Sweet Baby James: Hymns for Agnostics

If you grew up when I did, and leaned more toward folk than rock, you probably wanted to be James Taylor if you were a guy, and wanted to be with him if not.

That voice - that easy, silky, rangy, fluid voice - was the backdrop to much of my teenagehood, along with the likes of Carly Simon, Carole King, Joni Mitchell, Roberta Flack and Gordon Lightfoot.

The lyrics, too, were as comfortable as your favorite pair of sandals; they were simple and straightforward, and could lift your heart and soul without a lot of show. That's why, when I read a JT interview in a flight magazine two days ago, something he said popped out at me: that some of his songs are like "hymns for agnostics, an attempt at some sort of spiritual food, at finding spiritual satisfaction."

I've heard a few of the songs on the just-released album, "Before This World" (his first new collection of work in 13 years), and they don't disappoint...it's the same sweet, sweet baby James; clear and true and yearning. And once again, though he's not that cool young guy with the guitar coloring my daydreams, and I am not that fresh-faced young girl in a peasant blouse wondering where life would take me, I still want to be with him. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Tough Mudder

Even polka dots can't make mud look fun.

I liked the idea of it: all the promos about mudbaths laud their calming nature, the warmth, the way your body is suspended and floating and drinking in all the nutrients from the mud, which is made from volcanic ash and peat moss. Yep, that's what I said...peat moss! I think you might see where I'm going next. 

Though I was told by many friends I would love a mudbath, I couldn't get past the aroma. It smelled like cow poo. It looked like it, too! And I willingly stepped into it and sat down! And guess what else? You don't wear a bathing suit, like I thought. So you can bet your volcanic ash there were a few thoughts in my head that weren't very restful. 

Once I was "installed," the attendant put cucumber slices on my eyes and a cool towel over that. Before she left, she said something that sounded like "Enjoy your mind," which I always do, so I kind of resented being told to do that, and then I realized she probably meant "Enjoy your mud." I think the employees cover your eyes so you can't see them all go in the back room and laugh and laugh about how many people are spending a fortune to be slathered in oozy dirt that smells like a barnyard. 

I should be fair about this: They DID spray lavender scent around my head after they "blindfolded" me, and it was so much better! For around 10 seconds! And then the poo smell came back. And of course my nose started to itch, so I had to pull my arm out of the ooze (it made a sucking sound...I swear that mud was starting to absorb me) and I scratched my nose, and got some of the mud on it, and after that I was pretty sure I would never smell anything but that for the rest of my life. 

It was a long 10 minutes, during which I counted to 60 for what seemed like a million times and I was certain they were leaving me in too long, but finally I was released. Past the shower to remove the remaining mud, then the mineral bath which was pretty nice, and then the steam room - fine, too. Then they take you to another room and and wrap you up all cozy like a baby in a big soft cotton towel-like sheet, and put more cucumber slices on your eyelids (which you should never do to a real baby, because they probably wouldn't care for it). Anyway, that last part was the nicest. I could have stayed there all day, but they don't let you hang out for too long because other people need to get over the trauma of their mudbaths, too.

I'm not sorry I tried it. After all, it was an experience, and writers need to have lots of experiences, or else they have nothing to make a big deal about and get a blog post out of. Would I have another mudbath? Well, since this happened in California, where they specialize in experiences, let's just say it's right up there with ingesting appetizers from a display where a live model is the hors d'oeuvre tray.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie 

What I Really Want for My Birthday

I didn't wake up and put on a party hat, but it's firmly planted on my head for the day - you just can't see it.

No matter how, um, "old" we get, there's always something just a little more special about our birthdays than all the other days in the year. And this one's finding me in an even mushier frame of mind than my normal. (I am admittedly pretty high on the sentimental scale as a matter of course.)

Once we've experienced a few decades of these events, there's not much we need or want in the way of presents. Except the "people stuff." That's what I want. And I have a lot of it! I am rich in what really matters. Like a close and caring family who can make me crazy at the same time they solidly have my back. Like unbelievably supportive, funny, smart, goofy, sweet and generous friends who make me better every day and are, for all intents and purposes, also my family. Like a remarkable network of colleagues (who, let's face it, usually end up being friends!). That's a pretty great trifecta.

Some of those friends are facing challenge I simply cannot fathom without going through it. They received a diagnosis, and subsequent treatment, and sometimes more disappointment on top of the original sadness. And they dig down and find more strength and courage somehow, even when they thought they'd used theirs up. One of these amazing souls is terminal, and talks about living past her "expiration date." She's spending some of her time teaching me what it feels like at the end of her life, what she is proud of, and worried about, and what she thinks I might want to consider while I have time to make some changes. And I know it's not just for me - she's doing it with others in her life as well. For her, and for my other health-challenged friends, I would love to plop a party hat on top of their noggins and say, "make a wish." And to a person, I'm pretty sure they would use that wish for someone other than themselves. These are the kind of people I know: what a gift they are to me.

This is why, even when I start to feel "mature" or "experienced" or any of the other ways we describe getting older, I will treasure whatever age I reach - because there are so many people who would love the chance to get there and might not.

I know it's time to stop writing when I start to get teary, and that's not what this is about. It's my BIRTHDAY, for crying out loud! Put those party hats on, and let's have cake.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie
 

The Party's Over, Pal

My office sits just below my attic, and I'm here listening to a potential break-in. No need to call 911; I'm safe. What I'm hearing is a very single-minded squirrel trying to get back in, after he or she discovered that the hole they'd made, that allowed them (and their friends?) to tear down and cart off much of my insulation, has been plugged. Sorry, Charlie (or Charlene). Nothing behind Door #1 for you anymore.

What keeps distracting me is that this thing is so persistent. It really doesn't stop trying. It doesn't take time out for coffee, or to shoot the breeze on the phone with a friend, or to go stare into the mirror and think, "I don't even look my age" (not that anyone writing this post would ever do that). It just keeps working on that patch of the house that yawned open before (it was a small yawn, thank goodness) but yawns no more.

I heard it yesterday, and the day before that, and I daresay that at some point it will succeed, even though there's a metal plate up there now to further impede another intrusion. I can't help but think how many impossible things I might have achieved in my lifetime if I had gone at them with such focus and passion and drive.

Oh, well - I can't waste time worrying about that. It's time for me to go look in the mirror and say nice (if slightly fabricated) things to myself about my youthful appearance. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

T-T-T-T-Tat's All, Folks!

Tattoos. They fascinate us, educate us, gross us out, make us say "Aww...", delight us with their art, puzzle us with their placement...and they're everywhere. This morning at the pool, as I watched a group of elderly women start their water-bike class, I was surprised to see that of the eight women seated with their backs to me, four of them had tattoos. FOUR grandmas had tattoos on their shoulders. What are the odds? Pretty good, actually. Pew Research Center, Tattoo Finder, and Vanishing Tattoo have a ton of statistics on it. (But first, let's savor the deliciousness of seeing Pew in the same company as two tattoo organizations. Fun, huh?)

Forty-five million Americans have at least one tattoo, and they're getting them at more than 20,000 tattoo parlors countrywide, spending, collectively, more than $1.5M annually for the pain and the pictures. Yikes. 

I don't have one, and don't plan to get one, but they're well represented in my family. My father got one at 17 for his then-girlfriend Charlotte, and when he married my mother, one of his pre-wedding tasks was to blank Charlotte out with some leaves. But she has always been there, under that inky cover-up, still readable if you know what you're looking for, a lifelong reminder that you probably won't end up with the person you liked as a teenager. (Yes, I know some of you have. Good for you - hope your tattoos are still nice and crisp!) My millennial niece has three that I know of: some tiny stars on the inside of her left foot, something else on her hipbone (also thankfully small) and then... the big rose outline on her shoulder that she waited to tell us about when we were all out to dinner with a visiting cousin, because she knew her parents wouldn't make a scene in front of him. Ironically, he's got a honkin' tattoo himself, but it wasn't on display that night.

I have a friend who will get a tattoo when she's really down in the dumps (don't ask me how many she has - she was a very unhappy camper for a few years). I have friends who have gotten them for reaching a landmark age, or for beating cancer, or because they always wanted one and dammit, they're going to have one now.   And there are some people taking them off, now that they realize the tramp stamp is, uh, aptly named. Years ago, it was clear that getting into laser tattoo removal would be a great business to have. (After all, Pew & Co. say that 17% regret theirs, and 11% are currently having a tattoo removed.) So I had to grudgingly admire the business sense of Christopher Knight, who played goofy Peter Brady on "The Brady Bunch," and is now a key investor in Dr. Tattoff. Guess Peter wasn't as dorky as he seemed. (Oh, yes he was. Adorkable.) 

There are some remarkable unsung artists out there using skin for their canvas. They're helping out the 29% of folks who say their tattoo makes them feel rebellious, and the 31% of people who say it makes them feel sexier. Oh, and lest I forget, the 5% who say a tattoo makes them feel more intelligent. Probably because they tattooed a picture of Einstein on their stomach. 

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

B*tch!

Someone called me a name this morning. It caught me off guard on this sunny, happy day, when I was headed to the gym for a quick visit and then back to my home office. Parking is scarce, so on my third trip around the lot I saw someone leaving, rolled yoga mat in one hand, keys in the other. I followed her and waited with my blinker on for her to pull out...and another driver, coming from the opposite direction in full view of me and my peppy little turn signal indicating "that's mine, mine, mine," sped up and tucked herself into my space. Just. Like. That.

I don't engage with mean people - it's not worth it, especially these days, when anyone can be a "gun enthusiast." (Yes, there are quotes around it for a reason.) But I was annoyed, and I waited for the parking-space-thief to get out of her car, and said, reasonably, "You know, that wasn't very nice - you saw me waiting for that space." And she, totally understanding my even tone and the practicality of my statement, said, "I'm so sorry. You're right. Let me move my car."

Nah, that's not what happened. When I gave her my "wasn't very nice" line, she screwed up her face and hurled "B*TCH!" at me, and walked off.  There are a few things that went through my head:
- How can someone be that mad and mean early in the morning?  
- How can they blatantly take something meant for someone else?
- If I see her in the gym and say something else to her, will she beat me up?

First I seethed, then I settled. It's too bad that we can be feeling great and loving the entire universe, and one person can change the mood in a second or two. But releasing some endorphins helped. So did my trip to Target afterward, where I was filling a prescription and was told I had to wait 30 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I heard the pharmacist say, "Go get some new makeup." So I did, and then I retrieved my prescription, and when I got home I tried out my new cosmetics, and I must say that after I took a look at myself, I really AM quite the b*tch today.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Talking Stick

My sisters and I used a talking stick this weekend to have a chat with our aging dad. Oh, it wasn't as pretty as this picture. In fact, it looked a lot like a cell phone with the speaker function turned on.

Talking sticks were often passed around in tribal circles, so that everyone present had a chance to speak. One description I read also noted that it was particularly helpful for "those who may be shy." (Not an issue with me and my sisters - most of the time, we're all speaking at once. If you translate the word "speaking" generously. We're Italian, after all.)

Three of us were with our father in the tiny dining room of his Maryland house, and one was in California. We agreed that for this important talk, we weren't going to interrupt each other, so whoever was holding the talking stick/phone would have the floor, and we looped in the sister on the phone with each round.

We're worried about our father lately. He's always been remarkably able, even as he's grown older, even after surviving bladder cancer, losing that organ, and having his kidneys fail so that he undergoes dialysis three times a week. But we're seeing some changes, and we want him to consider living with my oldest sister in Phoenix. That means selling his house and giving up driving (even though he's a steady, careful driver who's never had an accident, and I, on the other hand...well, let's not go there). It means letting go of even more of the independence he's lost through aging and widower-hood.

We can see how painful it is to him that we view him this way, our strong, smart dad. The dad who was so handsome when we were young he would turn heads. The dad who worked so hard to keep his five kids safe, but lost his only son in a moment he was helpless to prevent. The dad who has spent some focused time in the last few years clearing out and repairing his home, documenting his accounts, and planning his funeral, to save us from those tasks. I can't visit him these days without tears sneaking up on me. If he does move to Arizona, I won't see him much, making the 20-minute drive I have to his home now seem like an instant.

Damn that talking stick. We had to say things, however lovingly, that hurt my father. We just want to keep him safe. And better a small hurt now than a big one later. But it doesn't feel very good, no matter how noble our intentions. And when we finished, he said, head low, "I'll think about it." It's a start.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie