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Happy Thanksgiving

24 Thursday Nov 2016

Posted by in Confessional

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peace-earrings

BY LOIS DESOCIO

It took two recent encounters while wearing my $12.99, big, grasshopper-green, plastic peace-sign earrings (embedded with sparkly glass chips) for me to recognize their value.

I bought them years ago and have only worn them once. It was a Halloween party. I went as me — but with big, grasshopper-green, plastic peace-sign earrings (embedded with sparkly glass chips).

This past Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving, I wore them to Stop and Shop for my holiday shopping. I was feeling that heightened swell of warmth that always hits me when Thanksgiving becomes the reason I am in the supermarket. That fellowship with everyone else who is there at the same time. That sense of communal preparation. Who cares that your cart is blocking the aisle! Sure, you can have that last package of Pepperidge Farm breadcrumbs! Here, cut in line! It’s Thanksgiving!

But this year I expected to feel the bleakness that the election has draped over conversations, social media, the streets, dinner tables. I was prepared for a sense of discord in the aisles; polarization in frozen foods; lost souls in checkout. So I went out adorned with ear-to-ear whimsy. I will not partake. It’s Thanksgiving.

An older couple approached me in the parking lot as I was closing my trunk after packing it with groceries. They asked for, and I handed over, my shopping cart. They smiled simultaneously and both said “Thank you.” The woman said, “I love your earrings.”

“We need to help each other as much as we can,” I said. I rubbed the woman’s arm. She nodded. We simultaneously chuckled reassuringly. It’s Thanksgiving.

Hours later, while walking my dog on my street, a young woman jogging by proclaimed to my earrings with a fist in the air, “Peace be with you!”
It really is Thanksgiving.

So today I will bring my whimsy to the Thanksgiving table. I’m planning to wear my earrings all day. I feel grateful. I will give my mom, who is suffering from severe dementia, a tighter hug.

And by taking note of all the things that she can no longer do — go to the Stop and Shop. Connect with a total stranger or three on the street. Walk the dog. Vote. Make stuffing. Feel grateful. Put on big, grasshopper-green, plastic peace-sign earrings (embedded with sparkly glass chips) — I will be reminded of how easily and unexpectedly it can all be taken away.

Happy Thanksgiving. Peace.

Beirut Bound (And Boundless)

16 Tuesday Aug 2016

Posted by in Travel

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Maura

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This afternoon, my friend Maura will board a Lufthansa jet bound for Beirut, Lebanon.

“I love you.” “I’ll miss you.” (“Go for it!”) has been written, spoken, texted and sent (accompanied by hugs, kisses, sing-alongs, tequila shots, dining-room dancing, swimming, and wine-soaked feasts), by those of us who were part of her two-month summer send-off.

“What!” “Wow.” “Whoa!” has also been, and continues to be, uttered by many upon hearing of Maura’s decision to spend a year, and possibly two, in what was formerly dubbed the “Paris of the Middle East,” and is now a headline and a five-hour trek away from the war in Syria.

Maura, who will be 57 in November, is heading to the Middle East to teach reading, writing, math, science, and social studies to 4th graders at The American Community School in Beirut. She estimates she is one of eight to 10 new teachers coming to the school, with about 25 percent of the faculty from the United States.

What drew her to Beirut (she also had offers from Guangzhou, China and Doha, Qatar) is that it is “lush, Mediterranean, and old, with so many cultures (55% are Muslim, 5% are Druze, and 40% are Christian) that live together in shaky harmony.”

She plans to ski Lebanon’s snow-capped mountains, wander the “farm-rich plateaus,” swim its gold-sanded beaches, and snorkel over ancient Phoenician shipwrecks. There will be hiking in ancient caves, monasteries and Roman ruins to explore; hummus, fattoush, and shawarma to eat.

And then there’s the kids.

“I anchor myself in all the nuttiness of the move in reminding myself that I love to teach because I really enjoy spending the day around children,” she said.

A recent by survey by The International Educator, a resource for educators who are looking to teach abroad, revealed that middle age is ripe for grabbing that global teaching opportunity, and “some school heads and recruiters are quite eager to hire older candidates with extensive experience and the wisdom that can only come with age.”

Maura’s got just that. Plus she is intrepid, lovely, pragmatic and tough. Since suffering the loss of her husband Lee, who died two years ago from complications stemming from multiple sclerosis, her gearshift has been parked in Forward.

So putting her house up for rent, packing a year of life into three 48-pound suitcases, and trading her 14-year teaching job in an elementary school in small-town New Jersey for an urban-international school in the biggest (and among the world’s oldest) city in Lebanon is not much of a leap.

After all, she scuba dives in Honduras:

Maura scuba

Maura in the middle. With her sons Sean and Cameron.

Powers through 5K mud runs in New Jersey:

Maura Mud 2

Maura hanging. With rings.

And opened up the 2014 Rock and Roll Hall of Fame ceremony in Cleveland:

Screen Shot 2016-08-16 at 8.45.18 AM

Maura at the podium. With sequins.

No doubt Maura’s solid middle-age bedrock is fortified by her younger years with Lee. She has him tucked inside; his initial tattooed on her wrist. He’s going with her.

“I want to be strong, she said. “I know I will get lonely and miss everyone madly. But I want to grow as a human. To get out of the familiar way of being and thinking. And being alone and feeling lonely will have to be a part of that. I both accept it and dread it.”

So, I feel I can speak for those of us for whom Maura has been a staple in our every day for years; more sister than friend. One last (albeit tearful) round of: “I love you.” “I’ll miss you.” (“Go for it!”)

Maura back

Maura will be blogging from Beruit. Follow her at Eyes Wide Open, which will go live once she lands.

One Timpano, Two Timpano, Three Timpano …

06 Wednesday Jan 2016

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Timpano

BY LOIS DESOCIO

… Score!

After three attempts, in as many years, I believe I have conquered timpano — that barrel-shaped feast of encased noodles, salami, cheese, pork, beef, ragu, hard-boiled eggs, and star of the 1996 movie “Big Night.”

I wrote about my second attempt in 2012. (The first attempt was not worthy of documentation.)

So when I read New York Times food writer, Melissa Clark’s tweaked timpano recipe from December 11 (see below), I was inspired to go for a third round over the holidays. Clark mixed and nixed, modernized and molded an easier, less labor-intensive timpano.

But I was torn. Making timpano is a feat you don’t mess with. I have learned from first-hand experience and as is evident in the movie, it is an event that is supposed to be nothing short of a mix of religious exultation and traumatic sweat — a recipe for stress and science as you chop, slice, toss, stir, wrap and bake with a bow to the ingenuity of the ingredients and salutation to the artistry of the finished product.

There’s the mess on the counter. Arithmetic is called for. You salivate as you combine a bunch of things that you may never have thought could be combined into what becomes an unwieldy mound that then has to be wrapped in dough and baked and ultimately burnt at least two times before you get it right.

But I’m a fan of Clark’s. And a failure at timpano, so …

… I tweaked Clark’s tweak. And because of the merging of her talent and deft with my reckless abandon in the kitchen (because I’ll eat anything) — I finally nailed that drum.

Clark substituted savory roasted butternut squash for the hot hard boiled eggs from the original. I followed her lead, but I wish I had used both. (The addition of roasted squash, though, was sublime.) Also, instead of wrapping it all in dough, she used fresh pasta sheets, which makes for a gigantic, layer-free lasagne, as opposed to an upside-down (not pie-shaped) over-stuffed pizza. In retrospect — give me pizza.

I used broccoli and garlic instead of her broccoli rabe (no strings attached), I substituted honey for nutmeg, and I shoved some mini meatballs in there along with three kinds of homemade (from the local pork store) sausage. (You must never, ever eliminate meatballs. Never.)

And instead of salami OR prociutto, as Clark suggested, I went with salami AND prociutto. Clark took out the pecorino romano — I kept it in.

The one mess-up is that my recent triumph at timpano will for the most part remain in limbo, mainly because I didn’t write anything down, and couldn’t read a good portion of what I did write down. Most of what I’ve written here came from memory after drinking wine and eating timpano.

Here’s the original Big Night Timpano recipe, which takes a labor-intensive five hours to make.
Here’s Clark’s, which she professes to be a “faster and easier” four hours.

I can’t calculate how long it took me, but “faster and easier” and me and timpano didn’t mix (partly because of the frantic Christmas Eve-morning search for fresh pasta sheets). But I do believe my third try gave a nod to Clark’s modernity and a bow to the integrity of the original. And props to me for messing with the pros while maintaining palatability. And I didn’t burn it.

Timpano eaten

My timpano, 24 hours in.

Yes, This Thanksgiving Will Still Be About Stuffing

25 Wednesday Nov 2015

Posted by in Confessional, Food

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Mom 1-2

Mom. Monmouth Beach. Circa 1980.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This year, Thanksgiving will be devoted to my mom.

My mom, who is the daughter of immigrants from Northern Ireland, who crossed the sea to America, dirt poor, but rich with a naiveté that allowed hope.

My mom, whose own mom, after a total of three healthy-born children and more than five miscarriages, left her family when my mother was four years old.

My mom, who is the only daughter of a loving father who, alone, raised his three children in Elizabeth, New Jersey and supported them by driving an ice truck.

My mom, innately feisty (and as no-nonsense as good Irish whiskey), who, determined to break the rut of struggle, made a life for herself. By herself.

My mom, a young 20-something woman who became a top-notch secretary, who eventually married her boss, my dad — a handsome, educated, athlete and poet, whose quiet demeanor rimmed (and sometimes masked) his zest and verve, and who, with my mom, raised three children who inherited her hardiness and his calm.

My mom, a 47-year-old woman who left that marriage after 25 years because she wanted what she never had.

My mom, a middle-aged woman whose grit and brains (and good legs), helped build a successful career as an export administrator (and leg model) for an international cosmetics firm.

My mom, who eight months ago was living with the onset of mild dementia, but was still somewhat independent, smart, dignified, supportive, loving, flawed. And feisty.

Then she fell.

She fell and hit her head on a concrete curb on the side of the road while walking alone near her home. For some time, her snow-white coat made her look like a mound of plowed snow, until someone stopped and called for help.

She was fast-forwarded into dementia with severe brain trauma that thrust her into a dark tunnel of a life; a kaleidoscope of sound bites from the past, confusion, hallucinations.

And the occasional laugh:

“When did you turn Chinese?” she asked me.
“I was on an airplane last night that had no pilots.”
“Watch out! Stay next to me! There’s a force field around us!”

And the latest, “They don’t make Pepperidge Farm Stuffing Mix anymore.”

Among the things she worries about when she remembers who she is and who she was, is sending birthday cards, buying gifts, and just recently buying pies from Delicious Orchards and that Pepperidge Farm Stuffing Mix to make her stuffing for the holidays.

For as long as I can remember, no one else has ever made the Thanksgiving stuffing. And until this Thanksgiving, no one knew her recipe. I now have her old, broken, but neat, recipe box from the ’60s with the squawking roosters on the front.

Tucked in between Cabbage with Onions and Irish Bread, and on what appears to be the original 3×5 card, is Sausage Stuffing.

photo-33

The stuffing reveal.

So this Thanksgiving, to be closer to mom, our party of eight will gather in my cozy four-room condo on the beach with the kitchen that only fits five. We’ll cram a big turkey into a less-than-ideal oven (it’s electric!) that comfortably fits a chicken, not a turkey. We’ll have the usual sides — mashed potatoes (I shamelessly might go instant), my mom’s creamed corn recipe that she shared with everyone, a pile of roasted veggies, and my mom’s stuffing recipe that she’s never shared with anyone.

My hope is that mom will make the stuffing (a double batch) for the first time with all of us crammed around her because she can’t be alone with a stove. I’ll imagine what she would be saying if she could.

I’ll chop and mince and measure. She’ll stir and sautee under my brother’s watchful eye. She’ll assemble. (“Never, ever in the bird!”) She’ll put it in the oven. I’ll take it out. I’ll sneak a spoonful before it reaches the table.

We’ll all eat as much stuffing as we can muster, in case this is the last time she has a hand in it. I’ll surprise her with an apple pie and a pumpkin pie from Delicious Orchards for dessert that she can take turns picking at with alternate sides of her fork. (“I think we need whipped cream.”)

We’ll talk as if Thanksgiving and mom are what they used to be. We’ll call her brother who is on the edge of 90 and forgets that his sister is “gone,” and talks as if it’s 1965. We’ll open and read to her the letters from family in Northern Ireland that have piled up.

And no doubt, she’ll remember none of it, including how much stuffing I ate. (“Put the stuffing in front of Lois.”)

But the rest of us will.

Who is Clueless: Me? The Press? Or the NFL?

20 Thursday Aug 2015

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“Conduct by anyone in the league that is illegal, violent, dangerous, or irresponsible puts innocent victims at risk, damages the reputation of others in the game, and undercuts public respect and support for the NFL. We must endeavor at all times to be people of high character; we must show respect for others inside and outside our workplace; and we must strive to conduct ourselves in ways that favorably reflect on ourselves, our teams, the communities we represent, and the NFL.”

Excerpt from NFL Personal Conduct Policy, courtesy of NFL.com, December 2014.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

I have a scoop. I’m confident that no one else has written about it. I think very few people even know about it. For almost a year now, I have been pitching this opinion piece: The NFL published and promoted the walk-up songs chosen by the 2014 and 2015 draftees on its website, NFL.com. Songs that “are rife with misogynistic, hip-hop diatribes such as “hoes,” bitches,” and a slew of other highly offensive words and phrases that pump up violence against women, give props to drinking, dealing (and doing) drugs, and having enough NFL “paper” (money) to splurge on all of the above.”

I’ve pitched to mega media outlets, magazines, and online news blogs and websites. No one wants it.

I’ve been handed rejection after rejection. The rejections ranged from silence, to “Nice piece!”, to “… the makings of a good piece …”, to “Maybe”. And ultimately from all: “Sorry, but not for us.”

The vibe seems to be that my scoop is actually a “non-issue.” Much ado about nothing. Some young adult men that I know have hinted that this old(er) woman is a bit out of touch with the times.

Enough said. Read for yourself. Here’s the piece. Please chime in. Comment. I’m curious. Am I out of touch? Is this a non-issue?:

The May 2015 arrest of defensive end Ray McDonald on domestic violence charges (his third accusation of violence against women), and the subsequent decision by the Chicago Bears, who signed him in March of this year, to cut McDonald from the team, puts the spotlight back on the NFL and its culture of violence against women.

A big move in the right direction by the Bears? Is cutting McDonald a sign that the NFL is putting some muscle behind its ongoing campaign to change its misogynistic culture?

Let’s dig deeper. We don’t have to look much further than NFL.com. Plug in a search for “2015 Walk-up songs.” This is the second year that the draftees were asked to pick a song that would be played as each player walked across the stage at the NFL Draft. (This year it was at the Auditorium Theater of Roosevelt University in Chicago on April 30 through May 2.)

And it’s the second year that NFL.com lists those songs, with links to the accompanying videos. Songs that are rife with misogynistic, hip-hop diatribes such as “hoes,” bitches,” and a slew of other highly offensive words and phrases that pump up violence against women, give props to drinking, dealing (and doing) drugs, and having enough NFL “paper” (money) to splurge on all of the above.

Is my jaw the only one dropping?

For it was less than a year ago that commissioner Roger Goodell, in a 2014 September press conference after his end run around former Baltimore Raven Ray Rice’s elevator-punch that knocked his then-fiancee, Janay Palmer unconscious, pledged that when it comes to violence against women, the NFL was going to get “our house in order.” That the NFL will “get it right.”

I listened to all 25, 2015 walk-up songs, and all 26 from 2014 (which are still on the website). And watched every single video.(In 2014, the website gave links to the videos. This year, the videos themselves were embedded.) In more than half, women were “bitches.” In some they were “strippers” or “hoes.” Some like “popping mollys” or “x” in their mouths … among other things.

I do get that each song choice means something to each draftee, and I understand that a song choice for a pivotal life-moment may not necessarily reflect personal attitudes towards women. And to be honest, I’ve been known to dance to Drake. That is not the issue.

The issue is that this list does not belong on NFL.com.

And that the NFL thinks it does, sings of hypocrisy; dismissiveness — a chorus of NFL cluelessness at best; a strain of ingrained, absolute misogyny at worst. And I see a public song and dance by Mr. Goodell and all the NFL higher-ups.

Because, by all appearances, no one in the organization got it. Apparently, there was no “Oops!” moment; no motion, in a year’s time, to at least take those songs off the website. No, instead, they did it again this year — so we can add songs such as Rich Homie Quan’s, “Flex (Ooh, Ooh, Ooh)(“… Give that ho some x, she gone wanna sex every nigga in the set/ And now she screamin’ like oh, ooh, ooh …” ) to the list.

Equally disturbing is that, as of this writing, I have yet to find any commentary or press on the mixed message sent by the promotion of these songs. I see no signs of indignation, no visceral reaction either at the water cooler at work, or in print, about the publishing on NFL.com of racist, sexist, curse-filled content. Maybe some ESPN or NFL Network analysis? Some collective cringes to accompany the content of some of the videos? Nothing.

And what happened to that revised Personal Conduct Policy, which is not even a year old yet, that states, “We must endeavor at all times to be people of high character; we must show respect for others inside and outside our workplace; and we must strive to conduct ourselves in ways that favorably reflect on ourselves, our teams, the communities we represent, and the NFL …”?

Surely, a walk-up song, or 20, that repeatedly describe women as “strippers,” “bitches,” “hoes,” “pussy” — or my favorite: “an ass so fat” — would raise an eyebrow. Blink an eye? Hang a head? Apparently not.

So, please face the music, Mr. Goodell.

Does it make sense to post songs on NFL.com by artists who are talking up what they did with their “hoes” given that Hall-of-Famer Warren Sapp was arrested in Phoenix in 2014 for allegedly soliciting a prostitute and assaulting two women?

Is it furthering the mission to “clean house” to have lyrics and videos on NFL.com that lionize “smoking weed in my Mercedes,” and proclaim that “the dope I sell is the purest,” when former safety, Darren Sharper, recently made headlines because of a plea deal surrounding the allegations that he drugged and raped at least nine women in four states?

And what about that 12-year-old boy who may idolize newly-drafted New York Jet Leonard Williams? He can log on to NFL.com to get Williams’ stats, along with hearing his song choice (video included): Dom Kennedy’s “We Ball,” which proudly hails that: “We ball, we drink /F*** hoes, rock mink /New watch, gold links/ She going down, no teeth/And I don’t like your legs ‘less they at the roof/Pedicure toward the ceiling, mollys in the cabinet too/Pop, pop, pop, popping pussy … ”

This one line, “I didn’t wanna f*** the bitch, the molly made me f*** her even though she average…” from the song, “March Madness,” by Future, kind of goes against the “Like a Girl” campaign to empower women that the NFL champions through public service messages and commercials, doesn’t it? Think about what that line can do for a young girl’s budding body image.

The NFL dropped the ball. NFL.com is one room that should have been tidied up by now. The walk-up song page has been dirty for over a year now. It they can’t get this “right,” how can they possibly get a whole “house” in order?

And here is the most recent NFL response to domestic violence and sexual assault, updated on August 12, 2015 and also posted on NFL.com.

The Write Side of 50 59

15 Wednesday Jul 2015

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Laurie Lois 2

Divorced and smiling.

julie-bride

Married and smiling.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Julie and I have moved the name of the blog ahead a few years in order to catch up with us. We feel we are beyond The Write Side of 50 because we are now pushing 60. (I’ve already crossed the line.)

Indications are that we are aging out of the “middle” and are now on the precipice of “old.” So we’ve moved the start line up to 59, hence, “The Write Side of 59.” Fifty nine — an age that you may not give a hoot about nor have thought much about until it’s behind you.

Many view 60 as the beginning of “Chapter Three” in the trilogy of life. The last chapter. The end of this chapter is The End. I know I’m certainly humbled by what sociologist and psychotherapist, Lillian B. Rubin, who died last year at the age of 90, had written for Salon:

“Sure, aging is different than it was a generation or two ago and there are more possibilities now than ever before, if only because we live so much longer. It just seems to me that, whether at 60 or 80, the good news is only half the story. For it’s also true that old age — even now when old age often isn’t what it used to be — is a time of loss, decline and stigma.”

“… loss, decline and stigma.” Realities that I try to tuck away in the far reaches of my consciousness, but are certainly part of my life. Yes, bad personal news is becoming as fickle as weather — guaranteed, but only so predictable. Some bad things will not get better. A lot of good things are no longer going to happen. Illness and death are plucking people from my life.

I could go on and on with the usual platitudes that play with our heads and tell us that we can stay “young” forever — that cultural bombardment of how to defy age. You can fight your gray hairs, your wrinkles, and the desire to go to bed at 8:30. You stay physically active, and you seek out stimulation and passion.

But any routine and repose will no doubt be interrupted by bad news. Wounds — both emotional and physical — seem to cut deeper, take longer to heal and often whittle away at that blissful sense of control and immortality that the younger years allowed. There’s a new balance between: “I can handle anything,” and “Haven’t I had enough?”

But!

If “the good news is only half the story,” that means there is a good half. If anything, aging into the 60s, 70s, and 80s will be unpredictable. And studies show that there is an “upswing” in satisfaction and happiness throughout the 60s and 70s.

And I’m guessing there will be fodder for adventurous storytelling unlike any we’ve ever had. Julie and I are among the lucky ones who have our health, our independence, our jobs. We laugh a lot. And we’re both on brand new (and different) post-59 paths.

At 59, Julie married for the first time.

At 59, I divorced after a 30-year marriage.

Julie’s parents are both alive and healthy, as are all of her siblings. She has a big extended family.

My dad died years ago, my mom has been taken away by severe dementia, and I lost a brother. I have almost no family left.

As a newly married woman, Julie has lately been living the life of a newlywed with a sense of calm and a sense of safety that comes with being a newlywed. She has a husband, Steve. She’s happily navigating being part of a married couple and all that comes with it — commitment, laying roots, love …

As a somewhat newly divorced woman (one year), I have been living in a constant state of gusto — full of risks, perils, thrills, and curiosity. I have dates. I’m happily navigating being single and all that comes with it — variety, enchantment, lovers, (danger!) …

I’m thinking the right side of 59 can be a captivating time in a devil-may-care way. Be foolhardy. Be wise. Take those risks. Look where you’re going. Mourn those losses. Salute your survival. Jump in with eyes wide open. Cry your eyes out when you feel sorry for yourself.

And try your best to stay “alive” until the day you die.

A Wedding for the (Middle) Ages

30 Tuesday Jun 2015

Posted by in Confessional

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Julie bride

BY LOIS DESOCIO

This past Saturday, my dear friend, Julie, was a 59-year-old, first-time, bride. No less lovely and ebullient than a decades-younger bride, she was beautifully gowned in sequins, her hair was uplifted and curly; her smile an eight-hour ear-to-ear. Her whole self sparkled. And the party, thrown on the boardwalk in Asbury Park, was a celebration for the ages.

The room of 100-plus people, who ranged in age from 5 to 90, pulsed with love and gratitude, topped off with an unspoken, all-inclusive aura; an acknowledgment that to have all these people gathered together in the same room — Julie’s and Steve’s closest friends and families — was a gift.

A self-professed worrier (a sampling from the weeks before: “…the logistics are making me so nervous!” “I’m checking weather every hour!”), Julie was engulfed in the moment on her wedding day and impervious to any intrusion of anxiety. (“How is she?” I had texted our friend Laurie, who was helping her get ready. “Incredibly calm,” wrote Laurie.)

The weather was as bad as it could be — pretty much a notch or two below Hurricane Sandy. Many of us walked (some of us galloped in high heels) the two blocks down the boardwalk from the hotel to the restaurant while battling double-digit wind gusts and slanting sheets of drenching rain that undid hair; ran make-up. But the storm was not a wedding crasher. It, instead, escorted an intimacy and warmth into the room. Mazel Tov! C’est La Vie! Bring It On!

I’ve often said that Julie and Steve are the most solid couple I know. Together for just under ten years — independent, both, but purely devoted to each other. They are in love. And simply by virtue of the wisdom that comes with being middle-aged, no doubt, they know what to do to remain committed and in love for the rest of their lives.

This was also the first marriage for Steve. Unencumbered by previous marriages, children from other marriages, and the uncertainty that may accompany a marriage at the age of 20 or 30, he and Julie both exude an air of settling in for the long haul. A comfort level that can only come with an awareness that there may be less days ahead than behind, so let’s get at it! An all-knowing, we’re-in-this-together comfort. True companions, who, as Julie has said, “will forever have each other’s backs.”

(And that middle age, laugh-it-off, don’t-sweat-the-small-stuff insight was tested the next day, when the caterer for the post-wedding brunch for 70 people didn’t show up.)

So, because there’s no such thing as too many “Mazel Tovs,” Mazel Tov!

And never stop laughing:

I Slid Down Something

17 Tuesday Feb 2015

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tubing

I slid into (and down) something more comfortable.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

For years now, I have been known to wax poetic about how much I love and miss playing in the snow — specifically skiing in it. Last year I publicly pleaded for comrades to “slide down something!” with me.

So when a good friend invited Julie and me to spend the long Presidents’ Day weekend at his sister’s house on the mountain in Killington, Vermont, we were in. And for the first time in my life that I can recall, I was afraid to have fun. I was afraid to ski.

For Julie it was a “no-brainer.” She’s never skied, and in her words, “has no balance of power,” and “has been known to topple simply standing on skis.” She’d be happy to “head for in for a bloody.”

For me, I’ve been a skier for most of my life (often with a bloody before, during and after).

But I haven’t skied in eight years. And the last time I slid (and ran through, and jumped into, and rolled around in mud) , my madcap self was shut down by a back injury that incapacitated me for almost three months. And my eyes were opened by a recovery period that humbled me for the rest of my life.

This weekend was the first test of my mettle. Therefore, I wanted to forget all that I learned and wrote about — the wisdom that sprouts during the recovery from a devastating injury. That “intellectual renewal” that can emerge from “physical pain.” I was contemplating ignoring “the gift of aging,” including the pronouncement that “fear can serve to gather perspective – quickly.” It can offer “…levelheadedness … a re-routing … a savvier path.”

Instead, I wanted to pretend that careening down a wind-swept, icy incline while buckled into two laminated slats would not be foolish for a 60 year old with an iffy back who hasn’t slid down anything snowy in eight years. I wanted the older me to be the old me — sometimes cautious, sometimes reckless, but always game.

The deadline-driven decision as to whether or not I should hit the slopes locked me into a tortuous head game for days. (As my friend noted — women forced to make a major life decision such as whether or not to have a child, probably spend less time deciding than I did on whether or not I should ski.)

If I skied and fell, re-injury was a possibility. If I skied and didn’t fall, redemption was a possibility. If I didn’t ski, and ultimately didn’t fall, a snowball effect was certain: “the gift of aging … intellectual renewal … perspective … levelheadedness … a re-routing.”

So, I opted out. And, along with my good friends, slid down a “savvier path.”

We went tubing. In record-cold wind chills and wind. Two 50-somethings, and one 60 year old careening and twirling down the hill amidst teenagers and youngsters (some with parents younger than us who simply pushed their kids down).

So — trading an icy ski slope for an icy tube hill? Smarter. Levelheaded. Older and wiser. So much fun! And brave.

When My Words Collided With Björk’s

06 Friday Feb 2015

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I cry to my left; I dance to my right

“I Cry to My Left; I Dance to My Right.” Watercolor by Julie Seyler.

BY LOIS DESOCIO

Björk and me. As polar-opposite as Iceland and New Jersey. She’s a brilliant musician. I’m a brilliant … hmm. (I can’t recall being called “brilliant.”) She’s an international “queen.”

I’m a “Jersey Girl.”

She can write music like nobody else.

I listen to music — like everybody else.

She can sing.

I carry a tune by plugging myself into my phone and toting the music in me along with me, through dancing, from room to room.

But we do have a parallel. We both recently wrote about betrayal and a breakup. And in keeping with the disparity in our places in the universe — I wrote an essay. She wrote a best-selling, breakthrough album, out of which a MoMA exhibit will spring.

We are dead-on, though, with our innate use of a creative outlet to mine through life events that are coated with agony. Agony that words can’t recount. Until you find the words. We both found the words. We both wrote the words. And, in her big way, and in my little way, our written words hit a collective nerve.

A few days after Julie told me I had to read The New York Times’ article by Jon Pareles, “Sometimes Heartbreak Takes a Hostage,” a review of Björk’s “complete heartbreak” album “Vulnicura,” another friend sent me a link to the Web site Journal.ie, which ranked my BuzzFeed essay as last week’s number-three best read on the Web.

Number one was an interview with Björk about “Vulnicura.”

Cool. So I threw myself into everything Björk. I read what I could find. I bought and repeatedly listened to “Vulnicura.”

I feel her words — both in her music and in her interviews about her album and the process of creating it. The words were mine, but hers. For both of us, moving through betrayal and “the death of the family,” was for me, as was for her “the toughest thing I’ve ever done.”

For both of us it took years to write about it and muster the nerve to put it out in the world. We both wrapped our articulation around the arc of a timeline. We both had a run-in with the magic of karma. And we both came through liberated.

I relate to her metaphors: “You feel like you’re having open-heart surgery, with knives sticking in, so everything is out, and you have this urgency and immediacy. It has to happen right now, that you have to express yourself.”

And her letting-go: “She hopped out of the D.J. booth to dance on the pool table, rolling across it like something in a vintage MTV video. Around midnight, she led her flock to Prikid, a packed hip-hop club, where she danced nonstop, sang along and downed shots of birch schnapps until nearly 4 a.m,” wrote Pareles. (I would have been there, on the pool table, had I been there.)

When I write, I listen to music. I have a stable of songs that I draw from. They range from opera to ’60s pop melodies. I pick the song that moves me along with my writing. I click “repeat” and it plays over and over and over for hours. I blast it. It takes over my head and let’s nothing in but me. Rarely, do the words come to mind without music in my ears.

Sometimes I need violins. Sometimes I need a rousing choir. Sometimes I need Roy Orbison. Sometimes a voice hits me out of nowhere. (B.J. Thomas!?)

But for this piece, I needed Björk and “Vulnicura.” Specifically “Black Lake.”

So while I was formerly more in awe of pieces of Björk (yes, her swan dress, her avant-garde-ness), I am now a forever-fan of all of her. I hear her now.

Me and Björk. We were on the same page. The Icelandic queen and the Jersey girl — scribes of the separation; chroniclers of catharsis. All-consuming, heart-breaking, gut-purging, pool-table-dancing, shot-drinking reclaimers of us.