The Days of My Life Series She wore unhappy clothes and her hair hugged her face beneath a hood. Even the dog she walked seemed forlorn. I watched her through the front window of our breakfast nook, daily. Frequently, she … Continue reading
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Tag Archives: Women
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Just Do Something
Famed naturalist Jane Goodall has dedicated her life to protecting wildlife and the environment, and at age 87, she continues to reach out to as many people as possible to advocate for a more sustainable future. She talked with correspondent Seth Doane about her new book, “The Book of Hope: A Survival Guide for Trying Times,” and about how everyone can contribute to reversing mankind’s destruction of our only home.
I am sure it is a great read for those inclined, however, her simple plea; JUST DO SOMETHING, has stayed in my mind. I thought my recycling helped but recent local reports suggest otherwise. China no longer wants our garbage and it is more than likely the recycling is floating on barges somewhere between here and there. There is talk that clothing donations are so abundant designer jeans are washing up on third world countries shores.
We need to rethink things. But Ms. Goodall’s request is simple. So, what can we do? These are my two favorites;
- Delete old emails. A server needs electoral power to save data, emails are data. Think of it as storing junk mail in a storage unit you pay for.
- Don’t run the water in the sink, (especially when brushing your teeth) Clean water empties into dirty water and needs to be cleaned all over again with whatever chemicals your municipality uses.
. . . just saying
laurenstaton.com/what-really-happens-to-our-donated-clothes/
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Poetry
(A friend confided her memory of a dance recital and wearing a red dress in detail. Regrettably, she had no childhood pictures of herself. I wrote this poem for her.)
Little Girl Blues
A photograph will always be in my mind.
Not on a bureau, credenza, night stand or shelf.
There is no where to look.
Nothing to find.
It’s not in the foyer, on a desk, or anywhere else.
The treasure lies deep inside my mind.
A girl . . . in a magenta dress!
Dancing the flamingo.
Swirling . . . Twirling.
Her feet stomp the floor.
The red taffeta bodice clings to her chest.
The crinoline and chiffon flounce and cheer for more.
The white poka dots stand and applaud.
She smiles.
There is no where to look.
Nothing to find.
The treasure lies deep inside my heart and mind.
. . . just saying
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Flash Fiction
Lynn
Lynn stood on the sidewalk and could not remember who she used to be.
It was a horrible feeling.
She strolled casually to a nearby bench and sat to quiet the feeling.
The weather was mild. The sun strong.
It was not the present that disturbed her.
Having silly thoughts, she hummed an old Peggy Lee song, “Is That All There Is?”
She came to buy Christmas gifts, or so she thought.
Instead, she window shopped and tried on clothes in an upscale woman’s store; attempting to find a new identity.
Norman Rockwell’s picture of the golden-brown turkey on a large platter surrounded by family flashed across her mind.
Her romanticized past was painful to watch.
She had been the women wearing the plaid apron, trying to fulfill other people’s dreams. Okay, perhaps they’d been her dreams too.
It was hard to remember, things were different.
. . . just saying
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Flash Fiction
(The word pearl was a prompt given at a writing session. A strong female character came to mind and her story enfolded.)
Pearl
The last time I saw her, she was young; youth sparkled in her eyes. Now the sparkle is gone, the jade blue color diminished by time; her convictions etched in lines across her face. Her once narrow nose is broader, broken from standing up for others. Her chest sunken with anger, not there the first time we met.
“Pearl is that you?” I inquire.
She strains to turn towards me, her range of motion greatly compromised.
“Yes, I’m Pearl,” Her voice recalls dignity, and she pauses to ask, “Have I had your acquaintance?”
It was 1971; we got on the Concourse Avenue bus in the Bronx, each with a child in hand. She took notice of my bruises and we became friends.
I take the seat alongside her and gently touch her forearm, “Pearl, it’s me Rosa . . . . Rose, remember. . . .” I expect her to ooze with gladness, say, “Lordy, Lordy, Rose, how are you?”
Instead, she says “Rose? Can’t recall a Rose, refresh my memory child.”
If she remembers me, she would never mention beatings, and hiding in safe houses. I remind her of Bainbridge Park; how we would meet after lunch, let the children play in the sand box then walk them to sleep in strollers.
“I remember sunshine and playgrounds, how is your boy . . . ?”
“Danny, Dan, he’s at Fordham University; studying to be a lawyer.
Danny was five when I made the decision to leave the morning after a beating. I phoned my sister, asked her to get him from school, and left a note for John saying I didn’t want a divorce, and wouldn’t fight him for our son.
I worried about leaving Danny behind. Pearl said, “Don’t fret; your boy be fine,” and hooked me up with people.
John was a New York City Police officer and protected by his brothers, but the force would not ignore his beating a child.
Sill, I moved every four months with a new identity.
Three years later, the Richmond Virginia Newspaper reported the hunt for the killer of John McGill, a NYC Police Officer shot in the line of duty. I went home; stood next to his coffin, widowed with a pension; my eight-year-old son at my side.
John had never mentioned I was gone to anyone on the force.
Now Pearl dozes next to me, and her head bobs from side to side startling herself. “What was I saying?”
“We were talking about the time we brought the boys to the Bronx Zoo and rode the train around the park ten times. You packed potato salad and fried chicken; a stranger asked to buy your picnic lunch.”
The mention of potato salad crystallizes in her milky eyes, “I remember the day you left, bruised and wearing borrowed clothes; it broke my heart knowing I’d not see you again. How you been?”
“I never got to thank you, Pearl. . . .” She interrupts my attempt at gratitude and explanation of regret .
“Hush, Woman . . . tell me something that will make me smile.”
* * * just saying
(Originally posted on November 23, 2014)
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A is for Acerbic -The Alphabet Series
The Alphabet Series is an approach bloggers use to infuse new life or creativity into their writing.
“Acerbic” is the first post in my series “New Thoughts For Words”.
“Acerbic” draws on personal experience and is published in FWA, Let’s Talk by Peppertree Press.
The challenge for that Anthology was to use a dialogue format to present your short story.
To tell you the conversation below is between two women in a doctor’s waiting room is cheating.
…just saying
Acerbic
“Unacceptable! My time is of value, too. Why aren’t you complaining?”
“I was told the doctor was running late when I signed in.”
“This is ridiculous. I’ve been waiting more than twenty minutes. My appointment was for nine fifteen. What time was your appointment?”
“Well, I’m not sure; I think nine thirty, why?”
“It’s better if everyone is out of sorts. I can complain for you, make something up, like your dog is in the car, sick and needs to be taken to the Vet.”
“Reading here is as enjoyable as anywhere.”
“Boy, you people are annoying, must you be so perky and pleasant?”
“You’re upset. Why don’t you thumb through a magazine? There’s a travel article about Hawaii in this one. Have you been there?”
“You think looking at pretty pictures of places I can’t afford to travel to will help me… what? Be happy I have to wait for a man, I pay to tell me I’m sick. And looking at colorful advertisements won’t help either. I’m Acerbic. My parents and grandparents, on both sides, were Acerbic and proud of it.”
“Acerbic? Is that … American or … a religion?”
“Acerbic is a way of life. You got a problem with that? Our dispositions are generally crabby. We find fault in others quickly and enjoy being sarcastic.”
“Golly gee, everyone feels crabby from time to time.”
“Golly gee? Golly gee, we’ve been sitting here over a half hour. Can’t you pretend you’re a little annoyed? That wing back chair looks awful uncomfortable. These doctors are all the same; think they’re better than the rest.”
“His nurse said the doctor had an emergency, it sounded serious. Are you really Acerbic?”
“Our whole neighborhood is Acerbic. We don’t like friendly. People yell, ‘Don’t park in front of my house, jerk’ and threaten, ‘If your dog pees on my grass, I will call the police!’ Although things are changing. Someone, I can’t find out who, moved my garbage pail out of the street on a windy day.”
“You don’t mind if I read my book?’
“Of course I mind. I get it. Why not say shut-up? Add please if you have to. It’s easy; watch my lips, ‘Will you please shut-up!’ ”
“No, tell me about your life.”
“Actually I had a great childhood. We owned a small cabin not far from Route. 95 below the Georgia border. Dad named it Acerbia. It was a retreat where we could be sour and discontent on weekends and during vacations. You know, say nasty things about neighbors and relatives.”
“Was that fun?”
“Are you kidding, of course, the best. By the way, they call me Unfortunately. I’m Unfortunately Fortunato. What’s your name? Not that I care.”
“Unfortunately is a first name? And Fortunato your family…?”
“Mom wanted an Acerbic name, nothing cheerful or common like Hope, Joy or Grace.”
“That had to be a difficult name for a child. Did she think it was a mistake?”
“No, Difficult and Mistake are my brothers. Mother named them good, too, because Difficult is in prison and Mistake, chronically unemployed.”
“Was that a surprise?”
“They still haven’t called anyone. All they do is talk on the phone. Someone else has to complain. You can do it. I like your pink eyebrows.”
“My eyebrows are pink?”
“Yea, they match your lipstick, compliment that bluish tint in your hair, and look cool on a woman your age.”
“My hair isn’t blue! I’m not that old.”
“Isn’t that book you’re reading in large print?”
“It’s easier I don’t have to remember my glasses.”
“Most seniors get a little forgetful. It’s normal, not a problem unless you can’t remember what glasses are. You know glasses magnify things, right?”
“I know what glasses are for and I didn’t forget them. I do not need them to read a large print book.”
“Did you hear that? The receptionist called Ms. Fortunato. That’s me, Unfortunately. Doc’s ready for me. Have a rotten, day”
“You too, and my eyebrows aren’t pink!”
P.S. I welcome your comments.
Ha Ha Baby Boomers
Aging & Attitude
Statistics show that as you age you laugh less. The elderly lose their sense of humor, no Shit Sherlock! What is there to laugh about? We cannot see, cannot hear, and cannot remember.
A recent News Journal article informs us of the latest national disaster, sarcopinia, the wasting away of the elderly. Who needs a new word we cannot pronounce, and reminds us of things, we do not want to remember. It is no surprise, the elderly feel depressed, and lose humor.
I heard that if you cannot get out of the car or off a chair, it is from muscle atrophy. So I started going to the gym, now have muscles and can get out of the car, couch or chair easily. I just cannot straighten up once I am standing. I am stiff and cannot unbend. I have termed the condition de-stiff-i-tiz-ing. It is not an official medical condition but most Baby Boomers suffer with it.
We were out to dinner, a table of ten, dear friends who shall remain nameless. After paying the bill, everyone stood to leave and a uniform moan ricocheted off the restaurant walls. A few of us were quick to laugh, covering the additional groans people spewed as they hung to the back of chairs, shook legs awake, and de-stiff-i-tized to reclaimed stature. There was no giggling.
Men actually laugh less and stop laughing sooner than woman, around fifty. (Mr. Wonderful sports a Grumpy tattoo, gotten on his fiftieth birthday.) That statistic may change once the numbers are in on Viagra, although after four hours a man could permanently lose all ability to chuckle.
The humiliation does not end. A woman attending a wedding went outside to smoke, after extinguishing the cigarette with her foot, bent over to pick up the butt and toppled in her kitty cat heels. Fortunately, her dress did not blow over her head and no one was around.
This never happened to grandma. She could smoke indoors, did not worry about green and thought gym was a man’s name.
So here are my tips for Baby Boomers. (Will someone think of a better term, PLEASE)
- Replace old toilets with new Hi-Boy’s(the taller ones).
- Park in the same spot at the mall everytime.
- Write down the make, year, and plate number of both cars you own and keep the information in your wallet. (Forgetting where you parked is one thing, forgetting what you parked is another.)
- Stop telling people you do not remember their name. They do not remember yours either.
- Do not smoke when wearing high heels.
…. Just saying
Betty Blasé and New Horizons
Aging & Attitude
“I’ve become blasé,” said a woman at the New Horizons Brunch for new members, ending our conversation that threatened to become passionate. She smiled, and took a step back to distance herself from me. She wore ‘big-girl’ shoes with a large fake rhinestone separating her first two toes.
“Blasé what a wonderful word,” I respond, but fail to keep her engaged. The crowded breakfast nook engulfs her lack of interest. Soft wrinkles languish her face, her tone aloof as she snaps her neck to suggest she was not always apathetic, it is an acquired skill.
She wears it well like a sophisticated article of clothing, dance attire. I want to be blasé. Blasé could be equivalent to Botox or Juvederm injections and cheaper. Her skin glows.
My mind escapes to a fantasy world and I morph into Betty Blasé, a new and improved self. When motorists drive in my trunk during the day, I flip the rearview mirror to ‘night-vision’, instead of yelling, “wrap yourself around a tree, see if I care,” and as they speed by, adjust the air conditioning, calmly.
I feel in control of my emotions and straighten my back to stand a little taller. The room is decorated in damask lined drapes hung high upon the wall and sparkling glass tables.
Surely, I can learn indifference when the Bagger in Publix double wraps my chicken in plastic after I hand him cloth and painstakingly explained the chicken gets naked next to my eggs and butter at home in our refrigerator.
Several New Horizon members drift towards the front door ready to leave. I promise myself the next time a group of kids covered with tattoos and reeking of profanity pass by I will NOT mumble, “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
I exchange goodbyes with the host and mosey towards my car thinking, it is conceivable to yawn at newspaper stories debating those guilty of pet abuse; Obama, who ate dog or Romney, who transported Seamus, a pet, crated on a car roof. Just Saying
Vintage Vanity
Aging & Attitude
I never wore an itsy bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini. I wore a one piece swimsuit with a zipper up the back that I could swim in. I loved that pink and white plaid bathing suit. A darker pink piping set off the waist, and it was fully lined. That was during my teenage years when we swam down at Puffy’s creek or at Jones beach on Long Island.
I never owned a Rabbit fur coat. I had a fake Leopard fur coat bought on sale in Macy’s department store. The large collar and hem trimmed in black fake fur. This Bo Derek style outer wear was stored in a clothing closet and admired when I opened the closet door, too good too be worn.
I never owned a London Fog trench coat. I wore a navy blue raincoat with an empire waist and hood, purchased at Lerner’s. I had black patent leather go-go rain boots and kept dry with a bubble umbrella. I have a picture, taken at the Bronx Zoo, of myself wearing this outfit, and remember feeling quite pleased with my look including the shag wig, I wore.
I never wore jeans, stirrup pants were my favorite, and proud to be the first to wear bell-bottoms, in my dorm. These orange pants coordinated with a gold and orange box plaid mini-skirt and a matching gold crepe blouse. The blouse had flounce sleeves with military buttons on the cuffs, and a wrap around neck sash that tied in a bow. I can picture the outfit in Alexander’s store window on Fordham road in the Bronx and still smile.
I never avoided looking in a mirror, til now. The reflection is unrecognizable and I hear myself saying, “Why does that woman look so familiar?” aloud, and realizing it is me, worry about Alzheimer’s.
I never thought I’d wear elastic waist pants, funny hats or moan getting up from a chair.
I never thought myself good-looking, was never boastful, conceited, or big-headed, but loved those outfits and the way they made me feel.
Damn, I guess it is too late to be vain.
. . . Just Saying
Water Bagging
Aging & Attitude
What is Water Bagging? Water Bagging is a newly coined phrased (by me) referencing an experience that can occur in public bathrooms. Water Bagging has a snappy ring, sounds like water boarding minus genuine torture. The similarity, other than the obvious H2O, is the incident left me feeling victimized and asking, “What can be done legally?”
My mission was to exchange an ink cartridge that went dry printing a few Sud0ku grids.
The customer service person at the local super store said, “Wthout a receipt or the packaging, I can only give you ink.”
“That’s fine.” I said. Did she think I wanted money?
“Go get a new one; you don’t have to wait in line again when you come back.”
Great, I hike to technology, grab a new HP cartridge and a second one, just in case, and skip line. She checks me out with a reminder to save the receipt and off I go. Life is good.
I see a restroom, do not ‘really’ have to go, but slip inside. All the stalls are in use. The handicap stall frees-up first and since not previously used by a handicap person and no handicap people are in line, I hurry in.
Thanks to an ABC story, “Your Purse Could be Making You Sick” about pseudomonia, straphylococcus aurews, EColi and salmonella invading our homes due to women putting handbags on the floor, I look to hang my bag on the back of the door. The hook is missing. My handbag is small with two handles and closes with a snap, but not snapped. I dump my bag on the edge of the sink and start to undo my slacks. The bag slumps into the sink, no big deal, until with my pants down and a plastic grocery bag on my wrist notice that like Niagara Falls, water is pouring into my handbag. Tripping, I grab the handbag out of the sink and begin tossing the contents into the plastic bag strangling my wrist. Once the handbag is empty, I pour mega amounts of water out, puddle walk to the toilet, sit with the bags on my lap, and pee, studying my wet stuff.
The ink from the receipt is bleeding and threatens to blotch up several items.
The automated paper towel dispenser is just beyond my reach, wiggling closer (my pants are still down) I manage to activate the release of brown paper by flapping my arms. I wipe things dry while standing. A couple of deep knee bends later my pants are secured and nothing has touched the floor.
Leaving, I stop to use a noisy hand dryer hoping to preserve the needed HP ink cartridge receipt, conflicted about searching my handbag for ear plugs to prevent loss of hearing from these mother of devices.
Does Water Bagging happen to anyone else? What are the numbers?
Legislation may be need, definitely a grass roots movement, Women United Against Automatic Flush Toilets, Soap and Paper Towel on Demand Dispensers, and Hot & Cold Water Request Valves That Only Work When You Do Not Want Them To.
We could start a protest similar to Occupy Wall Street, but still pay taxes, babysit grandchildren and sleep in beds.
….Just Saying.
claudiajustsaying 