The Lipstick Chronicles

Christmas Goes to the Dogs

by Diane Chamberlain

For decades now, I've made my dogs a part of my Christmas card greetings. Since my blog post falls on Christmas Eve, I thought it would be fitting to share a few of the pictures that have graced my cards over the years.

The pix above I call "Mr and Mrs Santa Paws." My two sweet goldens, Chapel and Ben, posed obediently for my Christmas cards for more than a decade. (Outtakes from this photo shoot are at the end of this post). Chapel and Ben were simply the finest dogs I've ever had the privilege to know. They were as close as this picture implies. They had so many adventures together: escaping from every fenced-in yard, killing a possum on my deck (the possum was only playing dead, as I discovered when I went to scoop him up), swimming in the ocean and tearing through the woods, but what they loved best was cuddling together. When Ben's time ran out (and I promise this is the only sad thing I'll write in this post), I remembered reading something in an Ann Landers column. She said that when dogs were very close, it was a good idea to have both dogs present when one was (euphemistically) put to sleep. So Chapel accompanied Ben and me to the vet, who thought the idea was a little ridiculous. While Ben lay breathing heavily on the floor, Chapel leaped happily around the room, sniffing the corners and wagging her tail. "She's totally oblivious," said the vet, and I thought he was right. But suddenly Chapel stopped her prancing and looked at Ben. She walked over to him, lay down right next to him, muzzle to muzzle, and stayed with him while the vet did what he had to do. She never searched the house for Ben. She knew where he was, and I was so glad she'd been with Ben and me that day.

That doesn't mean I suddenly began treating her with respect when it came to Christmas card pictures. When Rheumatoid Arthritis was making a mess out of my joints (before the good drugs came along and I discovered 'better living through chemistry'), I bought a mobility scooter to help me get around. I adored my scooter, thus I subjected poor Chapel to the most humiliating card yet. That dog was one good sport, even winking at the camera.

When Chapel went to the Rainbow Bridge, I knew it would take a BIG dog to fill her paws. That's when I got Bruin, the Bernese Mountain Dog. Bruin was a stunner. He was bred to be a show dog, but he had a low sperm count (shh) and so the breeder needed a home for him. The problem was, he'd spent his first three years in a kennel and by the time I got him, he was the world's most neurotic dog. Berners usually bond with one person and that bond is like super glue. He wanted to be in my lap at all times. If I went out of town, he mourned. He was terrified of being left alone. But I was divorced at the time and I loved his company, so it all worked out for the best.

    Unfortunately, big dogs are often short-lived, but since I promised no more sadness, we'll move right along! I decided to downsize after Bruin. RA and a few other considerations made a big dog more difficult for me, so a friend took me to meet a 6 month old Sheltie she'd heard needed a home. I'd formerly thought of Shelties as a waste of fur. Compared to Goldens and Bernese Mountain Dogs, they didn't seem to have much to recommend them. I humored my friend by going to meet the 6 month old pup the breeder had named Bluesman for his Bi-Blue coat. I sat on the floor and Bluesman gingerly came close enough for me to scratch his chest. He looked at me with his one brown/one blue eyes and seemed to be promising me a big-dog personality in his kind of funny looking little body. It was a total con job, but I surrendered to his adorableness. I changed his name to Keeper, after my book Keeper of the Light. It took Keeper a while to warm up to me. Where I couldn't detach Bruin from my lap, I couldn't get Keeper to pay any attention to me whatsoever.    "He hates me," I told my friend. I began feeding him by hand, one piece of kibble at a time. That did the trick and he soon became my little shadow. It took him a while to turn into the beautiful boy he is today, though. One of my friends, looking from my Christmas card with Bruin to my card with Keeper, said "From the sublime to the ridiculous." That still makes me laugh. 

I thought Keeper might be a little lonely for a canine companion--or maybe I just didn't feel I had quite enough dog yet. I was in a serious relationship by then and John, who had lived for many years with up to twenty Bernese Mountain Dogs/puppies at a time, begged me not to do it. But when I brought home Jet, Keeper's brother from another litter, John was instantly won over. Where Keeper is reserved, Jet is outgoing.  Keeper believes in conserving his energy. He stands in one place and watches Jet run around the house like a little madman. When Jet runs down the stairs to greet me, Keeper waits at the top. Why make the trip for nothing? They get along beautifully, though. The only member of the household who doesn't love them is Rhonda the Roomba, who constantly shouts at me from wherever she is stuck "Clean Roomba's Brushes Now!"

Finally, here are the promised outtakes from Chapel and Ben's stint as Mr and Mrs Santa Paws. They were never so happy to hear their release command "Okay!" as they were that day!

Happy Holidays, everyone!

 

 

 

Food and Folks

by Diane Chamberlain

I’m in the produce section of the grocery store and I reach for a big, dusky brown russet potato when I hear Nina’s voice in my head.  “Two should be sufficient, don’t you think?”

I haven’t seen Nina in decades--only once since high school-- but I can’t hold a russet potato in my hand without thinking of her. When I was a teenager, I often made my favorite easy to make meal—potatoes, onions and eggs. I was sort of known for this simple recipe, primarily because it was the only thing I knew how to cook. So one day I suggested to Nina that we make potatoes, onions and eggs for dinner. She reached into her mom’s pantry, pulled out two potatoes, and said the sentence above,  linking 
potatoes to Nina forever in my mind. I love that. I love that I think of her and our teenaged friendship everytime I feel the weight of a russet in my hand.

                Back then, I made that potato dish with lots of oil and fried the heck out of the potatoes.  I still make it now, but I’ve lightened it up by nuking the potatoes first.

Diane’s Easy Potatoes Onions and Eggs for Two

• Nuke two russet potatoes (two are sufficient!) until just tender.
• Quarter them lengthwise, then slice them into pieces about a quarter inch thick.
• Heat a little olive oil in a skillet and add the potatoes and one coarsely chopped onion.
• Cook until the potatoes are brown and the onions tender.
• Beat a couple of eggs and pour them over the potatoes and onions. Heat until the eggs are done.
• Serve with catsup or salsa.

                Then there’s the peanut butter. When I dip a knife into a jar of peanut butter, I hear my grandmother’s voice.  “Just a smear,” she’d say.  My family lived with my feisty red-headed grandmother, who was disabled. Every evening, I’d make her a cup of Sanka and a piece of toast with peanut butter, and every evening she’d say “Just a smear.”  Makes me smile every time I spread a piece of bread with peanut butter. But just a smear for me?  Hardly.

                Zan McCrone was my best friend until her death at age twenty-nine and she's connected in my mind to at least fifty foods.   Hamburgers, for example. She and I were teenagers sitting in a restaurant in Greenwich Village pretending we were genuine Bohemians when a few feral cats wandered through the room. Zan became convinced our hamburgers  were made of cat meat and refused to finish hers. Whatever suspicions she had about the meat and the cat passed me by, thank goodness, but it was the last meat Zan ever ate. As she began cooking only vegetarian meals, she taught me how to make eggplant parmagiana, which is still one of my favorite meals. When I make it myself these days, I lighten it up, baking the eggplant  instead of frying it. I admit it…it doesn’t taste as decadent as Zan’s, but it’s still delicious.

Zan’s Lightened Up Eggplant Parmagiana (and Eggplant Sex discussion)

• One large male eggplant (okay, I know there is controversy about eggplant gender, but Zan taught me to always look for the boy eggplant. The boys have a round "belly button" on the bottom, while the girls have an elongated belly button. Girls have more seeds and are bitter. Males are just plain yummy, as most of us know. Some people say this male/female thing is an old wive's tale, but I've had excellent luck choosing eggplants by the boy/girl method. Forget salting them and all that other silliness. Just pick a boy).

• Italian seasoned Panko

• One egg

• Fresh mozzarella, sliced

• Your favorite jarred marinara sauce

• Fresh basil, chopped if desired

Heat oven to 350

Pour some marinara sauce in the bottom of a glass baking pan

Peel the eggplant (why most chefs leave that annoying peel on is beyond me!) and slice a quarter inch thick

Dip slices in egg, then Panko and lay in a single layer on a greased baking sheet. Bake until fork tender.

Layer the eggplant slices with mozzarella, basil leaves and remaining sauce. Bake for 30 minutes. Serve with pasta and more sauce. And think of Zan with every bite.

         I am neurotic about food safety. I admit it. I use three sets of tongs when I grill meat, for example. One for the raw meat, the second pair to turn the half cooked meat, the third to remove the fully cooked meat from the grill.  Totally neurotic. I also use paper plates on top of my chopping board so whatever I’m chopping doesn’t come into contact with whatever invisible germs might be on my perfectly clean chopping board. Tossing paper plates may not be great for the environment, but it makes me happy. You will not get food poisoning in my house! My parents house, though? That was another matter.

                 I was staying with my Dad one time when my Mom was in the hospital, and he proudly made his favorite soup, “Bunion Soup.” I can’t see onion soup on a menu without thinking about my father’s invention. And what went into it.

Dad’s Bunion Soup (make at your own risk)

• One package Lipton Onion Soup mix

• Add a can of beans of your choice (pinto, black, kidney, whatever)

• Add that pot of unidentifiable liquid you found in the rear of the bottom shelf of the refrigerator that’s probably been there since you moved into the house.

• Cook and serve to your unsuspecting daughter.

He didn’t tell me about the pot of liquid until I was finished eating. He was so proud of his creation but when he mentioned, with such a happy, guiless look on his face, finding that pot of whatever in the back of the fridge,  I wondered if I should make myself throw up. I passed on that idea. I survived and Dad left me one more goofy Dad memory. Every one of them is precious.

So tell me about you. Is there a mushroom in your fridge you can’t look at without thinking of your Great Aunt Sadie?

Overheard at the Opium Den

Overheard at the Opium Den

by Diane Chamberlain

          

 It all began years ago when I decided to rent a room in my house to a young couple. They were delightful tenants, but I found it challenging to write when they were around. One evening, I escaped to the only place that was open nearby: Starbucks. I studied the menu board, feeling awkward. I wasn't a coffee drinker, so I wanted to order a small decaf, but the word 'small' was nowhere on the menu. I saw Tall. And Grande. And what on earth did Venti mean? A kindly barista gave me a tall decaf that tasted like poison and pointed me in the direction of an inviting red velvet chair, which turned out to be every bit as cushy as it looked. I'm one of those people who actually uses her laptop on her lap, so the chair was perfect for me.

 
 Activity swirled around me. I lived in Northern Virginia at the time, right outside Washington, DC, and the evening crowd at the Starbucks consisted of foreign students hunched over textbooks, self-conscious couples on Match.com dates (I was soon to become one of them), young people--pierced, tattooed and adorable--socializing with one another, and a large group of middle-eastern men who sat near the front door. At first, it was hard to concentrate on writing because the people-watching was too seductive, but I gradually tuned out everything around me and lost myself in my work.

Ten o'clock, closing time. The hours had flown by and I'd written fifteen pages! If I worked so efficiently at Starbucks in the evening, why not try it in the morning as well?

My cushy red chair (yes, I'd already come to think of the chair as mine) was vacant the following morning, but the crowd was entirely different. A laptop on nearly every table. People with phone buds in their ears, sitting alone, talking to the air. Consultants--the DC area is awash with them--meeting with their clients. Flow charts spread out on tabletops. Again, I wrote pages upon pages. This time I had caffeinated coffee. It was morning, after all. When I went back that evening, I decided to try a latte. And a blackbottom cupcake. Already, I was hooked. I quickly dubbed Starbucks "The Opium Den" believing there is an addictive substance in the lining of their cups that is activated by heat. Otherwise, why would I crave coffee that is so bitter and burned tasting that the first time I was served it, I thought there was something wrong with it?

Years later, I am still hooked.   My addiction costs me more than four dollars a day, but for that four dollars I receive far more than a coffee high, breakfast (cinnamon scone), an expanding waistline and an office away from home. The truth is, I've been touched, enlightened and enriched by things I've overheard in the Opium Den.

It's my duty as a novelist to gather stories wherever they can be found, right? The first time I eavesdropped in the O.D. was when two men sat down at a table near my chair. It was clear from their conversation that they were discussing the   welfare of a teenage boy.  As a former psychotherapist specializing in adolescents, I'm a sucker for teenagers. I'm sure the men thought I was deep in my work, but I was actually glued to their conversation.

The blond truck driver was the boy's father; the dark-haired born-again Christian, his stepfather with whom the boy lived. It was clear the men were meeting to find a way to help the boy cope with social and family issues. Obviously, there'd been some ugliness between the men in the past and I could tell they had very different approaches to child rearing. Yet their love of the boy was deep, transcending those differences as they explored solutions to help him.   When their conversation was over, the men stood and embraced, touching me with their caring and nobility. As they walked out of Starbucks, I reread the scene I'd been working on and knew it lacked the emotional depth I'd just had the honor of witnessing. I deleted the scene and started over again.

That was the first time customers at the Opium Den inspired my writing, but it wasn't to be the last. There was the day two unsuspecting women gave me the gift of an idea for a novel. 

 

          "Did you hear about Sharon Smith?" the brunette asked her friend as she sipped her Venti Americano.  "Her ex and that bitch he married were awarded custody of her son!"

        "You're kidding!" responded the redhead with the Grande Latte. "Why would a judge take a child away from his mother?"

        "Her ex and the bitch are both lawyers, that's why. Sharon didn't stand a chance."

        "If that happened to me," said the redhead, "I'd change my name, take my kid, and disappear."

Voila! I had my character and the core of her dilemma. I gave her a used computer filled with information that would allow her to save many lives—if only she would turn herself in to the  authorities--and my novel, The Escape Artist, was born.

Does my eavesdropping sound--I don't know--creepy? I don't go out of my way to listen in, but I'm interested in people and apparently, I have very good hearing. Sometimes, though, my hearing ability doesn't matter.

 

   Not long ago, I was sitting in my comfy chair at the O.D., typing my manuscript as I sipped my Grande half-caf-with-steamed-milk.  Sharing the leather sofa across from me were three women, and I couldn't take my eyes off them.

My best guess was that they were two middle-aged daughters sitting on either side of their elderly mother. They were speaking a foreign language–-Middle Eastern, I thought, although I couldn't hear them well. The two younger women looked very American, but it was the elderly woman who had caught my attention. Her face was incredibly lined. I’d never seen so many crinkles and wrinkles in one place, and she was absolutely beautiful. She was tiny and she wore a little beige hat that looked hand-knit. On the side of the hat was a small, floppy, coral-colored flower. I was pretty sure she was on to me and my snooping, so I tried to stop staring at her but didn't do a very good job of it. Her face was like a magnet for my eyes. I wanted to get up and hug her.

The younger women, soft mirrors of their mother, had a few lines on their faces too. They clearly loved their mother. They talked non-stop and seemed to be explaining something to the older woman, using their hands to help in their descriptions. Their mother didn't say much. She nodded and said “oh” from time to time, a tiny smile on her face as she sipped from her Starbucks cup–which somehow looked incongruous in her hands. I noticed she wore identical rings on the ring finger of each hand. Each gold ring held a single pearl in a large, round beaded setting, and I wished I knew the significance of those rings.

The younger women were oblivious to me, but the old one was not. I felt her eyes on me and wondered who or what she saw in me. A third daughter? One who was missing? I glanced at her one more time and suddenly understood my attraction to her. In her face, I saw both of my grandmothers, long gone. I saw my mother, who had never looked this old, although she lived to be eighty-eight. I saw all of them in her, and I felt the yearning for people I loved but could no longer talk to or touch. 

It was time to leave. I turned off my laptop and slipped it and my notecards into my carry-all. I got up and walked past the leather sofa, but impulsively turned back and stepped in front of the women.

“I’m sorry I’ve been staring at you,” I said to the elderly woman, not knowing if she understood me or not. “It’s just that I think you’re very beautiful.”

The younger women smiled and translated for their mother, who laughed and said "thank you.” One of the women said, “She’s our mother,” with more pride in her voice than those three little words could possibly hold. I was a little weepy by the time I reached my car. I wished I could take my mom to Starbucks.

I thought of how lucky I am to have my office away from home. Writing is so isolating. I need to be around people even if I'm not directly interacting with them. It all comes back to replenishing the creative well, and there's only so much well water my home office can hold, even though I have a great house. It's over 4000 square feet of space. I can work in my office or in the sunroom or on the screened porch or at the dining room table. But you won't find me in any of those rooms in the mornings. You'll find me in a cushy chair at the Opium Den. I expect that I'll be there for many years to come--or at least for as long as they continue to put that coating on the inside of the cups. 

  How about you? Do you have an office away from the office, and if you do, what draws you there?

  

 

The Psychic and Me

by Diane Chamberlain

 

I tell this story often to friends and acquaintances and anyone else who will listen because a) it fascinates me and b) I want someone to explain it away. So I offer it here in the hope that someone can explain it away.

Or not.

Here's the story.

About six years ago, I had dinner with my friend, Joyce, who mentioned that she went to a psychic (I'll call him Reverend Bob), which I thought was a ridiculous thing to do. I don't believe (or at least, I didn't) in psychic abilities, ghosts, heaven or hell, or mind reading (although I do have a profound belief in the Divine, but that's a different discussion). Joyce described her experience to me this way:

"Reverend Bob's the minister of a metaphysical church. I went in and they handed me a note card and I wrote the names of two people I wanted him to get in touch with. Then Reverend Bob held his hand over the note card and went into a sort of trance. Then he told me about the people on the card. By name. He was in touch with my father and . . . "

I couldn't believe my friend was so stupid to fall for this nonsense, but I was also intrigued. How did he figure out what names she'd written on the card? 

The very next night, I had a Match.com date with a guy who, it turned out, sang in the choir of the metaphysical church where Reverend Bob was the minister. Coincidence? Actually, yeah. I'm one of those people who believes there are coincidences. (Also, things don't happen for a reason. I guess I'm pretty cynical). My Match.com friend proceeded to tell me that Reverend Bob had connected several times with his brother who died in Vietnam. He told me this matter-of-factly, as if he was talking about the sun rising in the east.

My curiosity was seriously piqued now. How did this guy do it? I decided to find out.

I made an appointment for my own session with Reverend Bob. (side note: he doesn't charge for these meetings, although the secretary who scheduled my appointment told me the church welcomed donations).

The tiny white church was on a busy street in a busy Northern Virginia city. When I walked in, I was in a small foyer. Ahead of me was the sanctuary. To my right, the minister's office. The secretary greeted me and showed me the stack of note cards on a sideboard in the foyer and told me to write down two or three names of my dearly departed. Here were my suspicions: 1) There was a hidden camera in the foyer, or somehow the pen they gave me was rigged, or somehow the sideboard would pick up the impression of the names as I wrote them on the note card. I would foil them. I carried the note card into the sanctuary and sat in a pew, away from the hidden camera, but just in case there was a hidden camera in the sanctuary, I covered each letter in the names as I wrote them (using my own pen. I felt truly paranoid and also very clever). Then I quickly folded the card into quarters. I'd written just two names:

• ·        Susan Chamberlain (my grandmother who died when I was 20 and with whom I was very close. Like me, she had rheumatoid arthritis and she's my role model when it comes to living with this disease)

• ·        Nan Chamberlain (my mother, who had died only a few weeks before this appointment)

Reverend Bob called me into his office. I'd brought a blank audio tape with me as the secretary had requested and he inserted it in his tape player. For a second or two, he held his hand over my hand as I clutched the folded card. Then he shut his eyes and invited the spirits to come.

He opened his eyes and began talking to me about books I should read on spiritual stuff. For about fifteen minutes, he talked about this and that. I figured he had a little earpiece through which someone was telling him I'd hidden my card too well and the session was a lost cause.

Suddenly, Reverend Bob closed his eyes again and told me Susan was in the room. Whoa. I was so chilled I had to ask him to repeat the name.

"Susan," he said. "She's sweeping snow or sand from a sidewalk. She's sweeping a path clear for you."

Holy shit. How did he do that?

Immediately I connected to what he was saying. If anyone was clearing a path for me on my RA journey, it was (and still is) Gram.

He began chatting about books or something again. I don't remember, because my mind was spinning. When he shut his eyes once more, he said,     "Someone else is here. Nan? Nan? Could it be Nan?"

When I listen to the tape now, I can hear the tears in my voice as I whisper "My mother."

"Do you do any writing?" Reverend Bob asked me abruptly.

"Yes."

"I see spirit standing next to you, tapping a pen against her hand."

I laughed. Mom couldn't know someone for 30 seconds without telling him or her "my daughter's a novelist."

We went on like that for a while. By the time I left, I was so shaken that I forgot to leave my donation and had to drive back to the church to do so.

How did he do it?

"Your website?" my sister suggested. "Obituaries? But then why wouldn't he have picked Mom and Dad, who died much more recently than Gram?"

I don't know.

Since that time, my significant other, John (number 70 in the Match.com dating game, but that's definitely for another post), also visited Reverend Bob. John wrote his names on a slip of paper at home. Reverend Bob chatted with John's mother (her name: Koula) and a beloved neighbor and even the neighbor's husband who popped into the session unbidden. My friend Ray, who is Middle Eastern but you'd never know it, wrote his names at home in Arabic,
and when Reverend Bob was in his "trance," he said to the spirits "In English please!" Then Mohammed and Abdul joined Ray and Reverend Bob in the room.

How does he do it??

Although I'm open to having this entire experience debunked, I have to admit it changed me. One thing Reverend Bob said that has stuck with me is this: people who die don't automatically know how to get in touch with us, so we need to listen. If we find ourselves suddenly thinking of them, we need to acknowledge that we hear them to let them know they're getting through. This is why, until someone can tell me how he does it, I'll keep saying, "I hear you, Dad. I hear you, Mom." Just in case they're really here.

Just in case.

What was YOUR Teen Obsession?

by Diane Chamberlain

Let's talk about our youthful obsessions!

          Last night I had dinner with my oldest friend, as in the friend I've known the longest. Barb and I had fun reminiscing, although we had to keep it to a minimum so as not to bore other family members. One memory everyone found intriguing, though, was the time Barb and I saw The Beatles. (Here's my actual ticket stub. Check out the price! I believe those seats were somewhere in Pennsylvania. And I was all of a year old. Ha).
My family had a summer house at the Jersey Shore at the time and several of my friends spent a few days pre- and post-concert there with me, giggling and sharing secrets and wearing our black leather John Lennon caps even though it was insanely hot and humid. We came up with the idea of inviting the Beatles to the summer house. There was plenty of room if they wanted to stay over or they could just pop in for a glass of lemonade. My mother, who was so much cooler than I ever gave her credit for, wrote a nice letter to the Fab Four so that the invitation would come from a grown-up instead of five pubescent girls. Barb and I remember the actual handing off of the letter differently. I think we gave it to an usher to take backstage at the convention hall. She thinks my sister drove us to the hotel to give to a bellman. Either way, we went back to the house high from the concert and full of hopeful anticipation as we waited for a call from the boys as to when they'd be arriving, which of course they never did. Yet the imagining and yearning were so much fun. That was the start of my obsessive groupie days.

          I became a concert junkie and had plenty of friends who fed my addiction with me. Most notably, I saw the Stones seven times before I was eighteen and even talked to Charlie Watts' (the drummer, for the uninitiated) wife on the phone once. Charlie was my least favorite Stone, because I found him old (I believe he was 24 or so) and unattractive. Now I find him hot in his golden years. Seriously, the man has aged the best of any of them. Check out this picture to see what I mean. That's Charlie on the left. No contest.  But anyway, when my friends and I knew the Stones were in town (as in New York), we'd call every hotel to try to track them down. We gave up looking for a "Mr Jagger" because the hotels were on to us and always denied he was there, but we did find "Mr Watts" that one time, and when I got Shirley Watts on the phone I white-lied and told her he was my favorite. She was so gracious. I had the feeling not too many giggly young girls were after Charlie back then.  Maybe I even made her day?

          Then I got serious about my groupiness, and this is where it gets sort of shameful. No, I never slept with anyone famous, but I wheedled my way into getting as close as possible to my prey. Before I go any further, let me apologize publicly to anyone I ever met through nefarious means.  It was the hormones and I'm sorry.

          The prey in question were The Rascals. 

  I had a friend who was as passionate about them as I was. Marilyn wanted Dino the drummer and I wanted Felix  the organist and lead singer. Marilyn and I had otherwise normal social lives with normal (well, hers was normal) boyfriends, but we had this one shared maniacal obsession. We nurtured it by going to concerts every chance we could and by hanging out in New York trying to catch a glimpse of the guys.

          Here is the worst, most dishonest thing I did. Through the network of RGs (Rascal Groupies), I was told to "show up at Carnegie Hall on Saturday night." I was with some friends who were always remarkably good-natured about humoring me, and they went with me to Carnegie Hall where the featured event turned out to be a lecture by a Yogi, Swami Satchidananda. We sat in one of those wonderful little balcony boxes and tried to figure out what we were doing there. Then we began to have Rascal sightings. We spotted Eddie Brigati taking his seat in the orchestra. Then in another area, Dino Danelli appeared. And finally--omigod--in the balcony below ours and to the left, Felix himself.

          "Bye," I told my friends.

          I went down to the box where Felix was sitting and stepped right in. The box was quite full of people both sitting and standing, so I didn't look all that out of place. I could see my friends up in the balcony and they were jumping up and down and pointing at me and marveling at my chutzpa. I kept sidling closer to Felix. Finally, I was right next to him. I leaned over to ask him something about what the Swami had just said and he responded, then offered me his seat because the man was nice and I felt like a deceitful little twit. I didn't take his seat. I just stood there and enjoyed breathing in the same air he was breathing, all the while becoming a fan of Swami Satchidananda.   The only thing I actually remember the Swami saying that night was "Constipation is caused by a lack of concentration," but I bought his book on Integral Yoga and started standing on my head in my dorm room regularly (check out the glasses) and going into the City to hear him speak as often as I could get there from New Jersey. Of course, I was always hoping Felix would show up on the same night, which he never did. Ironically, I gained an appreciation of chanting and meditation as part of a spiritual practice that has lasted through to this day. (Check out Krishna Das for a natural high).

          A couple of months after the Swami Satchidananda event, my friends and I went to a Rascals concert, which found us once again at Carnegie Hall. We worked our way to the stage from our seats at the back of the hall as soon as the concert began, which was great . . . for a while. But I have an odd phobia about large places--I can't stand them. I've beaten a bunch of phobias over the years, but this one remains. (I may have been the only kid in history who had a note from her shrink to excuse her from P.E. because she couldn't tolerate the gym ceiling. But that's for another post.) I was right in front of the stage when I began to have the "high ceiling panic attack." I had to get out of there. I burst through the double doors at the side of the theater and into the hallway to calm myself down. When I felt better, I headed back inside, but an usher asked to see my ticket and of course my seat was nowhere near the front, so he told me I had to go all way to the rear of the theater. I couldn't bear to be way in the back again, so I stood in the hallway quietly, pathetically, weeping as I tried to figure out what to do.

          A man approached me. He was really old (maybe even 50!) and he asked me what was wrong. His exact words: "What's the matter, little girl?"

          I began blubbering. "I was right in front of the stage," I said, "but I couldn't stand how high the ceiling was and I came out here and now they won't let me in again and--"

          "Hush," he said and took my hand, opening the doors to the sacred backstage sanctum. Only then did I realize who he was: Sid Bernstein, the Rascals' manager and the guy who'd brought the Beatles and Stones and the entire British invasion to the States. We climbed the inside steps to the stage, where Mr. Bernstein deposited me next to a couple of roadies, just a few yards from you-know-who on the organ. My friends, still in front of the stage, caught sight of me and stared in shock.

          When the concert was over, I slipped unnoticed upstairs to the dressing room and finally--finally--had Felix to myself, if you didn't count the two dozen other people hanging around him. I took this picture of him, 
then gave him my camera so he could take a picture of me. I was incredibly grateful for the time I'd spent with my Swami Satchidananda book because it gave us something to chat about. I asked him for reading recommendations about Yoga and he asked me for my address so he could send me his recommendations in a letter. Be still my heart!

          Afterward, I stood in front of Carnegie Hall with my friends as the limo carrying the Rascals went by. The window was down and Felix called out, "I'll write to you!" I leaned cooly against the building, while my fellow groupies stared at me in drooling wonder.

          Did he write? Actually, yes. In fuscia ink, he suggested I read the Bagavad Gita  (I dutifully did so). He also asked me to send him a copy of the picture he took of me. That, of course, was the end of that, as both he--and I--could clearly see that in spite of my bravado, I was little more than a really nervous eighteen-year-old almost-virginal girl from a state college in South Jersey. 

          It all seems so ridiculous to me now. I look at girls screaming over rock groups today and while I remember being that obsessed, I can't quite recapture the feeling of being that obsessed--a good thing, I think.  If only I'd put that much passion into my education, I would be, well, better educated. But I'd probably have less to blog about.

          So what was your obsession when you were a teenager? I know you had one. 'Fess up!

The 12.3 Second Solution

by Diane Chamberlain

 

That’s me with my dad. I look as though I’m getting ready to leap into the water of our dock—something I’m sure I didn’t do. I was terrified of the water. Our summer house was at the Jersey shore on the Point Pleasant canal, a narrow two mile stretch of the Intracoastal Waterway. The dock was cut into our sandy back yard and served as our swimming pool. Or I should say, it served as my siblings’ swimming pool, since I was certain that the water would suck me out into the canal and the current would drag me clear to the ocean--if the crabs and eels didn’t get me first.

One time when I was about eight, I did fall into the dock. I was crabbing from the bulkhead and lost my balance. I still remember being underwater and looking up at the platform you see here, strips of sunlight slicing through the boards and into the water around me. I survived, but the experience did nothing to ease my fear of the water. It took adulthood and several years of swimming lessons to do that.

But that’s not what this post is about. It’s about a much deeper fear, one that only seems to intensify rather than lessen with age: the fear of shopping for a bathing suit.

On those rare occasions that I venture into the water these days (mostly the “gentle  aqua aerobics” at my gym), I wear a plain old black suit. It’s the only one I own, but the last time I went to put it on I noticed that the seat had sort of worn through and I’d probably been exposing myself to the other women in the class for several weeks. It wouldn’t be the first time I had a bathing suit malfunction. Years ago I was at a picnic with my then husband and his soccer team. The picnic was held at a park with a beautiful swimming pool. I was in my twenties and back then, I worked out every day. As a matter of fact, I was wearing a workout leotard as a bathing suit because I loved how comfy and cute it was. The leotard was one piece with pastel colored horizontal stripes and if I do say so myself, I looked hot in it. The day was hot too, so I spent some time in the pool. Then I needed to use the restroom, and on the stroll from the pool to the restroom I bumped into any number of guys from the soccer team. They eyed me appreciatively and I was feeling pretty darn cocky about my total hotness. Until I arrived in the restroom and got a look at myself in the mirror and discovered the reason for all that ogling and those knowing smiles: my wet, non-bathing suit had turned transparent. I had to wait for someone I knew to come into the restroom before I could get a towel and escape. It still makes me cringe to remember that day.  

Years have passed since then, and while they’ve been very kind to me in my personal and professional life, they have done some scary things to my body. Sitting at a computer sixteen hours a day doesn’t do much for one’s body tone. It’s nice that they make bathing suits to correct all sorts of anatomical problems these days. Tummy too big? There’s a bathing suit that will suck it in for you. Triple D? Easily minimized. Thunder thighs? Cover with a flirty little skirted bottom. But they don’t make them to cover as much as I now seem to need covered. I’m actually thinking our great grandmothers had it right with their modest garb. When I see all the itty bitty bikinis and tankinis in the store, I feel as though I’m the only woman stressing about this. Am I?

While writing this post, I asked my sig other, John, how he buys a bathing suit. He looked at me like he didn’t understand the question. “I go in the store and 12.3 seconds later, I walk out with a bathing suit,” he said.

I think he has the right idea. Time is precious, and I don’t want to spend it struggling to camouflage my cellulite. I’m going to buy another plain and simple black suit. As long as it stays opaque in the water, who cares?