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

If You're Finished Trying to Leave a Message, Get Lost

I have an occasional problem when I try to leave a message on someone's phone. About 20 percent of the time, the voicemail system malfunctions, in one of three ways:

• It states, when I have barely said hello, "If you're satisfied with your message, press 1." 
• It asks if I want to re-record my message—you know, the one that I didn't leave yet. OR...
• It says, 'Good-BYE," in that crisp, snotty, sing-song manner that 6th-grade girls use when they are done with you.  

I know what's happening: Human Digital Tone Syndrome (HDTS). I'm pretty sure it's a real thing, and I swear on a stack of iPhones I have it. There's a timbre in my voice that carries across a library (and sometimes two or three libraries and a handful of churches), even when I'm using my tiniest whisper. I am convinced, based on the amount of times this message shutdown happens to me, that my voice approximates at least one of the digital tones that confuses cell phones or office VM systems—and could probably set off global alarms if I'm not careful. I'm not alone, either - my friend Jill S. said it sometimes happens to her, and she's not half the loud talker that I am.

That's why I've started a GoFundMe account for those suffering from HDTS. Please give generously, and I promise your contributions will be used where they are needed most: to save all those potentially brilliant voicemails that are so sadly going unheard.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Citizen Cane

My 90-year-old father has two canes: a serviceable wooden one, dented and scratched, but good for poking elevator buttons even when we ask him not to, and frequently used when he wants to point suddenly in one direction or another, totally unaware of the heads swerving out of the way of a guaranteed concussion.

And then there's his "fancy cane." About five years ago, I bought him a beautiful Brazos Free Form Twisted Hickory Walking Cane. He loved it! It was cool, and casual, and just the kind of cane you'd want to be seen with, if you needed one to amble about your business. (Definitely too good for poking elevator buttons.) About a week after he happily received it, when he was shopping at Target with the cane slung over the cart, someone stole it. Who steals a cane from an old man? Somebody not very nice, that's who.

He was pretty upset about it. Well, he was pretty freaking mad, actually. Italian mad, if you know what I mean. I was, too, mainly because he was so crushed about the experience. Still, I said all the right things, like "Maybe the person who took it didn't have any other way to get one, and they were desperate." But we both knew they took it because it was cool. Damn those fancy canes sitting right out there in public! It's like a great leather jacket in an unmanned coat-check at a club.

I got him another one just like the first one, but my father is a once-burned, twice-shy kind of fellow, so it only comes out for the good stuff. The old, scruffy cane gets used in Maryland, but when he visits my sister in California, that state is worthy of the hand-carved version. So are visits to doctors, and certain restaurants.

But Target - nah, Target will never see that hickory stick again. And I'm kind of glad he's so cautious. I don't want to have too many canes attached to my order history at Amazon. It's just not cool.


© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

The Second Hundred

My first blood donation: I was a freshman in college, and it got me hooked on a lifetime of regular
contributions. I started out with whole blood, which I donated for a good part of my life, not quite every two months like clockwork, but close. More like a clock that worked most of the time.

Then, a handful of years ago, I was recruited to be a platelet donor. "Come and give every three weeks instead of every eight!," they said. "Spend three hours with us instead of 40 minutes!," they said. What a deal! I couldn't refuse.

Seriously, I couldn't. I know how important platelets are, and not just from the stats I've been given - from people I know and love. I've written before about how I learned from one friend, when her tiny son was fighting t-cell leukemia, that platelets are often scarce, and sometimes units had to be split between children who needed them. Two friends this summer were in need of a solid platelet supply: one to fight a near-fatal bacterial infection, and one who is battling cancer (and will continue to need them). So I gladly visit my platelet nurses on a regular basis. Mit, Chamberlain, Manuel, Hannah, Vanessa, Alberto...they've become pals, and I feel like I'm in an episode of Cheers when I walk in and hear them call my name. (Except they take fluids instead of serve them. It would be much more fun to go there and drink beer every three weeks. Mmmmm. Beer. But I digress.)

On  my last platelet visit, a few weeks ago, I quietly celebrated my 100th donation. I liked reaching that landmark - I'd been paying more attention to the numbers this year as I got closer to The Big One. It feels good, like having a silver dollar in my pocket when I was a kid: substantial and special; something I earned and could be proud of. And this weekend, I started on my second hundred: for all the moms and dads sitting worried by their little ones' bedsides; to pay it forward for the friends who might need them someday; for a range of other reasons...and because it's the right thing to do.

A colleague wrote me a text about this, when I told her I had just hit 100. She said, "Think of all those people out there walking around with a part of you in them." I never looked at it that way; at the sheer volume of individuals I don't know and will never meet who are forever linked to me, and I to them, because of this opportunity that came my way. It's nice, that thought. It's going to make the second hundred even better than the first.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Get Thee to a Pumpkinnery

What happened to you, Pumpkin? You used to show up in mild force in the fall. You entered quietly, with an orange elegance; the plumpest member of the squash family. We saw you in only two places: in crudely but happily carved orbs on our neighbors' porches, and as the crowning glory of our Thanksgiving meals.

But now you're shamelessly hawking yourself everywhere, like a reality star gone mad. What kind of merch deals are you making, anyhow? You're letting Glade pimp out your pumpkin scent, you're swirling yourself like a drunk coed into Pepperidge Farm bread, you're in Jello and Chobani and Kashi...and OREOS! Really, Pumpkin - Oreos? And I don't want to even talk about the lattes.

Anyone can see that you're out of control, and you need professional help. Yes - you need more than just a pumpkin patch, my friend - that's not going to help you kick this thing. You need rehab, and some good counselors to talk you down off of this high you're on.

Please don't cry - I know it was a great ride, and you will miss all those brand name friends you made. But this is really for the best - we'll get you back to that simple life you used to love. Aren't you tired, Pumpkin? Tired of trying to be all those things to all those people?

Aw, Pumpkin - I'm so sorry. Now you're making me cry, too. Damn, I wish I had a tissue...I can't stop...yum...pumpkin-flavored tears.

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie

Three Priests Walk Into a Panera's, and...

Today I met L., one of my best friends, for lunch at a Panera Bread cafe. We got our meals, cracked open our Pellegrinos, and settled down for some lively (and slightly naughty) girl talk. And then...

And then along came three priests and sat down beside us. We raised our eyebrows and opened our eyes really big and smiley at each other like you do when something deliciously unexpected comes along. It was as if we opened US magazine and saw the section called "Stars! They're Just Like Us!," where you see someone famous pumping their own gas or carrying a bottle of Evian and a yoga mat while they're smoking a cigarette. Only this was real life, and it was "Priests! They're Just Like Us!"

Well, sort of like us. Two of them had gotten the "Pick Two" lunch, and had a half sandwich and soup; the other one had a whole sandwich. I kept trying to see what flavor soup and sandwiches they had, so I could know if the kind I usually ordered was holy enough. I saw one of them start to say grace, so I leaned really far over in their direction so I could get in on some of that blessing, because L. and I are usually so anxious to get to our talkfest that we skip grace completely. (I'm pretending here that I often say grace, which I don't, so that's probably a sin right there. The Sin of Posing.)

L. and I kept talking, our conversation punctuated by me saying "oops" every few minutes when I used words that sounded a lot like "duck" or the first part of "shitake mushrooms." There was something about those three collars barely a foot away that made my language take on the spiciness of evenings spent hanging around the seedy side of town. I couldn't help it!

But those padres didn't blink an eye. In fact, they started talking about their favorite soups, and in case you ever need to know this, priests like creamy tomato, broccoli cheddar and chicken noodle.

That got my attention right away, because I like broccoli cheddar, too, and that made me pledge to myself, right then and there, to watch my language the next time I was sitting near any clergymen in Panera's.

Hmmm. Broccoli cheddar. I never would have guessed it. Priests! They really ARE just like us!

© 2015 A Bit of Brie/Anitabrie