Carrie On

I am not a Star Wars fan. I saw the first one, and then life intervened, and I never was compelled to see another.

But I was, and am, a Carrie Fisher fan. My fangirldom came from the work she did and the post-teen-Princess-Leia woman she was. I loved the way she created painful, searing, remarkable humor; the way she told stories with surgical precision —"Surrender the Pink," "Delusions of Grandma," and "Wishful Drinking." I admired how her mother's most selfish tendencies were handled in "Postcards from the Edge" with care and understanding. I treasured her genuine portrayal of real women on camera, and how she often stole the scene when she did. How she told off movie execs and other critics - in the way so many of us who don't look like we did at 20 wish we could - and said, "I swear, when I was shooting those films I never realized I was signing an invisible contract to stay looking the exact same way for the rest of my existence.”

I loved her openness and honesty about herself; about her struggles with regular human issues and superhuman mental health issues, and the generosity and self-deprecation she employed to keep moving forward and to help herself and others heal.

She was candid and gutsy, and from what one can tell about her through interviews and close friends' reflections, she closed off her life - full up to her Leia double-donut hairstyle - with integrity.

She could be counted on to point out that the emperor had no clothes, even as everyone else was admiring the cut of nonexistent finery. Kind of like what's happening today. Maybe she could see the future when she tweeted, "You know those days when things keep getting worse faster than U can lower your standards?"

Yes, Ms. Fisher, we know. Thank you for doing it right. We're so sorry you're gone, and not just for your talent ... because we would love to have your voice right now. But there is a lesson in your passing. Those of us who are witness to the parade, and wonder why so many are not pointing at the nakedness ... we need to get our Carrie on.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

Shampoooooh

I went to a new salon a week or so ago. The hairdresser came highly recommended by a friend I trust, who gets great haircuts, so I gave this new place a go. When I called to make an appointment, they took my name and gave me a date and time, and then said, "Oh, by the way, the price of our haircuts is between 'whaaaaat number did you just say?' and 'ohmygosh.' " They didn't actually deliver it that way. They gave me dollar amounts, but that's how I translated it.

So I went, and it was as trendy as I would have expected; the kind of place where they offer you a drink when you check in, and your name is emblazoned on the wall in three colors of neon chalk with the other clients in your time block (Hello to Jane C! Mike F! Anita B! Susan P!). There's an eclectic mix of doodads hanging from the ceiling - things like blow-up beach toys and dreamcatchers and other totchtkes. Shereen, my hair artiste, took me to her station, and we both looked at my sad headful of follicles and talked about what it needed to be when it grew up. Then she handed me off to Quentin, who settled me into a massage chair, revved it up, floated a silky black reverse cape around me, and leaned me back for the shampoo.

This wasn't just any shampoo. It came attached to a scalp massage that was so luscious it had to be illegal in at least 10 states. And it went on, and on. Ohhhhh, Quentin. It was so indulgent, so delicious, so dreamy that I'm pretty sure I had that involuntary leg reflex that dogs get when you scratch them, and I really hope that gutteral noise I heard was coming from the woman getting shampooed across from me. At one point in my delirium I was even thinking I might try hanging beach toys and dreamcatchers from my own ceilings, it seemed like such a great idea.

But alas, like most heightened physical experiences, it ended too soon. I was led, blinking and woozy, to Shereen, who did, in fact, give me a great haircut. I happily paid a king's ransom for the experience, and will probably go back for my next cut, even though what I really want is ... well, you know. They had me at the shampoo.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

Man + Cat

This isn't really a story about a cat. But it is a story about a man.

I saw him last weekend, when I was driving home on a sunny Saturday morning after having coffee with a pal.

This man was standing on the island between two busy roads, near a traffic light. He was around my age, maybe a little older. He had all the sadness of the world in his face, and dirty hands and fingernails, and soiled clothes that hung on his thin frame, and scuffed shoes that backed up to a trash bag which probably held a few miserable possessions. And he had a ripped piece of cardboard for a sign that said "please help" at the top, and "MAN + CAT" underneath that.

It pained me so, that "MAN + CAT"sign. There was no cat to be seen, and I wondered if he thought nobody would help if it was just him, but they might if they thought there was a needy animal involved. I couldn't help him that morning - I wasn't close enough to him to get to my purse and move over the two lanes it would require to hand over some financial compassion before the traffic light changed.

I try to give whenever I see someone like him. People have many different feelings about this; that someone will use the money for drugs or drink, and it will not make a difference in their lives. But here's what I believe: when we give someone like this money, it's not just about the currency. It's a way to  say "I see you," rather than averting our eyes and pretending we're suddenly very interested in the middle of our steering wheel.

We cannot rescue everyone. And yes, there are people who do this artfully, for a living, and are not the needy folks that some others are. But you know what? When there is a person who is clearly hungry, who seems not to have seen a bed or a bath for days on end, it doesn't make sense to spend a lot of time weighing whether one individual deserves charity more than another. I often repeat something a friend said to me years ago about giving others money: "What's a little to us is a lot to someone else."

I wish that I could have given a little to "MAN + CAT," and taken just a bit of that sadness out of his face, for a second or two. Because I'd like him to know he was worth helping, with or without a hungry pet.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

Where's the Chili?

Anyone who knows me well has heard my spiel about giving blood. "It doesn't take long, it's a way to fulfill some volunteer aspirations, it doesn't cost you anything, it will make you feel great, you will lose a pound every time you donate, blah blah blah." And if all else fails, "You get cookies." (By the way, if you eat too many cookies, you can forget about being one pound lighter.)

I started out as an 18-year-old giving blood at college drives, and kept up the habit after I entered the workforce (my colleagues and I would take field trips to the blood donation center a cab ride away from our office). About four years ago, I transitioned to platelet donation; proud of my dense platelets (they could get two to three units from me to other donors' one) and unconcerned about the additional hours apheresis took on a weekend. But in mid-May - duhn duhn duhn (I'm trying to write the sound that comes before a scenario-changing reveal) - I got a letter telling me I am no longer welcome as a platelet donor. WHAAAAT?

Yep. Turns out my HLA (Human Leukocyte Antigens) can, in rare situations, be harmful to some recipients. So no more platelets for moi. But all is not lost! My vital fluids are still appreciated on the other (whole blood) side of the room. And if you've been waiting for the chili part of this post, here it comes.

I got pretty friendly with my platelet nurses over the years. So much so, that when several of them told me they like chili, I (who can cook up some kick-ass chili, if I say so myself; all beany and meaty and lusciously thick) would make a big pot and bring it in from time to time. Along with sour cream, and shredded cheese, and tortilla chips. And they would often eat this concoction at 8:00 in the morning, because what's better for breakfast than chili? Today, returning to give whole blood, I arrived at the donor center, and saw Emmanuel first. "I can't give platelets anymore," I said, mournfully. "Awww...that is too bad, Miss Anita." Emmanuel, a kind and happy fellow whose face lights up when he sees me, and who did the honors when I brought my young niece in for her first blood donation, was clearly as dismayed as I was. "And we will not get chili anymore."  Then Mit, a lively nurse with whom I have talked about his culture and music, saw me and gave me the sad face, too. "No more chili, Anita. We will miss you." After similar conversations with a few others, two things were clear: it wasn't my personality that was endearing me to everyone, and I was going to have to come across with a pot of savory goodness pretty soon, so some other scheming platelet donor didn't slide onto my chili queen throne.

After a lifetime of blood contributions, I hope I have saved a few lives. No matter what, I've always been aware that there is a trail of people in this world who are forever connected to me. Now I know it's either because they got some of my blood, or they've eaten my chili.



© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

McMuffins and Marines

I told him I'd pick him up at 8:30 on the morning of one of the primary voting days in his county. When I drove up, there was my father, sitting on his rolling walker in the sun to the right of his driveway: all nine decades of him, with the pilled and saggy sweater that he won't give up, the huge '80s glasses that are "still perfectly good," and one of the many baseball caps he started wearing out of embarrassment just a few years ago when his beautiful head of hair finally thinned out.

He'd insisted on going to vote early in the morning, to beat the crowd he was so certain would be there. (I knew otherwise, but I agreed that it was probably good to get a jump on the other voters. You know how everyone's always elbowing each other out of line to vote in the primaries.) When I got out to help him into the car, he said, "There might be too much traffic right now. Want to go to McDonald's and get breakfast first?"
 
Once there, he headed toward the condiments section to grab enough napkins for 40 people. I sat him down at a lime-green table, folded up his walker and put it aside, and went to get our order. Shortly after I returned, a tall gentleman, around 80, stopped by the table and introduced himself as "Rick," then asked if my dad had been in the service. "6th Marine Division," said my father. "29th Regiment." Rick smiled and winked, said, "I hate Marines," and then pulled out a colorful coin and popped it down on the table. "Ah, Master Sergeant," said my father, who saw at a glance what the coin meant. "Yep, career marine," says our new friend, pulling up his shirt so my father could see his belt buckle with the eagle, globe and anchor insignia. "Enjoy your breakfast!" And with that, he moved on, the Mayor of McDonald's, meeting and greeting his McCitizens.

With my father fed and ready to vote, I install him once more in my car and turn on the ignition. There's a knocking at my window. It's Rick, so I lower the glass and he says to my father, "We're up here 8-10 every morning but Sunday, me and some other guys who were in the service. We're all in our 70s and 80s. You should come sit with us once in awhile."

The look on my father's face - this man who has lost his wife and all of his contemporaries, who is so lonely despite the best efforts of his four daughters - was a gift. You bet I'll get him up there.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

Tarot Card Readers Don't Take Blue Cross

Until last Sunday, I was unschooled in the experience of the tarot card reading. But finding myself at a conference that was all about the cosmic arts, I just had to sign up for a peek into my future from a guy who is a local tarot rock star. (In the spirit world, at least.)

I asked about my work, and picked the number of cards he directed me to pull from his fanned-out, face-down deck, and he told me some things that might or might not be true. It sounded a lot like my regular life - you know, the one I was already having before someone saw it through a hazy mist.

Then I asked about a relationship gone awry, and he said, "Was this guy really, really introspective? I mean, REALLY introspective?" And I said, noooooo, not really... and then he said, "Could that be you?" I thought and thought about it, and then thought about it some more, and then said "Yes! That's me!" (Just a little introspective joke there for all you thinkers.)  Anyway, that was part of the issue, he said - too much introspection. Now, I ask you, when has a man ever not wanted to hear everything a woman was thinking?

Finally, I asked about my health, because I had some important medical tests coming up a couple of days after the reading, and I wanted some information in advance. Was I going to be okay? Astoundingly, he pinpointed the reason for the tests - or close to it - without me saying anything. And he showed me that my cards predicted it would all end up just fine, but there would be some treatment and I'd have to follow doctor's orders very closely.  So when I went for my tests yesterday, I wasn't a bit surprised that the outcome was good.

See? Who needs doctors when it's all in the cards? And bonus: no co-pay required.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

An Audi-acious Parking Job

Wow. And I thought I had trouble parking.

Yesterday, a local woman got into her car, which was on the fourth floor of a parking garage in Towson, Maryland, with no other thought in her head, I'm guessing, besides finding that elusive little white card to hand back to the attendant with a $10 bill to pay for her space.

Minutes later, she was airborne, taking the short route down to the street, past four floors of other autos, which were surely yelling to each other in vehicular language, "That's gonna hurt!" (And you know they were talking about the car.)

Don't worry - the driver (or perhaps "pilot" would be more accurate) is, miraculously, okay. (Hey - I'm not a monster! I wouldn't write this if she were a casualty!) Only minor injuries, thanks to the sturdy construction of her Audi Q5. I hope we don't find out she was texting someone to remind her how to drive a manual shift, or to say to her coworkers in the adjacent building, "Watch this!"

Anyway, there are a few lessons here. First, don't pull forward when you're already parked against the garage wall facing the street below. Second, you might not want to park in any garages in Towson that have a facade like the one in the photo above. And third, we should all go out and get Audi Q5s immediately. And then, if we ever do pull a stunt like this, we can just relax and turn up our satellite radio for the quick ride down. What, you think I'm kidding? I'm totally Sirius.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

Tying One On

When I was seven years old, I remember asking my father if it was hard to make a knot in his tie. "Nope," he said. "Let me show you." And that morning, I learned the four-in-hand method.

This week I started on some new volunteer work with an organization that is out to crush poverty. (I love their t-shirts, which highlight the word "over" in poverty.) They work from a place of great respect for those they help, so the clothes, furniture and housewares they collect and disburse are in pristine condition, and when they are helping to furnish someone's home, they put a room of furniture together that's aesthetically pleasing; not someone else's castoff collection of odds and ends.

There are many options for volunteers, so I am trying out a few of the opportunities to see where I might add the most value. My first assignment was in their professional development center, matching a group of men who have interviews coming up with the right suits, shirts, ties, belts and shoes. These fellows were cheerful, polite, and excited about their new clothes. But they were most excited about the possibility of employment after completing the training program they had entered after their release from prison.

One of the men quietly chose a suit and two shirts, and walked over to the tie rack, where I pulled a few that went well with his choices. "Why don't you try on all of the pieces together and see how they look?" I said. He demurred, and seemed embarrassed, and then said, "I don't know how to tie a tie." I slipped two ties around my neck, knotted them perfectly, then loosened them and handed them over to their new owner, who was beaming. "I'm gonna keep them just like this," he said, hanging each one carefully with its coordinating shirt.

Here's to a fresh start with a new set of clothes and a jolt of confidence. And here's to all the dads out there who teach their children how to tie just the right knot. You never know when your kid might need to use it.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Lucy Loves Laptops

Lucy, on the job.

I really, really, really do not want to be pegged as a cat lady, so I should just keep my trap shut about having one. Yep, I'm writing this post against my better judgement, in my office with the door closed, because I had to get away from my cat. She's new, and she's just a kitten, so I'm trying to cut her a break, but I'm not used to her needing to stick her little pink nose into everything I'm doing. (That cute little pink nose. Ah, it's killin' me.)

As a writer, I much prefer my desk and keyboard to be a cat-free zone. My previous felines seemed to understand that; in fact, the last one pretty much flipped me off if I ever tried to be remotely familiar with her. This one is a different story. She spent the first three weeks in her new home hiding behind the TV in the basement, and when she finally realized I wasn't going to kill her, she came out. And now she owns the place, and me.

She follows me around the house, practically putting her paws right under my heels. (Aw, those adorable tiny bootie paws. With cotton candy pads! What a great contrast to her tux markings! She's so color-coordinated!) She expresses her needs, displeasure and delight vociferously (i.e., she meows and meows and meows, and then she meows some more just in case I didn't hear her the first few times). My last kitty wasn't a talker—in fact, she never uttered a sound—but I'm getting very familiar with this one's tonsils, because that Friskies depository is always open. (Yes! Cats have tonsils! I looked it up!) And when I return after a few hours away from the old homestead, she welcomes me like she thought I might have left her permanently, which I have to admit is pretty nice to come home to. 

Her office routine of late is getting in the way of my creative expression and the outpouring of genius that always emerges when I sit at my desk. (Well, almost always.) (Okay, then, most days.) She lolls around on my to-do list, and knocks my pens to the floor, and languidly stretches her head (it’s such a perfect little noggin!) over to see what I’m doing, and on occasion, edits my work by quick-stepping over the keyboard when I’ve walked away, so that I must make a beeline for the feline and scoop her up before she writes her favorite word: "pojhfresxz." Can’t you hear the frustration that this diminutive minx, with the softest coat and the sweetest little belly and the constant purring, is changing the way I work?

Yeah, she’s getting to me. I guess I don’t mind being a cat lady. Just as long as you all know I’m a writer and a cat lady. Emphasis on the writer.

© 2016 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie