You have to suffer to be beautiful

She had just poured excruciating hot liquid wax on my body. “Il faut souffrir pour être belle,” she said as she ripped the wax, all the hair and my dignity off in one swift gesture. I let out a bellow that shocked her. She then laughed said I sounded like “un cerf en rut.” … A rutting stag. Still gasping from the pain, I managed to ask how the hell did she know what that even sounded like, she shrugged and said that she was dating a hunter.

That sums up the relationship the French have with being beautiful, you first have to suffer. Maybe that is why they are world renowned for being beautiful and as tough as tacks.

When you make a monthly visit to have hot wax poured on your private parts as well as other parts of your body, you know that you are a warrior and really don’t need to take shit from anyone.

A friend recently told a story at a dinner party how she opted for electrolysis. How each individual hair was removed permenantly and… painfully. We sat there with rapt attention as she explained how she was in tears with the needle sharp poking pain … everywhere. But instead of being horrified, we whipped out our phones to write down her dermatologist’s number.

…but not all French beauty techniques are painful. Massages, spa days and other pampering is de rigueur. AND French women find the time to take care of themselves. In between full time jobs, home, husband and kids, they still find the time to have their nails done… and pay for it out of their own bank accounts.

Last Mother’s Day, I decided that I would take advantage of a deal at a spa. An hour of anti-age facial treatment. Sounded good to me! I show up for my appointment with my hair in an updo. They asked me to remove all jewelry and any metal Bobby pins in my hair. Strange request, but alright. I settled in on a comfortable table, the lights were dim and calm music was playing. I was just starting to relax when the massuse walked in.

She spoke to me in soothing tones and I nodded dreamily while I listened with closed eyes. And then I felt two cold pieces of metal on my temples. Still going with the flow, I tried to stay in the zen zone.

That is when she turned on the electricity.

Waves of pain coursed over my forehead and I jumped up screaming “what the hell” in French. I made her show me what she held in her hands and she explained in a trembling voice that by using electricity it will relax my wrinkles…and that nasty line that was clearly apparent in between my eyebrows.

Oh, as I tried to relax my face and the angry lines I looked at her tools and they resembled what I had seen in pictures of electrical shock therapy, in mental hospitals. But if they could reduce my wrinkles… So I laid back down on the table.

She started again …and turned the electricity back on. It was ok. Really.

More on the scale of a whimpering dog than a rutting stag, but ok.

She worked on my forehead, my temples and I started to relax again when she brought those babies down by my jaw line. My eyes shot open as every nerve and every cavity ever touched by a dentist or orthodontist in 40 odd years came vividly to life. “Ahhh AAAH”

Remember the scene when Dr Frankenstein brings the monster to life? That was me, that was us. I sat up garbling incomprehensibly, she cowering with her “happy” sticks in a corner. She squeaked out, “do you have any metal work in your mouth? Metal work? METAL WORK??? My mouth is nothing but metal work. I still have a bar left over from my orthodontist days when I was 16 and is still holding my teeth in place.

She was trying to talk me back on the table by saying it would make me look younger. That stopped the monster. I raised an eyebrow, quieted down and asked, “how much younger?”

“12 months younger”

Nope. Nopity nope nope.

Only 12 months? For 5 or 3 years even I might have gotten back on that table, but 12 months? She needed to work on that marketing pitch.

Even I won’t suffer for a measly 12 months….

then again…

My Mother Never Did Anything For Me

I think it started when my son was about 6, while he was sitting comfortably with his feet up and I was on all fours with an old toothbrush trying to clean the fungus out from under his toenails. Tired and a bit disgusted, I looked up at him and quickly said

say my mother never did anything for me.”

He tore his eyes away from his cartoon and said quizzically “what?” I sat back on my heels and told him while waving the toothbrush around “I do things like this for you all the time and you know what? When you will turn 15 you will probably say that I never did anything for you. So, I want you to say it now..right here… while I am working on your toenails WITH A TOOTHBRUSH that your mother never did anything for you…so say it.” He just stared at me. “No, really, say it, I’m not kidding. ” “My.. mother.. never.. did.. anything.. for.. me?” He said slowly. “That’s right,” I replied, as I bent down to attack another toenails, ” and don’t you forget it.”

What was said one night out of exasperation turned out to be a ritual. After getting up from the table to wipe him I would say “say it.” After driving him to every garage sale in town to find Pokemon cards, cleaning up vomit, sitting outside for hours waiting to see a famous soccer player, making minion cake for the entire class, getting him water in the middle of the night … I would say, “say it.”

He would grin and say, “My mother never did anything for me.” Hehmmm, and don’t you forget it.

My son has reached that magical age of 14 and a half. He is affirming himself, finding his own way and I am dreading that his selective memory will soon kick in. But the last time I said “say it” to him.. he looked me in the eye and replied “my mother did everything for me.”

Ain’t that sweet?

….But the next day he said “don’t you ever think before you speak?” I finally realized that it if we want our species to continue, and deter infanticide, parents as well as budding teenagers should use their selective memories… selectively.

The Greatest

I had just changed out the tape in the camera when the man who called himself The Greatest walked in. Good lord, it was Mohammed Ali.

It was 1992 and I was working the odd job for Miami University’s A/V department, basically covering the hours that the regular staff didn’t want. While my fellow students were sleeping it off, I was at the lab, picking up my equipment and loading it on a dolly to drag across campus early on an April Saturday morning.

Normally these gigs were long winded professors who had put in a request for their lectures to be recorded for all eternity. I just had to set up my video camera on a tripod, hook the professor up with a lapel mic and let the camera roll.

I checked my schedule and that day promised to be a long wind-lollapalooza. “Great,” I thought, “a symposium.” I had 8 hours locked up in a lecture hall to look forward to on a beautiful April day. Well, tests were coming up and I needed the money so might as well get on with it.

I got there early and started to set up before anyone arrived. I heard the professors before I could see them. The were chattering away and basically ignored me in the back of the 100 person lecture hall. I made my way to the front to make sure the mics were ready before settling down with my books in the back next to the camera.

I don’t remember the hall being very full even though the event was open to the public and the topic was a bit more interesting than the usual fare. It was a symposium on one of the greatest boxers who ever lived, Mohammed Ali.

One by one, the professors took their turn at the podium to read their papers that focused on varied topics such as Ali’s political, historical, and religious impact on America and the world.

I believe it was at the start of the second presentation when I looked up sharply because the speaker seemed to have lost his place in his notes. He was staring at the two people who just walked through the doors. There was an audible gasp when the handful of people in the room recognized Mohammed Ali.

It was if they had mentioned his name one too many times and they had unwittingly summoned him to be there. Ali and his manager quietly took their seats, the lecturer cleared his throat and tried to continue.

It is one thing to write a paper and criticize an icon, it’s another if he is sitting there six feet away listening to your every word. Like if you would write a critical paper on Michaelangelo and he walks in to listen with a raised eyebrow.

At one point, one of the lecturers read the part in his paper about Ali dating white women. Ali slowly held up a finger that trembled slightly, and slowly admonished the speaker. The lecturer laughed uncomfortablly but he had to carry on.

Some parts were boring, both he and his manager would look around the room at times. Once, his manager caught my eye when I looked up from my books and rolled his eyes dramatically. I tried not to giggle. It seems the three of us were the only ones not taking ourselves too seriously.

During a break, Ali stood up and was very kind to his fans, slowly signing autographs and doing magic tricks for the few people there. I quickly took the camera off the tripod and started shooting footage. He looked at me, looked at the camera and shaking slightly, pointed right at my lens. Like he used to do. Wow. Wow. wow. wow. Chills.

Several hours later after the last person spoke, the host got back up on stage for his closing remarks. Everyone applauded and the symposium was finally over. As I was collecting my equipment from the stage, I overheard them talking about the reception. I was hungry but I could feel that I would not be welcome to join them. The professors did not even thank me nor aknowledge me as they left the room.

I was the last to leave the hall and I slowly pulled the dolly behind me down the empty hallway. As I was walking out, I saw two people in one of the alcoves on a pay phone. It was Ali and his manager. Their eyes lit up with recognition when they saw that it was me and both gave me a friendly wave goodbye.

They didn’t have to. They could have ignored me like the others. But they didn’t. Ali might be considered the Greatest for the impact he made in so many domains… I think he was the Greatest because he didn’t make you feel like you were anything but.

A Cow named Georges

It was early evening and the snow capped Swiss mountains were turning pink. My new host mother stood up and announced that she was off to fetch the milk. Milk? Where was she going to buy milk at this hour? We were in a small village halfway up the side of a mountain of 300 souls.

“Why, from the cow,” she replied.

“Wait…. you have a COW?” I said all excited. A cow, a Cow, A COW !!! I love cows, always have. Family lore has it that when I would see a cow, I would have to moo at it. Important detail.. at it.. from a distance. I had never known anyone who HAD a cow!

I rushed up to my host sister’s room and found her doing her homework. “You have a COW!” She sighed and rolled her eyes. This was a detail that for some reason she never shared with me at our high school.

I must have gone on and on about it because the parents suggested that the next night I could go fetch the milk. “You mean I can go get the milk.. from the COW?” Ohhhh, I misunderstood what they said in French …. it was not only get, but also MILK! I was so excited! My host sister just shook her head.

So the next day, my host mother had a laugh as she dressed me as a “Swissesse” … I put on her long pants that were almost pedal pushers on me and one of my host father’s old blue work shirts that hung loose. I put my hair up and she tied a blue kerchief that completed the Van Trapp family look. Just before I walked out the door, she handed me a silver canister…with leather straps. A milk backpack!!! She pointed to a path up the mountain and indicated that I should go that way.

So off I went.

To my left was our side of the mountain, to the right, a spectacular view of the valley and the towering snow capped peaks. Swinging my arms and whistling, I gave a hardy “bonjour” to the villagers I crossed on the path. I was surprised at the people out and about, and that they seemed to know who I was and what I was doing.

Ah, naive me. As if a six foot tall American girl about to attempt to milk a cow would go unheralded in this small Swiss village halfway up the mountain.

My host father was standing outside the shed, holding a glass of wine, and talking with some neighbors I had not yet met. He greeted me good naturedly as I joined the group. (Yes, they even served wine at this first time event.) We stepped into the warm wooden shed that held two cows, one was being prepped to be milked by a large man. I gestured towards the cow and asked “comment il s’appelle?” That was my lame attempt in French to ask what its name was. My host father answered simply “Georges.”

Wait a minute. Were they trying to pull a fast one on me? When the man by the cow gestured that it was time for me to take my place on the stool, I stole a glance underneath to make sure it WAS a cow. Yup. All good to go.

Now the stool was a tricky thing. It had only had one leg so that it was easier to swivel into place and move if the cow moves. BUT it was made for a smaller model of people than myself. When I sat down, by knees knocked together and my calves served as tent poles spread out to the side to steady myself.

At one point I lost my balance and since both hands were grasping the udders, I smacked my face right into the side of the cow. To cover up my blunder, I thought I would make my audience laugh by saying “excusez moi, Georges.” And strangely enough, the large man in the group said that it wasn’t “grave.” (Why was he answering for the cow? The Swiss are really weird….)

After I had milked 5 squirts worth (hey, it’s harder than it looks!) They told me to pour it in the canister and take it down to the communal village milk reservoir.

Oh, I was so proud as I hiked back to the village. The first person who greeted me asked what I had been up to (ohhhh, as if he didn’t know.) I cheerful replied in French “I milked George!” The person did a double take. “Georges.. qui?” He sputtered. I was really perplexed. Did they give their cows their last names, too? Ok, these people are beyond weird. “Bah, Georges B_______.” I replied. Well, he stood there and just stared at me so I decided that I should just say adieu and continue on my merry way.

And then I got to the reservoir. I climbed up to the vat, opened the canister and said as I poured my meager drops of milk in

“c’est de Georges.

The two men manning the vat stopped mid stir as I made my announcement.

When I got back home, I sauntered into my host sister’s room and announced that I had a successfully milked Georges. She put her pencil down and slowly asked,

“Georges who?”

Really? Her too? I let out an esasperated sigh and said “Georges B______.” She started to laugh…and laugh…. and laugh.

“Georges,” she was able to finally wheeze out, “is my UNCLE!!!”

Shit. One week in the village and I had announced to everyone that I had “milked” her old bachelor farmer uncle. Yup. That’s how you ruin a good reputation, folks. OR build one. Georges, now had a certain swagger… Even a good 20 years on at my host sister’s wedding he was still strutting about.

Last year, when I went to visit my host parents for the last time, my host father’s memory was fading fast. I was warned that he might not recognize me. So I just introduced myself to him as a girl who likes cows. It was the first time that I truly wished that someone would be able to remember the story about me and a cow called Georges.

Allen Who?

Svetlana ran up to me on the street and excitingly announced that Allen Ginsberg was coming to Olomouc! I hitched my backpack on my shoulder and asked, “Who?” She looked at me incredulously and repeated, “ALLEN GINSBERG!!!” I looked at her blankly. She looked at me in disbelief. “Oh,” I chuckled, pretending I misunderstood her, “Oh ALLEN…yes, yes… When is he coming?”

While I was racking my brain trying to figure out “who the hell is Allen Ginsberg?

This was 1993 in Olomouc, Czech Republic. People barely had landline telephones and it was years before Google. It was not like I could just look up who this Ginsberg guy was.

I just thought he must be someone from our university who was coming over to give a talk. So I shrugged and didn’t think any more about it.

That is, until my roommate wanted to go for drinks Ondrej.

Ondrej wanted to go for drinks with her BUT he was going to listen to Allen Ginsberg speak and wanted to see first if he would go for drinks with HIM…. That is where I came in. I was to go to the lecture with Ondrej and I would be the one who would confirm if he would finally be meeting my roommate or not.

(What was life like without phones? Like this. One step up from Paul Revere. I was the human one by land, two by sea.)

I was surprised by the crowd in the lecture hall. We barely got seats and we were behind the TV cameras from the Prague television station. “Wait, who is this guy again?” I mumbled out of the corner of my mouth to Ondrej. He barely glanced at me because he had his joyful face turned to the stage. “A poet. One of the best, from the Beat Generation.”

Oh, another artifact from the 60’s. The Czechs had lived closed up behind the iron curtain for decades but they had had a slim peep at what was happening in the rest of the world during the Prague Spring in 1968. Anything that was able to seep through from the West during that time, be it movies, books or ideas, were clung to until the Wall came down.

When the movie “Easy Rider” came to town for the first time since the revolution, it played to a sold out audience. For two weeks. Straight. The night I went, I remember the Czechs around me were enthralled. I remember looking bewildered. Why are they getting so excited over a hippie movie?

For them, the hippies represented what they thought freedom must have been like for us on the other side of the Wall. That we all drove around on our choppers saying, “easy rider, man.” They didn’t realize along with Wall Street and corporate America, the yuppies had pushed the hippies out of the way years ago.

Growing up in Ohio in the 80’s, the Beats were not on my reading lists either in high school or in college. Sure, a friend had loaned me “On The Road” and I remember one kid, who I took to being a poser, reading “Naked Lunch” while lounging, limbs askew, over a dorm chair. That was pretty much it.

I had been living in the Czech Republic for about 4 months and I had seen a fair share of Western carpetbaggers trying to take advantage of the Czechs. Several religious groups had moved in as well as some unscrupulous capitalists with shaky business deals. I became quite protective of my new friends and got defensive when I thought someone was trying to take advantage of, in my opinion, their naivety…

So that take us back to our lecture at hand. The entire audience was on the edge of their seats. Whereas I was sitting back, with my arms crossed. A door opened and out walk this man called Allen Ginsberg. The audience gasped and broke out in applause. I was still sitting there, skeptical. He looked like an aging hippie in a suit with a wild grey beard.

He started the lecture off by asking everyone to take a few minutes to mediate. “Oh good lord,” I thought to myself as everyone settled in, closing their eyes. He then continued on to talk about spontaneous writing and poetry.

At the end of the lecture, the host announced that Mr Ginsberg was willing to meet with some students afterwards, if anyone was interested.

Ondrej grabbed my hand and I followed about 15 Czech students to an office that was set up with chairs facing a desk. They nervously took their seats, I just sat there, unimpressed. I looked around the room and saw a framed picture on the wall. I was taken aback that it was a black and white picture of a American theater marquee with “Allen Ginsberg” written is bold letters.

Saaaay. Who was this guy and why had I never heard of him?

That is when Ginsberg walked in the room. The students sat up a bit taller as he took a seat behind the desk. He started fielding questions from the students. I remember one boy saying that he had a hard time coming up with topics to write about. Ginsberg started to make up a poem on the spot to show that a poem can be about anything.



“I was walking down the hallway and didn’t know if I wanted to take a piss or take a crap.”

Oh brother.

Everyone was listening with rap attention. I just rolled my eyes. He started asking questions directly to the students and after awhile he surprised me when he looked me right in the eye and asked,

“what are you thinking?”

Chairs squeaked as everyone turned to look at me. I then in turn squeaked, when I spontaneous said “I’m amused?” (25 years on and I still cringe that I actually said that.)

Another student later on shared his frustration that no matter how hard he tried, he always wrote about his ex-girlfriend. In all seriousness, Ginsberg replied,

“have you ever thought about trying LSD?”

I wanted to cry out no-no nononono…and cover their innocent ears! Here was a fellow American persuading them to take hallucinogenic drugs…this was so wrong! Who let this guy in here? I looked around the room and they were nodding and taking notes. I felt powerless to do anything to stop this.

About that time, Ginsberg started another impromptu poem. “…With her long black hair and her big blue eyes….” I don’t remember the rest. Because I realized that I was the only one in the room with long black hair and big blue eyes. He was making up a poem about me. And it creeped me out.

Yes, one of the most amazing poets of our lifetime made up an impromptu poem about me…. And. It. Creeped. Me. Out.

What did I do? I said goodbye to Ondrej….and left the room discreetly. I figured I would be drinking alone with my roommate that night.

Yes, with time, I learned who Allen Ginsberg was. His name has been jumping out at me in books and magazines for years. Each time, I smile and cringe simultaneously. Frequency illusion, perhaps, but it never fails to creep me out.

Corrupting the French, un par un

When my son was still small, he was easy to thrill. A Pokemon card here, a sticker there. When it came to celebrating his good grades in kindergarten, I pulled out all the stops and announced that we were… going to McDonald’s for a happy meal!!!

I told him this when I went to pick him up from his Nounous’ house. Oh, he was thrilled as only a 6 year old can be. Going to eat fast food was actually a treat for him.

Now at Nanous’ house, they live and breath organic. This was not a new fad, this is how they lived off of their land for generations.

They have chickens, a large vegetable patch, fruit trees, nut trees AND a small vineyard. If Nanous decided that they were having soft boiled eggs, she would send him out to the chicken coop with a little basket. Want fries for lunch? Well, go help Papi dig up some potatoes. In May, he would spend a better part of his afternoons sitting in a cherry tree eating until his belly ached.

And the meals? Always three courses, bien sûr! An entrée, the main course and a dessert. All made by Nanous and 80% coming from their garden.

So my offering him fast food might have been a cheap trick, but he was still too young to realize I was pulling a fast one.

As he was jumping around her kitchen all excited, I translated to Nanous what I had offered him and suggested that she join us. Oh, at first she all well raised French people do..but when I insisted…and my son did too, she took her dishtowel off her shoulder and put it on the back of a kitchen chair.

She went into the living room to tell Papi she would be back in a bit and there was ham and cornichons in the frigo if he got hungry.

We waited for her while she freshened up in the bathroom. I was surprised that she had slipped on a dress. But ok, whatever. When we arrived at McDonald’s, Nanous did not get out of the car right away. She just sat there and observed the people coming out. Humoring her, we did not rush her. She said after a few minutes, “oh, they are wearing shorts!” This puzzled me because Nanous was the least judgemental person I know.

Anyway, we got out of the car and stepped into a busy McDonald’s. The familiar sounds and smells hit me like Proust’s madeline … While my son went happily to get a ballon, Nanous stayed close to me.

I asked her what she wanted and she asked me the same question right back. I said I would get a chicken sandwich and fries, she said she would get the same. Once we settled in at a table and sorted out the food, I was surprised at how Nanous commented everything. ” Oh, not bad..” “say, that is good.”

Until the dread hit me. “Nanous,” I asked slowly,” have you ever been to McDonald’s?”

“Oh, no” she answered as she happily took another bite of her sandwich.

“Oh no? Ohhhhhhhh no!” I was in a panic. What have I done! Did I just corrupt Nanous? The blundering American who went to the farthest reaches of the French countryside to find the last French person who had never eaten at McDonald’s…and seduced her to go there on a ruse to celebrate my son? What have I done? What have I done!

Poor Papi, no more three course meals for him! Will he join the millions who eat their dinner out of a paper bag because who wants to go through the hassle of growing your own food and then actually cooking???

I’m happy to report that I did not culturally ruin Nanous, she still cooks for Papi, and they do not eat out of brown paper bags.

Liz and me

I nervously stood in the jetway, waiting for the plane from Nice to arrive. Six weeks on the job and the Cannes Film festival was in full swing. The VIP hostesses were in a frenzy looking after the hottest stars as they flew to and from the festival through Paris.

There were only so many VIP hostesses to go around so when the telex came in from our LAX offices concerning a “VIP PAP” with a “WHCR” a “PETC” and 9 handbags… somehow that telex was passed on to me. I don’t know the reasoning… I’m American, she’s American… In any case, that is how I came to look after the one and only, Elizabeth Taylor.

Once I got over my excited OMG, the WTF OMG took over. This was huge. Ok, basically I just had to get her from point A in Terminal B to point B in Terminal C. But add in that she was in a wheelchair, had a lap dog, AND had 9 carry-ons, plus security and stairs… I was beginning to understand why the VIP girls were suddenly too busy.

When I headed to the arrival gate, I reassured myself that I would not be alone. I could count on the wheelchair assistant. HE would know what to do. These guys knew the airport like the back of their hands.

The first thing the assistant waiting at the gate said to me was that this was his first week on the job.

Great. I had seniority.

As I saw the plane taxiing to the gate I thought, ok, she is flying under another name…she will be incognito…no one will recognize her. We will get through the airport…no problems. I had even prepared a sign with the other name on it just in case she would slip past me unseen.

Oh, naive little me.

When the door opened, I saw an apparition in white. White pants, white shirt, white scarf, white dog. Oh good lord, and those eyes. It was Liz in all her splendor. My knees started to shake but when my beaming colleagues aboard helped her off the plane, I naturally reached out to offered her my arm.

Once we got her settled in her chair with her dog on her lap, I realized we were not alone. There was an entourage of about 5 people behind us waiting, all carrying handbags. So leading the charge, off we went as a pack to their next flight.

Heads started to turn so, brilliantly, I swiftly thought to hold up my sign so when the crowd would start to murmur excitedly “Ohhhooow.” As in “Gee look!” “It’s Liz Taylor!” A disappointed voice would ring out “No, it’s not… that is not what is written on the sign..” my ruse was foolproof!

We had been walking silently for about 5 minutes when I thought Liz might like a bit of chitchat. Really. I thought this might brighten her day.

The only question I remember asking was about Truman Capote. He had written an essay about her and I asked something along the lines of if she thought he had exaggerated. She looked me straight in the eye and then looked away while saying in a deep voice, “all writers exaggerate.”

We made it to the next terminal without a hitch. I was almost starting to relax until we hit security. I escorted her and her dog through passport control and the metal detector, we got her up a short escalator and back in her wheelchair when I noticed that the entourage was beginning to be held up by the x-rays machines. I turned back to Liz who was now surrounded by a middle aged Indian couple who had handed their camera to the wheelchair assistant for a picture.

I must say Elizabeth Taylor was full of old Hollywood poise, she acted as if this pleased her so much, she smiled beautifully and was gracious to the couple.

I, on the other hand was not smiling. I was panicking. I was busy trying to figure out how I could get her safely to the VIP lounge to avoid half the flight to Bombay coming over with their cameras.

Have you ever seen “Who’s afraid of Virginia Woolf?” I have. And the idea that being surrounded by fans could awaken the Martha in her scared shit out of me.

But Liz had other worries on her mind.

I was surveying the scene in panic mode when I heard her famous voice behind me say, “could you come here please?” I turned and honest to God I thought she was talking to someone else. I looked behind me left. Then right. Two beats later I pointed to myself with a “who, me?” expression on my face.

That is when she started to gesture with her index finger “come here” very discreetly. Everytime she curled her finger, I inched closer. It was if she had me on a string and each gesture pulled me in, until I was standing right beside her. She continued luring me in until I was bent at the waist, my nose hovering above her breasts, so she could whisper in my ear “all my jewelry is in that bag” as she motioned towards the x-ray machine.

My eyes grew wide and I froze to the spot. Holy shit. She has one of the largest diamond collection in the world. In that bag. Being opened by the police. In front of everyone.

Since I was still bent over her lap, trying to process that information… I locked eyes with Sugar, her dog. Ever so helpful, Sugar leaned up and licked my nose.

I stood up suddenly and loudly gasped for air, not realizing that I had stopped breathing for a minute. The adrenaline started to kick in. “Right, I’ve got to hide Liz, get a fortune in diamonds through security…and my nose is wet….” What to do first? I went down to check on the bag and make sure it got through without being opened up in front of the crowd. Next I quickly got the entourage together to surround Liz.

At this point, a guardian angel showed up carrying a walkie talkie. To this day I don’t know who he was or who he was talking to but, bless him, he saved me. I asked if he could open a jetway for us. He did. I asked if he could order a special hydrologic bus that could reach the jetway to take us to the plane on the hardstand, he did. I rushed to our agents who check passports to beg them to break all protocol and check passports for me on a different jetway. Once I whispered her name, the agent followed me while straighting his tie.

And lastly. When Liz said, “oh Sugar” “Sugar will have to wait till he gets to Los Angeles” everyone turned to look at me, I turned and pleaded with my eyes to the angel, he sighed and kieek! He mumbled something into his walkie talkies, pushed a keyboard and opened the door leading down to the tarmac. (This was all pre 9/11)

One member of the entourage whipped out a bejeweled leash and carried Sugar down the stairs. And there we stood. Watching Sugar lift his leg and pee in the shadow of a 747.

When they came back up, I ushered everyone into the vehicle to wait until we would be taken to the aircraft. Everyone started to relax and the group started chatting. The leash master said at one point to Liz, “oh, that lipstick looks so good on you!!!” Everyone in the entourage grew silent and turned into bubble heads, bobbing and repeating ….good….so I started to bob my head and murmured “good” too. Later they asked me if Paris was polluted and we spoke about polluted cities in general, that voice said just one word… “Bangkok!” We all started bobbing our heads in unison…. Bangkok….

We finally made our way to the plane and before I introduced her to the crew, she turned to one of the entourage women and said, “but we never met ____, and she said my name. “That’s me! I’m _____!” Pointing to myself like an idiot. She boarded the plane, turned, looked at me with those fabulous eyes and said, “Thank you, ____.”

I looked after many a star since but there was something special about that lady. Just a true class act.

And I am sure she enjoyed the chitchat.

French Fashion Boot Camp

She stood in front of us, scanning the room…and she didn’t seem to like what she saw. We were 15 new recruits to France’s largest airline. An airline that brands itself on the best France had to offer: style, class, sophistication. And it was her job to whip us into shape.

We were issued our uniforms created by a top French designer during our first week of training. So there we sat, as stiff as our new white satin collars,

bracing ourselves to be broken down by this Parisienne in her Channel suit.

She set her designer leather handbag down, took off her silk scarf and tied it to the handles, crossed her arms and sighed.

She started in first on the uniform itself. Or actually, on the colleague who had not pressed his shirt that morning. She ridiculed him in such a way that in the 4 years I wore that navy blue dress, I religiously ironed it the night before being on duty.

She then looked out of the corner of her eye and mention that slips were “Provençale” … Loose translation… Only unsophisticated peasants from the countryside wear slips under their skirts… As discreetly as I could I tried to hitch up mine from JCPenney’s that was visibly showing.

Next: shoes. For the women, we all wore a heel. Our shoes had to be shined, I got in the habit of shining them nightly. We were told not to drive in our work heels, but to have another pair ready to slip on and off when we drove.

Hair. Rule number one: if it was long enough to touch your collar, it had to be worn up. My hair at the time reached my waist so I learned very quickly how do a chignon that would pass inspection AND that could be done with eyes half closed before the 5AM shift at the Charles de Gaulle airport in the outskirts of Paris.

Nails: short and trim. Flashy and long were frowned upon. Clear or nude colors were best.

Jewelry. Small and discreet were de rigueur..

Make up. To ensure that we all knew how to do our makeup, we were whisked out one by one to have an individual makeover from Lancôme, the goal was not to sell us products but to individually teach us what was the most flattering for us AND was in line with the company policy.

….smoky eyes were not an option.

The things you learn in boot camp can influence your behavior for a lifetime. To this day, I still prepare my clothes the night before and can do my makeup and hair in under 7 minutes. When you have been trained to start work at 5am and have been expected to look chic without one hair out of place…you learn to get ready…fast.

20 years on and working a corporate job in a different company, I once had a non French manager remark to another that every morning I was made up. I smiled a secret smile. Like a former soldier who still wears his hair short and presses his trousers, French women, especially former hostesses, usually have the “look.” The hair is done, the makeup is just so and there is just a je ne sais quoi of … style, class and sophistication.

Adding insult to injury

In addition to buying a trombone, another recent purchase was a pair of Nordic walking sticks. There seems to be an endless stream of purchases that can embarrass your teenager if you are so inclined.

For those who don’t know Nordic walking, from a distance, it looks like a tired cross country skier walking through a field without skis, dragging his poles behind him.

But since I tend to go walking as soon as I wake up, my teenager rarely sees me in my full Nordic walking regalia much less dragging my poles around our public park. My regalia includes old yoga pants and a corporate sweatshirt I got on a retreat, black coat and a fleece hat.

I just have to slip my orthopedic insoles into my Clark’s and strap on my poles and I am ready to go!

In my younger days, that little voice inside my head worried constantly about what other people might think. I would have never, ever been caught out in public in such a mismatched array.

But since hitting middle age, that little voice now sounds more like a heavy smoking truck driver punctuating my thoughts constantly with an “aw, fuck it.”

Luckily, since on weekdays I wake up between 5:30 and 6:00 to go walking the only people who actually see me are usually hanging off of a garbage truck.

Today was a different story. It was a long and taxing week at work and I forced myself to stay in bed after waking with a start at 6:00 am on a Saturday. I got out of bed about 10am and I ignored the urge to just sit on the couch and watch Netflix, I forced myself to get dressed and walked out the door.

Nodding to my neighbors who are used to seeing me in full makeup and high heels, I stroll on by at a healthy clip, sucking in my gut. Coming around a corner at the entrance of the park, what did I see? About 25 middle age women in sweatpants and knit caps… Strapping poles!!!

I had found my people.

They were taking a break and I didn’t think twice about approach them. Turns out they are a local Nordic walking club AND they had a trainer with them. One lady pulled out her phone and took my email address so she could send me the details. They walk together every Saturday morning. As I continued on my way, I could hear them say that they would see me next week. Either they are very friendly or they are a new cult that recruits new members via Nordic walking….

When I got home, my teenager was up…and already playing on his PS4. Since he is playing online, my motherly questions.. what time did you get up? Did you eat? How do you feel?… All come in a stage whisper. He usually just nods or emits a grunt. After I gently kissed his forehead, he actually smiled up at me, muted his mic and asked while pulling the headset off of one ear “How was your walk?” I smiled back. “Really good, … I really think I found my people.”

Practice Makes Perfect

Basements in Ohio do not have good reputations. News of discovered torture chambers across the State have been making headlines for decades.

It seems only appropriate that my parents had installed our music room in the basement.

Go practice” is forever associated with my apprehension of descending to that dark room that held my mother’s sewing machine and our standup piano.

A timer would sit by my side and tick nervously for 20 minutes like a doomsday clock while I gazed gloomily at my sheet music.

I hated to practice the trombone. Or the piano. Or any other torture instrument that was assigned to me that day.

“Someday you will thank me…” would be the words my mother would say to my back as I slinked up from the basement to go sigh dramatically in my bedroom.

Now 30 years on, I, on a Sunday afternoon, am voluntarily getting out my trombone to practice.

My inner teenager is grumbling but I know it is good for me. Like eating broccoli.

My son decided this would be a good time to escape to his room. On a positive note, my practicing in the living room seems to be the only way I can get him off of the PS4.

So. Music stand and sheet music in place… Right, now all I have to do is play. But play what?

I can’t seem to decipher any of the notes.

Since this was 2018 and not 1980, I could now cheat by searching online for an app that could help. In two minutes, I had downloaded an app called “i see notes”, took a photo of the sheet music and I had my phone play my music for me. In a very tinny way, but at least it got me started.

I’m embarrassed to say that I wrote “1” “3” and “5” above the notes… Showing me the positions on the slide. Hey, the next band practice was in 4 days and I was determined to play at least a couple bars in tune.

And so I practiced. Over and over. Until I saw a hand holding a camera around the corner. Great. I’m probably now on YouTube under “get a load of MY mom.”

I sent him up to read a book that wasn’t assigned and continued to play, loudly. Don’t mess with people from Ohio, we know how to torture.