, not the adults. I was very far behind, because all of these girls (and some guys) had very Advanced Collections of stickers ranging from the basic flat ones to scratch-n-sniff to puffy. The most elite sticker collectors had GIANT puffy stickers that were the source of my deepest envy.

I had a lot of catching up to do. Even though we were able to buy a house, we still weren’t rich, so I tended since the Golddigger days of yore to choose my expenditure battles and make do with existing materials if I could. I found a photo album that hadn’t been used, or that I took the photos out of, can’t recall, and proceeded to ask my friends for their “doubles.” That was the term for stickers you had two or more of, so many were willing to give them away. Ideally, you traded your doubles, but my neighbors saw a friend in need and rose to the occasion.

My parents did get me new stickers, but I was hungry for ALL of the stickers. If I couldn’t fill my book with lots of puffies, I was going to make up for quality with quantity. Anything adhesive I could find went in my sticker book. I shall end it here, as I want to dedicate an entire blog to my sticker book – one of the few meaningful things to me that has not been lost or destroyed over the years, and I’m so grateful for that.

 Cabbage Patch Kids

 Back in 1983, people were losing their minds, trying desperately to buy their kids the most sought-after holiday toy of the year. There’s that famous story of that one woman trying to steal one in a sleeping bag. IIRC, there were at least vague stampedes. People were paying a lot of money to get ones that “fell off trucks.” Shit was intense.

So I knew I wasn’t getting a Cabbage Patch (that’s what kids in the know called them, because sometimes there just isn’t enough time for four syllables) in 1983. And that was fine, but I reallllllly wanted one. CPKs were brilliantly marketed. Every single one was different looking, and came not only with unique names – first AND middle! – but also a birth certificate and butt tattoo. They also bore the distinction of being the first doll that boys were “allowed” to want. I do not mean that as sociological fact, but it was the first time that I saw it, and thought it was awesome. I had epic battles with my Civil War toy soldiers when I was little, and never understood why Toys ‘R’ Us needed separate aisles, as it were.

Unlike stickers, which I still buy every time I go to Safeway, I no longer yearn to buy a Cabbage Patch Kid, though I’m happy to see them on the toy shelves all these years later. I do however wish that I hadn’t lost Emmalyn Dyanne along the way. Because I did get my Cabbage Patch Kid in Christmas 1984, and Constance Tiffany, a Corn Silk, in 1987. A year after I’d reluctantly put away my Barbies, I allowed my junior-high self to have one last doll for Christmas.

Trivial Pursuit

 Believe it or not, this was a thing with kids, at least in my town in 1984. Like in addition to needing a Cabbage Patch Kid for Christmas, you needed a Trivial Pursuit. To this DAY, I have no idea why. Granted, the game itself is cool both in structure and concept. But the questions are hard. Yet those lucky enough to acquire a Trivial Pursuit would have his or her (kid!) friends over to play this game. We’d sit around, not getting any questions right. Even when they came out with a Junior Trivial Pursuit with questions we could actually answer sometimes, we rejected it in favor of the real deal.

Charm Necklaces/Bracelets

 I’m mostly leaving aside fashion for this blog, because this blog is about trends of acquisition. Sometimes the two cross over, and one example of this is charm necklaces and their smaller version, charm bracelets. Both were the same in structure and principle: you buy a plastic-link chain in whatever color you like best, and fill it up with as many charms as you possibly can. The charms were plastic as well, adorable little replicas of things like eggs in a frying pan, toilet bowls, fruit. And you just piled it all on. The word gaudy did not apply to the charm jewelry phenomenon.

This trend was accessible to me – you didn’t have to have a hundred dollars, just a couple here and there. There’s a picture of me somewhere from my first day of fifth grade, where I’m wearing my charm necklace at its heyday, and it looks to weigh about three pounds. I paired it with a fringey Tweety shirt from Great Adventure, pink pants, and jelly shoes. I look absolutely ridiculous, but remember feeling very cool and individualistic, thanks to my impressive collection of charms!

Rubber bracelets

 I don’t know if Madonna started this trend, but I do know that 1) she wore ‘em, 2) I was obsessed with her, and 3) anyone who was anyone in my school was wearing lots of them!

So I wanted lots of them, as well. I had a few, but not enough, and one night, I realized that the tires on my brother’s toy truck would be both perfect and unique rubber bracelets! I do not remember whether or not he ever asked for them back.

Garbage Pail Kids

 Two years after we went crazy for Cabbage Patch Kids, people my age were older and starting in varying degrees to shun “kid stuff.” Enter Garbage Pail Kids. They were chock full of really disgusting humor, and we ate it up. I was one of the holdovers for kids stuff, still wanting to play Barbies. My best friend who was a year older wanted to enjoy stuff more for her age. The night she, her brother, and I sat around trading Garbage Pail Kids because it was something everyone could enjoy, was filled with side-hurting laughter, and is one of my favorite memories.

Posted in Apartments & Other Domiciles, Childhood, Family, Friends, Lists, Miscellaneous, The '80s, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

5 Reasons to Watch “The Mindy Project”

Posted on August 7, 2013 by judisunshine

So while I loved Mindy Kaling as Kelly on “The Office,” it’s rare for me to get into a new sitcom. I’ve got a lot of shows on my plate, you know? But I found myself chuckling at the ads for “The Mindy Project” on Xfinity on Demand, and ended up checking it out.

HOO boy. I fell in love with this show something fierce, and it’s become possibly my favorite current sitcom, and definitely one of my favorite shows. And with no further adieu, here are:

 5 Reasons to Watch “The Mindy Project”

  1. The Cast

Of course, this is always the first thing on my lists, because casting is absolutely key for me. I’ll love a lesser movie or show if the cast is awesome. In the case of “Mindy Project,” it’s definitely not a lesser show, but I also couldn’t imagine it with a different cast. Everyone brings his or her own kickassery to the show. Zoe Jarman is a refreshingly unique presence as nerdy youngin Becky, and does a great job holding her own around the older cast. Ed Weeks as Jeremy plays a kind of British Joey Tribiani. Not in a himbo way, as a confident player who gets disappointed in the endless cool-point failings of his castmates, especially Morgan, who is played by Ike Barinholtz, and one of my favorites because he is so unapologetically ridiculous. His enthusiastic “I’m gonna gel up and put on my dragon shirt,” upon receiving an invitation to party that night is priceless.

I’m catching up with the show in a weird order, due to watching it On Demand, so I haven’t seen as much of Amanda Setton as Shauna, nor Anna Camp as Mindy’s BFF Gwen, but they rock, as well. Setton takes an archetypical TV character that I also grew up around – hot girl with a thick New York accent, and instead of being full of herself and/or bitchy, is a sweetheart who very much supports her girls. And Anna as Gwen was awesome the one or two times I’ve seen her, and after watching “Pitch Perfect,” get very psyched I do see her on “Mindy Project.”

Regarding Chris Messina as Danny Castellano: I have spoken about this actor before, because I think he is the bee’s knees. The two other things I’ve seen him in, “Six Feet Under” and “Julie and Julia,” he obviously had a good sense of humor, but played more serious characters. So it’s awesome to see him get to display his impressive comedic chops on “Mindy Project.” He has such dry wit and because he’s also such a good dramatic actor, fleshes out Danny in a way that doesn’t often happen so soon into a sitcom. His will-they-or-won’t-they relationship with Mindy is surprisingly compelling, and one of my favorite undercurrents of the show.

On top of all that, “Mindy Project” does something that many sitcoms, even the best sitcoms, can easily fail at – casting guest stars/friends of the show. Chloe Sevigny, Seth Rogen, and B.J. Novak in particular were inspired choices, and none of the guest stars IMO ever interfere with the integrity of the show.

  1. Mindy Kaling herself

Perhaps it is cheating to separate the cast into two separate list items, but on a show like this, it would feel remiss to not give Mindy her own honor. Josh and I rewatched “The Office” like it was our job several months ago, and though I’d been a fan of that show, was struck by Mindy Kaling, watching it all marathon-y like that. She was always really funny, but as “The Office” went on she evolved so much as an actress. Here on “Mindy Project,” she carries the show and leads an already-awesome cast with impressive aplomb. Her muttering delivery/indignant yelling of uber-clever lines is perfect, and there are MANY clever lines. “I’m fine; don’t worry about it” in response to Becky’s horrific “How old ARE you?” made me guffaw till the cows came home. It’s not funny as a standalone line here in my blog, but that’s the twist – you have to watch the show for context! Plus, MK is super-gorgeous in this show, but/therefore, it is awesome to see her being self deprecating about the ways in which she doesn’t fit the traditional supermodel stereotype. In doing so, she radiates a hotness that is inspiring. Mindy looks even younger and lovelier now than she did nearly a decade ago when the American “Office” first aired.

More on Mindy’s awesomeness in Number Five.

  1. The LOLs

Obvi, I think the show is funny. But it’s more than that. “Friends” and “How I Met Your Mother” are two of my favorite sitcoms. Both shows can make me LOL hard, even the “Friends” eps I’ve seen a million times. With “Mindy Project” though, it’s different. Like I spend the entire episode with this excitement and anticipation, because I know that humor just like…awaits me. Not every laugh in this show comes from a joke, and I love that. It’s just constantly humorous, even in its serious scenes.

  1. New York

A lot of shows are based in New York, but “Mindy Project” is the first new one I’ve seen since moving out of New York. “Seinfeld,” “Friends,” “30 Rock,” and “How I Met Your Mother,” can all make me miss New York, but watching “Mindy Project” in Colorado makes me feel…weird. Like hearing an ex talk about his new girlfriend or something. It’s a reminder that the life you used to know is still going on full-force without you, and it’s all pretty humbling. Still it is nice to see those streets again, even if they’re just sets. Josh and I watched the Valentine’s Day ep the other night, and both of us Native NYers felt very nostalgic upon seeing Danny take Mindy to his favorite pizza joint. Even when he told Mindy that it’s the worst pizza in the city, it’s like – dude, New York pizza.

  1. The Bimbo Twist

I have always loved me an intelligently written and acted bimbo. Christina Applegate’s Kelly Bundy, Brooke Theiss’s Wendy Lubbock, Alicia Silverstone’s Cher Horowitz…the list goes on. But that role has often been relegated to teenage girls who even if they’re not as dumb as they seem, still don’t have Mindy’s resume going on. It’s awesome to see an accomplished OB/GYN rave about “Sleepless in Seattle” and indignantly accuse Danny of never even watching “Sex and the City.” Mindy is more like a really financially successful Bridget Jones than anything else. That success in a way makes it all the more poignant, what a vague mess she is. Very not dissimilar to Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon in that regard, but “Mindy Project” feels in no way “30 Rock”-ripoff, either.

That is my favorite thing about the show, and major props to the writers, who rock in a big way. I loved reading Bridget Jones’s Diary as I approached 30, and I love watching “Mindy Project” now that I’m in my 30s. I’ll never be a doctor, but it kicks all kinds of ass to have a show that reminds me that age really can be just a number, and that flaws really can make us more beautiful. So long as to paraphrase what my friend Jackie said earlier, we use our inherent strengths to yang those flaws’ yin.

Thank you, “Mindy Project.” You’ve truly made my life a happier place in which to exist. Congrats on Season 2, can’t wait!

Posted in AcTING!, Entertainment, Lists, Miscellaneous, Romance, TV, Women | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 2 Comments