I’ve never been much of a TV fanatic. Mainly, I was a news and sports watcher. For a few years, I never missed a MSNBC evening show….Chris Matthews, Rachel Maddow, Keith Olberman…especially, the run up to Obama’s election in 2008. Then, after he was elected, things turned so ugly. The name calling, the hate rhetoric, bashing on the left, bashing on the right. The night shows all covered the same news events the same way. What was the point?
It was all conflict….never ending. Not interesting in the least. The only news I can barely stomach is the local news, but that’s after the first 15 minutes covering murders, rapes, criminals on the loose, seniors driving cars down the wrong side of the highway….that’s not even an exaggeration. Why I even watch it is beyond me since the weather and sports I can get on my phone. I do watch PBS news. It’s a little more substantial than the other networks with their ‘tell the story in less than 1 minute’ requirement.
A few years ago, I was visiting my friend, Claire, in Park City, Utah, and before we headed back to Maryland, her husband introduced me to Guy Fieri on Food Network. Have you ever seen him? Spiky white, blond hair, a hint of pudginess around the middle, driving a fire engine red 1967 Chevy Camaro SS Convertible to his favorite Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives. God only knows how many restaurants he’s visited all over the country, tasting each one’s unique cuisine.
“Off the hook,” he moans in ecstasy with each bite.
I have to say I use his recipe for sangria and I can never make enough when I’m entertaining. I am a bit of a sangria connoisseur, and the only better sangria is the watermelon liqueur sangria at Nando’s or the pomegranate sangria at Carrabba’s. Try them….fabulocious!
But, Guy has done American travelers a great service. He takes all the guess work out of where to eat local when you’re traveling. BH and I always go to the TripleD locator….mmmm….”off the hook!,” we chuckle.
When we come to Florida, there’s a “smart” TV….now there’s an oxymoron! With access to Netfix, we look forward to our favorite series, House of Cards. It’s CRAZY! I truly hope there’s not a shred of reality in that show. I’d have to move to…..where? Canada? Sweden? Is anyplace better? Well, I don’t have to think about that today.
Like most women, I’ve definitely enjoyed Downton Abbey. But, really, one whole season is equal to seven weekly shows? It’s over in a blink. It ended just after the new House of Cards season arrived. But, now I’m done with both. What to watch?
My new obsession? HGTV. All those home shows. Can’t get enough of them. I’m not really a sit in front of the TV kind of watcher. I’m working out and watching at the same time…..for an hour in the morning and a half hour in the evening. You would think I would be skinny as a rail by now on my 940 calorie per day diet. I wish.
I love those Property Brothers, identical twin brothers, Jonathan and Drew. If I was 30 years younger…. One’s the realtor and one’s the renovator. Their designs are amazing, turning fixer uppers into dream houses. They give new meaning to the term, ‘handyman.’
Then, there’s the single mom, Rehab Addict, who upends old houses and turns them into mansions. Property Virgin is a show based in Toronto who finds people their first houses. Love It or List It takes owners to see other houses on the market to buy, while renovating their current house. Will they Love It or List It? My daughter swears they always Love It but every time I watch it, they List It. There’s also Beachfront Bargain Hunt, House Hunters, Hawaii Life, Island Hunters. I’m thinking about ordering the HGTV magazine.
I know. I’m obsessed. But, God, it makes working out so much easier!!
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Thursday, March 20, 2014
Paralyzed
February, 1987. On a frigid, dreary afternoon, I walked, exhausted, into my house after a day of teaching adolescents and found my husband lying on the couch in the dark living room softly weeping..
“Kevin, what is it? Why are you home?”
This was highly unusual. He was a reporter for a major newspaper and didn’t get home until early evening. My habit was to come home, take a power nap and find some energy before picking up our kids at day care.
“I’m HIV positive,” he whispered.
I wrapped my arms around him. I couldn’t speak. I just hugged him. We’d been married for five years. Years before, we had been swept up in the free love era. AIDS was not on our radar. I knew there was a slight chance but only slight. ‘Get the test,’ I told him, thinking it would put our nervousness at ease.
What did this mean? I had to have it, too. Our kids were only 2 and 3. Were they infected? Who would take care of them when we were gone? The obvious questions.
Quite suddenly, this feeling of great warmth and peace enveloped me. I said to him, “We will be all right. We will face this together.” We both sobbed and held each other.
He’s gone now. He left us 18 years ago today.
He lived for 9 years after the diagnosis. I was spared, as was our children. Miracles, the three of us. The doctors couldn’t explain it.
Our lives together changed dramatically. We lived in the moment. The mundane became so sweet. On the weekends, we never left each other’s side. We went to the grocery store together, the hardware store, every errand we shared.
He insisted life was for living; he refused to focus on dying. His greatest dream had been to be a father and he made every effort to be at their games, their concerts. We spent our Friday nights eating pizza and watching the family shows, all four of us cuddling on the couch.
He was in and out of the hospital, I stayed by his side, even slept with him in his hospital bed. Eventually, hospice moved into our home and one morning, he was gone.
I had years to prepare for this. I wasn’t. Could you ever be?
“Kevin, what is it? Why are you home?”
This was highly unusual. He was a reporter for a major newspaper and didn’t get home until early evening. My habit was to come home, take a power nap and find some energy before picking up our kids at day care.
“I’m HIV positive,” he whispered.
I wrapped my arms around him. I couldn’t speak. I just hugged him. We’d been married for five years. Years before, we had been swept up in the free love era. AIDS was not on our radar. I knew there was a slight chance but only slight. ‘Get the test,’ I told him, thinking it would put our nervousness at ease.
What did this mean? I had to have it, too. Our kids were only 2 and 3. Were they infected? Who would take care of them when we were gone? The obvious questions.
Quite suddenly, this feeling of great warmth and peace enveloped me. I said to him, “We will be all right. We will face this together.” We both sobbed and held each other.
He’s gone now. He left us 18 years ago today.
He lived for 9 years after the diagnosis. I was spared, as was our children. Miracles, the three of us. The doctors couldn’t explain it.
Our lives together changed dramatically. We lived in the moment. The mundane became so sweet. On the weekends, we never left each other’s side. We went to the grocery store together, the hardware store, every errand we shared.
He insisted life was for living; he refused to focus on dying. His greatest dream had been to be a father and he made every effort to be at their games, their concerts. We spent our Friday nights eating pizza and watching the family shows, all four of us cuddling on the couch.
He was in and out of the hospital, I stayed by his side, even slept with him in his hospital bed. Eventually, hospice moved into our home and one morning, he was gone.
I had years to prepare for this. I wasn’t. Could you ever be?
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
The City Beautiful
Orlando, Florida, that is. The city of my birth in 1947. At the time, it was an exquisite small southern city, oozing charm with its cobblestone streets, huge oaks with cascading Spanish moss, flower-filled parks surrounding pristine lakes.
Going north on Orange Avenue into the main part of town, you had to drive around Lake Lucerne illuminated by gas street lanterns. I didn’t really appreciate its beauty until a super causeway was constructed right through the middle of the lake.
During my childhood, Orlando was the fastest growing city in the country. Citrus groves were replaced by housing developments, parking lots and malls. Dairy farmers sold out to developers who couldn’t get their money out fast enough. County commissioners were all too happy to get fat and happy. Zoning? What was that?
And, that was before Disney moved in. That was the nail on the coffin. I left before I had to witness any further destruction.
Of course, I return often to see my family and high school friends who still live there. There’s no happy medium on Disney for native Orlandoans. You hate them or love them. I have one cousin who is a serious muckety-muck there. She started working in high school asThe Hat Girl, sewing names onto Disney hat souvenirs. Forty years later, we still call her The Hat Girl.
Most of my family falls into the other camp. Hate it. The worst thing that ever happened to central Florida. Wouldn’t step foot on Disney grounds. Especially, those who remember what Orlando was like pre-concrete jungle days.
I remember taking the city bus with my mother, sister and brother into the middle of town and being dropped off at Central Street. There was only one stop.
Back in those days, no southern girl or woman would go downtown without wearing white gloves and a hat. Pants? Are you serious? No female wore pants back then. Only Katharine Hepburn. But, she wasn’t from the South. Blue jeans? That was what farmers wore.
No day in downtown was complete without going to Lake Eola to feed the ducks and swans. My mother was terrified of swans because one had chased her when she was a child, honking at the top of its lungs, trying to bite her toes. She was brave for us, though.
We loved going to the public library with its overwhelming children’s section. Every week, I took out as many books as I could carry home.
There was Ivey’s and Dickson & Ives, the two major department stores with their creaky, wood floors and elevators that took forever to get to the next floor. I loved hearing the elevator operator stop, open the door and announce, “Mezzanine.” I didn’t even know what language that was. It just sounded so exotic.
We always got out on the third floor of Dickson & Ives. That’s where the fabrics were located. Tears immediately flooded my eyes due to the strong chemicals in the dyes. This was my mom’s favorite place. Practically every dress my sister and I wore was sewn by our mother. On rare occasions, like Easter, we got something “store bought.” I loved the clothes she made…we had quite the wardrobe. I wasn’t particularly fond of fittings; my patience was sorely lacking.
When I look back on the prom dresses she created, I am in awe.
Toward the end of the day, we hit McCrory’s or Kresge’s, the 5 & 10 cent stores, for a little treat for each of us. Maybe, a toy paper windmill or jacks or paper dolls. It thrilled us to no end. Life was a bit simpler then.
I wore dresses all through high school. I didn’t get jeans until after college. Culture change has been lightning fast. The only time I wear a dress now is to a wedding, a funeral or the beach. White gloves? Nowhere to be found. Hats? Only as a sun shield.
It’s impossible to take a Sunday drive in the City Beautiful these days. On any day, you have to plan around the traffic that has gridlocked the area. Just to drive on Interstate 4 on our way back to Maryland, we plan around the Orlando traffic.
Going to visit my aunt, I exit I-4 onto Sand Lake Road, encountering hundreds of cars, passing such high end shops, you’d think we were on Rodeo Drive in LA. I just laugh to myself. Sand Lake Road in Dr. Phillips, Florida. When I was a teenager, this was a packed sand two lane road where all the ‘hoods’ came out to drag race. At least, that’s what I ‘heard’….lol!
Florida has seen what can happen when zoning laws have no meaning or, more to the point, when greed trumps conservation.
I love this state, but I miss my City Beautiful.
Going north on Orange Avenue into the main part of town, you had to drive around Lake Lucerne illuminated by gas street lanterns. I didn’t really appreciate its beauty until a super causeway was constructed right through the middle of the lake.
During my childhood, Orlando was the fastest growing city in the country. Citrus groves were replaced by housing developments, parking lots and malls. Dairy farmers sold out to developers who couldn’t get their money out fast enough. County commissioners were all too happy to get fat and happy. Zoning? What was that?
And, that was before Disney moved in. That was the nail on the coffin. I left before I had to witness any further destruction.
Of course, I return often to see my family and high school friends who still live there. There’s no happy medium on Disney for native Orlandoans. You hate them or love them. I have one cousin who is a serious muckety-muck there. She started working in high school asThe Hat Girl, sewing names onto Disney hat souvenirs. Forty years later, we still call her The Hat Girl.
Most of my family falls into the other camp. Hate it. The worst thing that ever happened to central Florida. Wouldn’t step foot on Disney grounds. Especially, those who remember what Orlando was like pre-concrete jungle days.
I remember taking the city bus with my mother, sister and brother into the middle of town and being dropped off at Central Street. There was only one stop.
Back in those days, no southern girl or woman would go downtown without wearing white gloves and a hat. Pants? Are you serious? No female wore pants back then. Only Katharine Hepburn. But, she wasn’t from the South. Blue jeans? That was what farmers wore.
No day in downtown was complete without going to Lake Eola to feed the ducks and swans. My mother was terrified of swans because one had chased her when she was a child, honking at the top of its lungs, trying to bite her toes. She was brave for us, though.
We loved going to the public library with its overwhelming children’s section. Every week, I took out as many books as I could carry home.
There was Ivey’s and Dickson & Ives, the two major department stores with their creaky, wood floors and elevators that took forever to get to the next floor. I loved hearing the elevator operator stop, open the door and announce, “Mezzanine.” I didn’t even know what language that was. It just sounded so exotic.
We always got out on the third floor of Dickson & Ives. That’s where the fabrics were located. Tears immediately flooded my eyes due to the strong chemicals in the dyes. This was my mom’s favorite place. Practically every dress my sister and I wore was sewn by our mother. On rare occasions, like Easter, we got something “store bought.” I loved the clothes she made…we had quite the wardrobe. I wasn’t particularly fond of fittings; my patience was sorely lacking.
When I look back on the prom dresses she created, I am in awe.
Toward the end of the day, we hit McCrory’s or Kresge’s, the 5 & 10 cent stores, for a little treat for each of us. Maybe, a toy paper windmill or jacks or paper dolls. It thrilled us to no end. Life was a bit simpler then.
I wore dresses all through high school. I didn’t get jeans until after college. Culture change has been lightning fast. The only time I wear a dress now is to a wedding, a funeral or the beach. White gloves? Nowhere to be found. Hats? Only as a sun shield.
It’s impossible to take a Sunday drive in the City Beautiful these days. On any day, you have to plan around the traffic that has gridlocked the area. Just to drive on Interstate 4 on our way back to Maryland, we plan around the Orlando traffic.
Going to visit my aunt, I exit I-4 onto Sand Lake Road, encountering hundreds of cars, passing such high end shops, you’d think we were on Rodeo Drive in LA. I just laugh to myself. Sand Lake Road in Dr. Phillips, Florida. When I was a teenager, this was a packed sand two lane road where all the ‘hoods’ came out to drag race. At least, that’s what I ‘heard’….lol!
Florida has seen what can happen when zoning laws have no meaning or, more to the point, when greed trumps conservation.
I love this state, but I miss my City Beautiful.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Senior Week
Not talking high school here. I’m talking post middle age. Like most workers, I contemplated retiring for years. What would I do? Would I go back to real estate? Travel? What would my week look like? Most of my friends were still working. There was no Buff Honey on the scene yet.
Then, I started serious bridge…playing the duplicate tournament circuit and, before too long, I was way too happy to play bridge and way too unhappy to work. But, really, can you just play bridge everyday for twenty years?? I couldn’t do it but the thousands of bridge clubs all over American totally prove me wrong. Pretty much, people come seven days a week.
Boring. I gotta mix it up. I gotta read, work out, write. There’s the beach, the state parks, our Florida day trips. Botanical gardens galore. Museums, independent films, local stage and concert events.
You hear it all the time. “I’m more busy now than when I was working.” I think that’s memory loss talking there. I was crazy with responsibilities when I was a single mom raising kids, trying to keep all the calendars straight. Working all week long, night and day, and rushing to get the laundry, house cleaning, and grocery shopping done on the weekend.
I profess the difference is that we actually have leisure time now. Time for a little precious reflection. Things we longed for during our 30s, 40s, and 50s. Now, we can choose a life.
BH does not like to be over scheduled. He needs his down time. Basically, he opts to lead a slower life. Because he can. He also was a single parent with a crazy schedule. He’s done. His main job is to get up, exercise, and head for his poolside lounge chair with the daily papers.
Don’t get me wrong. He likes his fun…after he’s finished with the papers. We usually play bridge Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in the afternoon. And then we go out to celebrate or commiserate.
We never miss Martini Mondays at Allegro Bistro. They’re $5 and ridiculously strong. I had one sip and thought I was going to pass out. I just have my one glass of cabernet and an unchopped salad. Judging by the crowd, no one else has a problem with the martinis!
Tuesdays are Senior Day at Frank’s Cinema. The parking lot is filled by 10 in the morning. You would think these people could only see a movie on Tuesday. Yes, it’s just $5 but, on any other day, it’s $6! Don’t even think about going if it’s a movie that’s just opened. You’ll be sitting on the front row…not good for the neck. I saw ‘Wolf of Wall Street’ that way….a three hour movie!
Ben Gay was my best friend for a week.
Mi Pueblo is on wonderful Wednesday. They open at 5 and Happy Hour ends at 6. There are easily 100 people in line by 4:30. Great sangria, amazing Mexican food and you can be serenaded at your table by their house band. They’ll ask you what you’d like them to play. What do you think BH always asks for? ‘La Bamba.’ Is he original or what?
Back to Allegro Bistro for Jazz Thursdays. I don’t know what time you have to get there to get a good seat. We get there at 5 and are looking for bar stools! The music more than makes up for the dearth of seating.
Friday is the Tiki Bar, listening to RPM. A blend of classic rock and roll and country. BH loves the country, I’m a true rock ’n roller. They have a harmonica player that is balding with white curly hair hanging to his butt…looks just like Crosby from Crosby, Stills & Nash. Besides the music, we go there for the Firecracker Shrimp. I need a gallon of water to get it down.
Anyone who appears here is subject to our nightlife routine. No one complains!
Tonight is Movie Night. BH wants to see the new Liam Neeson movie as does most of the senior world here in Venice. Not me. I’m reading or watching House of Cards…don’t get me started.
Senior Week....pretty full, right? And this with a guy who doesn't like to be over scheduled! Life is just full of irony.
Then, I started serious bridge…playing the duplicate tournament circuit and, before too long, I was way too happy to play bridge and way too unhappy to work. But, really, can you just play bridge everyday for twenty years?? I couldn’t do it but the thousands of bridge clubs all over American totally prove me wrong. Pretty much, people come seven days a week.
Boring. I gotta mix it up. I gotta read, work out, write. There’s the beach, the state parks, our Florida day trips. Botanical gardens galore. Museums, independent films, local stage and concert events.
You hear it all the time. “I’m more busy now than when I was working.” I think that’s memory loss talking there. I was crazy with responsibilities when I was a single mom raising kids, trying to keep all the calendars straight. Working all week long, night and day, and rushing to get the laundry, house cleaning, and grocery shopping done on the weekend.
I profess the difference is that we actually have leisure time now. Time for a little precious reflection. Things we longed for during our 30s, 40s, and 50s. Now, we can choose a life.
BH does not like to be over scheduled. He needs his down time. Basically, he opts to lead a slower life. Because he can. He also was a single parent with a crazy schedule. He’s done. His main job is to get up, exercise, and head for his poolside lounge chair with the daily papers.
Don’t get me wrong. He likes his fun…after he’s finished with the papers. We usually play bridge Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in the afternoon. And then we go out to celebrate or commiserate.
We never miss Martini Mondays at Allegro Bistro. They’re $5 and ridiculously strong. I had one sip and thought I was going to pass out. I just have my one glass of cabernet and an unchopped salad. Judging by the crowd, no one else has a problem with the martinis!
Tuesdays are Senior Day at Frank’s Cinema. The parking lot is filled by 10 in the morning. You would think these people could only see a movie on Tuesday. Yes, it’s just $5 but, on any other day, it’s $6! Don’t even think about going if it’s a movie that’s just opened. You’ll be sitting on the front row…not good for the neck. I saw ‘Wolf of Wall Street’ that way….a three hour movie!
Ben Gay was my best friend for a week.
Mi Pueblo is on wonderful Wednesday. They open at 5 and Happy Hour ends at 6. There are easily 100 people in line by 4:30. Great sangria, amazing Mexican food and you can be serenaded at your table by their house band. They’ll ask you what you’d like them to play. What do you think BH always asks for? ‘La Bamba.’ Is he original or what?
Back to Allegro Bistro for Jazz Thursdays. I don’t know what time you have to get there to get a good seat. We get there at 5 and are looking for bar stools! The music more than makes up for the dearth of seating.
Friday is the Tiki Bar, listening to RPM. A blend of classic rock and roll and country. BH loves the country, I’m a true rock ’n roller. They have a harmonica player that is balding with white curly hair hanging to his butt…looks just like Crosby from Crosby, Stills & Nash. Besides the music, we go there for the Firecracker Shrimp. I need a gallon of water to get it down.
Anyone who appears here is subject to our nightlife routine. No one complains!
Tonight is Movie Night. BH wants to see the new Liam Neeson movie as does most of the senior world here in Venice. Not me. I’m reading or watching House of Cards…don’t get me started.
Senior Week....pretty full, right? And this with a guy who doesn't like to be over scheduled! Life is just full of irony.
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