MountainMornings

In the past 48 hours, my old reliable car died and I’ve had to reboot my computer a total of 6 times. Finally, with tech support Bob on the phone, I unplugged everything, made myself a new pot of coffee, and voila, I’m online after restarting microsoft and firefox. UGH. This morning the Bride called from her new iPhone (why do they capitalize the “P”?) very happy and carefree even though she was about to start a shift with the sickest of the sick, in the MICU. She had downloaded all the medical apps she needs, her music went up into some cloud, and she was hoping the battery could last 30 hours instead of the 3 minutes her old Blackberry might last on a good day.

And I apologize up front for bringing up the obvious Weiner Roast. But while I was unplugged and car-less, this guy’s Twitter Package  seems to be all over the news cycle. I feel for him, really, he too was having technical difficulties. He cried last night and explained that he only meant to send the pix to one girl and not put it out on his Twitter feed. Poor guy, he pushed the wrong button. Married less than a year, he has engaged in this type of techno-dalliance, or sexting virtual affairs with maybe only 6 women. I remember when I thought good, old fashioned phone sex was weird. Now we have to watch some picture of an obviously waxed chest over our morning coffee and think what? Shame on you Anthony?

Then a plea – today is the anniversary of the Bush tax cuts – dropped into my email: “Our country isn’t broke, but if the Republican’s intellectually dishonest claim that we are is met with silence, our country’s moral compass may become broken.  “Hello,” our moral compass congressmen…I am supposed to write to my congressmen and tell them it’s time to tax the heck out of the super rich. I agree, if you’re in finance getting millions or billions for an end-of-year bonus, why not share the wealth? I may also tell them all to find their North Star, keep their cells in their pockets, and their exhibitionism to themselves. Do your job! How is sexting risque photos different from a naked guy in a raincoat flashing someone? Answer, it’s not. But lying about it, to your wife and the public, now there’s the rub. Sorry Shakespeare, I couldn’t help it.

HAMLET:
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub;

A View from the Deck

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I made the reservation online with something called OpenTable. It’s our 32nd wedding anniversary and our plan is to feast at a “high dollar” (country term) new restaurant, not that it’s new – just new to us. It’s actually Fossett’s at Keswick Hall, and I’m looking forward to sampling Chef Dean Maupin’s gastronomic wizardry. We like to get dressed to the nines once a year and celebrate this day with alacrity.

Clifton Inn Denied

When the Rocker was small, I’d always come up with a ‘word for the day’ as we drove to school, or hockey, or the beach. I was a dictionary.com for my family, fighting the good fight against too may “likes” and incomplete sentences. “Alacrity” is my all time favorite word. I really thought it was possible, that between the mind-numbing, ego shattering grind that was public middle school, I could insert a small bit of optimism and light into their over-scheduled day. I knew once they hit the age of sixteen, all bets were off.

Teenage Rocker

So when I read, via a Facebook link from a dear Shore friend, about Jonathan Franzen’s Op-Ed in the NYTimes titled Liking is for Cowards, Go for What Hurts, I was intrigued. He proposes that our current immersion in technology is detrimental to our common humanity. In fact all this “liking” in social media, in his opinion, is leading us into a collective abattoir of narcissism. That love hurts, and so we can shield ourselves effectively by all this beeping and humming gadgetry. It made me laugh a little, because the last good fight I had with Bob was about texting in the car – to be clear, he thinks I should be talking with him and not texting while he is driving….

In my defense, I found out about the tornadoes in MA yesterday before anyone else, I knew what was happening in Egypt before the network news knew, and since I am still such a news hound, this technology contributes to my overall sense of happiness. When I found out, the old school telephone way, that one of  our favorite restaurants was “totally booked,” I turned to Google to find something new. Once someone asked us how we managed to make love last, and my response is that we both feel free to say whatever pops into our heads.  Humor and learning to fight fair are essential ingredients in any long lasting relationship. The love part was always easy, it’s how you handle those acrimonious trenches that matters. Marriage is like a roller coaster, you don’t get off till it stops. and ps, I loved reading Franzen’s book Freedom on my Kindle!

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On the drive up to the Jersey Shore to see Parlor Mob debut their second album, we listened to an interview on NPR of a Harvard Psych and Public Policy Professor. Paula Caplan wrote When Johnny and Jane Come Marching Home and her message on this weekend was to speak to a Vet about his war experience. Allowing them the space to talk, and listening with an open mind and heart, can do more than any therapist or drug regimen combined could do to help them cope with life after war.

So when we arrived at my in-Laws, I asked Hudson if he had seen combat on his ship, the Zaniah, during WWII. He told us he was up on the deck one morning in Okinawa, when he saw a plane coming low, straight toward him. He thought it was “…one of ours,” there was no “general quarters” alarm.  At the last minute, it swerved and crashed into another ship. He looked at me with such wisdom, and it made me think of my brother Jim’s story. About being in Saigon at the Officer’s Club and the siren’s blowing and this guy who left and took cover under his bunk and was killed by a stray bullet.

That may be the hardest existential question of all. Why did I survive, when other good men and women perished? And each Johnny and Jane has to answer that for themselves. At our Wedding, in my kitchen, my step-brother Eric and Jim talked for the very first time about their Vietnam experience. Jim was an Intelligence Officer, Eric a med-evac helicopter pilot. My teenage self thought Eric would be safe with a big Red Cross on the side of his Huey; later he told me they were targets for the VC. He was one of very few pilots to survive.

Jim and Eric on Right

To all our veterans, and active-duty service men and women, today and every day in every part of the world, thank you.

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Women of a certain age have experienced “Consciousness Raising Groups,” where as young feministas we learned to ask for what we want and be assertive, without too much aggression. We refused to take typing tests, carried around Our Bodies Ourselves like it was the bible, and some of us burned our bras. This is why the TV series Mad Men does not appeal to us, we were Mad Women! Then we married and had children and joined “Play Groups” with our babies, where we’d discuss our lives and continue learning from each other. If one of us was sick, we’d stop by with soup (chicken was my specialty). We nursed each others babies if need be. When my toddler went on a hunger strike, I remember thinking, really, I can cut up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and she might eat that? We supported and nourished each other.

And now I have “Book Club” in the Blue Ridge. I moved here almost 7 years ago, when my youngest, the Rocker, took off for college.  A wonderful neighbor, Kay, asked me if I’d like to join her Book Club. I love reading and missed my old book clubbers. In my Shore town, we all knew each other from our children’s school, so our time was spent about halfway on literature and half on gossip. I was a little down, thinking I’ll never have friends again like the ones who knew me “when.” But the smart Southern women of Ivy Farms Book Club have stood the test of time: through moving – when we left Ivy Farms and built our ‘not so big’ house on the hill a 25 minute drive away – and through illness, divorce and even the death of a spouse. Some are sending their children off to college, and some are moving their parents into assisted living close-by, but we are are all still in it together. We are rock solid, we are here for each other. Or as Oprah just put it, “I see you, I hear you, And what you say matters to me.”

The book we discussed last night was Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand by Helen Simonson. It was a resounding success. It’s so nice to read about love at a certain age, and the possibility of change, of redemption. Oh and we hit a few hot topics, like the powerful Strauss-Kahn who thought he was above our rule of law. Thanks to our hostess, Virginia, who served us an Indian feast to honor Mrs Ali. And goodbye Oprah, thanks for the memories.

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Not being one to believe in the end of days, Rapture, mass hallucination craze, I decided to stay up late and watch Lady Gaga on SNL. But if you think about it, the fact that Oprah is leaving her daytime spot and according to Forbes, Gaga is already surpassing Ms O in her business model, well, maybe we should start stockpiling food. Before taking on the Mama Monster, here is  a shout out to my Jersey Girlfriend, a stunning performer with an incredible voice. Nicole Atkins is a woman with pipes! Her second album was just released “Mondo Amore.” Do yourself a favor, and listen to her croon.

Nicole Atkins

I have to just say it, I don’t get the Gaga thing. Maybe it’s that I’m not 12? I was really trying to get her, but watching her performance last night convinced me – Madonna does it better. My Mother had Mae West, my sister had Marilyn, and we had Janis. And they had talent, with a capital T. Bob took the Bride to see Madonna at Madison Square Garden when she was doing her Blonde Ambition Tour. It was akin to seeing Janis Joplin on his college campus, and taking this picture – Epic!

Janis at Duke 1968

But the Grammy egg thing? What’s that all about? Last night Gaga nailed the comedy sketches with Justin Timberlake. But her dancing and voice leave a lot to be desired. I’ll give her points for spectacle, but I’ve got a feeling Lady Gaga is going to self-implode; she doesn’t seem to have the chops. And who am I to critique this phenomenon? Remember my Adelaide and her Hot Box “Take Back Your Mink” routine?

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The dogwoods are done blooming, but limos are seen driving everywhere about town. It’s not Lady Gaga on her way to SNL that has those ubiquitous black sedans pulling up outside restaurants, or this weekend’s UVA graduation with its influx of celebrity parents. Nope, it’s time for that teenage angst or rite of passage known as Prom!

Nathan and Adelaide

I went to my Senior Prom with my future husband and co-star in Guys and Dolls (aka Nathan Detroit). Real life vaguely resembled that Runyonesque musical comedy because it actually did take him 13 years to propose. So naturally when the New York Times asked its readers for their own prom pictures I was happy to oblige.  Noting we should only add a few sentences, I took them at their word. After a few rejection letters from this publishing giant – ps, I never thought they’d print us, page 5 – let me elaborate here. http://www.nytimes.com/slideshow/2011/05/19/us/20110519_PROM_USERGEN.html

Back then, in 1966, we didn’t drink or do drugs, well at least I didn’t. We also didn’t “go all the way” in high school, imagine. Strangely enough, we still managed to have fun. We drove down to the Shore afterwards with our geeky/drama club friends, the same people we still celebrate Thanksgiving with almost every year – the Big Chill group. We spread out blankets on the beach and we swam and buried each other in sand till dawn. We were heady with the freedom of it all. Thinking back, I had a pretty progressive flapper Mother!

Big Chill at Holden Beach

We made our own dresses and drove our parents’ cars. Granted I inherited my big brother’s teensy Renault, but having one’s own car in high school was unusual. Skipping ahead to the Bride’s Prom, she refused to go with a gaggle of girls and waited for the formal invite. I never had any pictures, but heard it was great fun. She found a beautiful white Calvin Klein dress, that she managed to wear at her sorority formal too! By the time the Rocker was Prom material, I was serving on the School Board, making things a bit dicey. He wasn’t interested in proms, he had his metal band holed up in our garage day and night. Luckily, Title 9 extended to outdated notions of who should ask who to prom, and we actually had to buy him a tux since he was invited to so many.

Blonde Rocker on Right

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