Here's a snapshot:
Me, skipping out of the toy store carrying my best boy.
My best boy carrying a new green Thomas the Train named Alfie.
A teenage clerk trying to keep our pace, carrying a shiny new tricycle.
We pass by school children in uniforms and it hits me that in a few years, he will be THAT age. No longer THIS age, where he's debating which he will drive first: the train or the trike.
"Happy birthday, buddy boy."
"How 'bout da' scooter too?" he asks. "Scooter" could have been "backhoe," "gondola," "bulldozer" or a dozen others. He is a transportation savant and often has dreams about driving the ice cream truck.
"Maybe when you're bigger, okay? Today, we're going to ride your new tricycle!"
"Good idea, Mommy!"
Enjoy the ride, baby boy . . .
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Rock Out Wit' Cha Crock Out
Some (or rather, none) of you have asked how my culinary skills have progressed recently. It's now been approximately 19 months since I've been on eternity leave and in that time, you'd think I would have mastered something other than how to defend against a toddler's headbutt or conquer a Mount Everest-sized pile of clothes in need of laundering. You'd think I'd be a natural in the kitchen.
And you'd be dead wrong.
I STILL cook unidentifiable objects and pass them off as chicken breasts.
I STILL substitute when I don't have the correct ingredients at my disposable. "Can I use Swiss Miss cocoa mix when a recipe calls for cocoa?"
I STILL use my husband's simple phrase, "It's not . . . terrible," as my barometer of a meal well cooked.
But, recently all that has changed.
I had the brilliant idea that a crock pot would change my life. The commercials on TV said so. And I totally bought in. I decided to purchase one for the annual Biscardi Christmas polyanna. I figured since I thought it was a great gift, someone else would too.
Only once the polyanna began, I had second thoughts. As I watched one of my brothers-in-law open a box revealing a large plastic "PIMP" cup, I realized I needed to take matters into my own hands. The chance of me randomly picking a gift better than that shiny new crock pot was slim to none. So, I opened my own gift and feigned excitement.
"Hey, I just saw you wrapping that gift 10 minutes ago!" one of my brothers-in-law outed me. I didn't care.
The Biscardis, they know how to cook. They didn't need this bulky appliance cluttering up their kitchens. I was confident that if Obama himself came knocking on their doors, they could wip up a meal fit for a president in seconds. I, on the other hand, could possibly host Bo Obama, the family dog.
Needless to say, I was the grinch who stole my own Christmas polyanna.
Now it was time to get crockin'.
Here is the thing about a crock pot. You just SHOVE anything and everything into the pot and let it cook. Oh, wait a minute! That's what I've been doing for years! This was the perfect appliance for me.
The beauty of the crock is that your meal comes out perfect no matter what you do! (assuming you've put in ingredients that mix well together and/or followed a recipe).
Clearly, I need a recipe and the internet is chock full of crock pot recipes. I am fairly skilled at penning a shopping list, driving to the market, and racing through the store and check-out 20 seconds before a toddler meltdown.
My trouble with the crock pot is that I still need to handle raw poultry and meat. In years past, I donned surgical latex gloves when picking up raw brisket or ground beef. My crock pot has somehow given me the confidence to go bare-handed, but it still makes me want to barf.
Yesterday, as I was cutting chicken, I realized that I say, "Ew, yesh, ew," throughout the entire process. And, it's a real process because I like to cut off anything that looks remotely suspicious on the bird. So, if a recipe calls for 2 lbs of chicken, I need to buy about 4 lbs because the rest of it I want to chop off, shove down my garbage disposal and never think of again.
Once the chicken was cut yesterday, I was golden. I added chopped onion, chopped celery, cream of chicken soup, gravy, seasoning and I was ready to crock and roll. I put my crock pot on "low" and let it cook for 5 hours. After that, I added some carrots, baked some biscuits, and I had a Betty Crockeresque meal ready for my husband and son.
It was perfection.
Nobody was poisoned.
Nobody was making a bowl of cereal as a "2nd dinner."
Nobody was saying, "It's not . . . terrible."
It was delicious.
And, I'm declaring it right now, on this 9th day of February, in the year 2011: I can officially cook.
Thank you, glorious crock pot.
YOU COMPLETE ME.
Monday, January 31, 2011
A Bris and a Funeral
Within the past week, I've received the best and worst kinds of news.
A friend's baby was born.
And a cousin died.
In the past four days, I've attended a bris and a funeral.
A bris, welcoming a new baby into the world. A funeral, saying goodbye to a man whose life was cut way too short.
We looked at the perfect newborn, with spiky red hair, and rosy cheeks, bundled up in a white blanket and we blessed him and thought of everything that awaits him in his lifetime.
And, we looked at the casket, and listened to the words of his 6 children (most of them teens), now without their father. We thought of everything that he had done, all of the lives he had created, shaped and touched in his short lifetime.
The moyel at the bris talked of future milestones that this beautiful baby boy would experience.
And the rabbi at the funeral talked about all of the milestones this middle aged man had experienced.
The proud parents stood side by side, wiping tears from their eyes. They said the baby was named after a dearly departed family member.
The grieving children talked about how their dad made time to take each one of them on their own vacation with him every year. They read letters and emails he had written them, telling them how proud he was of them. He had written to one son on his 21st birthday, "You're good at basketball, but you're sick (great) at life! That's the most important thing, to be sick at life!"
The bris ended with great relief and joy; the funeral, with great despair and sadness.
Next week, there will be another bris, a new baby born, and another funeral, a life extinguished. It goes on and on and on and on.
One big circle.
So, knowing that we're on this brief journey, what are we to do?
In the words of my dear cousin:
"Be sick at life."
A friend's baby was born.
And a cousin died.
In the past four days, I've attended a bris and a funeral.
A bris, welcoming a new baby into the world. A funeral, saying goodbye to a man whose life was cut way too short.
We looked at the perfect newborn, with spiky red hair, and rosy cheeks, bundled up in a white blanket and we blessed him and thought of everything that awaits him in his lifetime.
And, we looked at the casket, and listened to the words of his 6 children (most of them teens), now without their father. We thought of everything that he had done, all of the lives he had created, shaped and touched in his short lifetime.
The moyel at the bris talked of future milestones that this beautiful baby boy would experience.
And the rabbi at the funeral talked about all of the milestones this middle aged man had experienced.
The proud parents stood side by side, wiping tears from their eyes. They said the baby was named after a dearly departed family member.
The grieving children talked about how their dad made time to take each one of them on their own vacation with him every year. They read letters and emails he had written them, telling them how proud he was of them. He had written to one son on his 21st birthday, "You're good at basketball, but you're sick (great) at life! That's the most important thing, to be sick at life!"
The bris ended with great relief and joy; the funeral, with great despair and sadness.
Next week, there will be another bris, a new baby born, and another funeral, a life extinguished. It goes on and on and on and on.
One big circle.
So, knowing that we're on this brief journey, what are we to do?
In the words of my dear cousin:
"Be sick at life."
Monday, January 17, 2011
And In This Corner . . .
The lights are dim, the TV bright. "Ni Hao, Kai-lan" is on and Kai-lan is teaching my little boy how to say "thank you" in Mandarin.
He's sucking his thumb, but I can see from his eyes that he's smiling at her too. He's debating whether or not he wants to take his thumb out to practice his Mandarin. He opts against it and flips his stuffed monkey around by his raggedy right ear, flicking his finger back and forth.
I close my eyes
and
all of a sudden
something
someone
slams into my head
with HIS head.
On purpose.
I want to say "No, No! No, thank you" in Mandarin, but it's too late.
It's a WWF tournament.
In my bed.
"No headbutts!" I yell, (in English), laughing. "Headbutts!" he repeats, smiling his trademark devilish grin.
"You're troubl-icious!" I tell him. "That's it! I'm changing your middle name."
He jumps on top of me and hovers over me, menacingly. "Ai-plane ride!" he screams.
"No, ai-plane rides, Coo-Coo," I say. I toss him on his back onto the bed.
His hair is mashed on one side like a deranged Justin Bieber and he's right back up, smacking me in the face with his baby paws.
"Hey!" He giggles uncontrollably. "Heeyyyyy!" he mocks me. I flip him on his back and flips over in 2.1 seconds. He attempts a second headbutt.
"No headbutting!"
I level him again and he starts coughing/laughing.
I grab his sippy cup from my bedside table.
"Okay, calm down. Take a sip," I tell him, holding it up to his mouth.
Great, I think. What kind of idiot stops the match to hydrate their opponent?
It's like I'm Apollo and Mick at the same time.
He's hydrated. He's back. He's like El Nino ripping through my bedroom.
He bounces up and down on the bed.
"Sit dowwwwwwwwwwn!" I yell, but it's too late. He flies off my bed and lands on the back of his head. On the floor.
I scramble and pick him up. He's crying and I'm almost in tears.
Great, I think. What kind of idiot cries when his opponent gets knocked out of the ring?
We wipe away his tears together and get cozy back in bed. "Come on, let's watch Kailan," I say. He's clutching his monkey in one hand, he's got the thumb in his mouth, his feet covered with a blankie. He's curled up in my arms and all is right in the world.
Without warning, his head moves towards me like a boulder flying 60 mph.
Great, I think. What kind of idiot would continually risk life and limb by sitting this close to a wild, unpredictable, bull?
A mom.
Fearless.
Fabulous.
Champion of the world.
He's sucking his thumb, but I can see from his eyes that he's smiling at her too. He's debating whether or not he wants to take his thumb out to practice his Mandarin. He opts against it and flips his stuffed monkey around by his raggedy right ear, flicking his finger back and forth.
I close my eyes
and
all of a sudden
something
someone
slams into my head
with HIS head.
On purpose.
I want to say "No, No! No, thank you" in Mandarin, but it's too late.
It's a WWF tournament.
In my bed.
"No headbutts!" I yell, (in English), laughing. "Headbutts!" he repeats, smiling his trademark devilish grin.
"You're troubl-icious!" I tell him. "That's it! I'm changing your middle name."
He jumps on top of me and hovers over me, menacingly. "Ai-plane ride!" he screams.
"No, ai-plane rides, Coo-Coo," I say. I toss him on his back onto the bed.
His hair is mashed on one side like a deranged Justin Bieber and he's right back up, smacking me in the face with his baby paws.
"Hey!" He giggles uncontrollably. "Heeyyyyy!" he mocks me. I flip him on his back and flips over in 2.1 seconds. He attempts a second headbutt.
"No headbutting!"
I level him again and he starts coughing/laughing.
I grab his sippy cup from my bedside table.
"Okay, calm down. Take a sip," I tell him, holding it up to his mouth.
Great, I think. What kind of idiot stops the match to hydrate their opponent?
It's like I'm Apollo and Mick at the same time.
He's hydrated. He's back. He's like El Nino ripping through my bedroom.
He bounces up and down on the bed.
"Sit dowwwwwwwwwwn!" I yell, but it's too late. He flies off my bed and lands on the back of his head. On the floor.
I scramble and pick him up. He's crying and I'm almost in tears.
Great, I think. What kind of idiot cries when his opponent gets knocked out of the ring?
We wipe away his tears together and get cozy back in bed. "Come on, let's watch Kailan," I say. He's clutching his monkey in one hand, he's got the thumb in his mouth, his feet covered with a blankie. He's curled up in my arms and all is right in the world.
Without warning, his head moves towards me like a boulder flying 60 mph.
Great, I think. What kind of idiot would continually risk life and limb by sitting this close to a wild, unpredictable, bull?
A mom.
Fearless.
Fabulous.
Champion of the world.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Throwing Stones
The tragedy in Arizona has rocked the nation this week and now it seems as though everyone is throwing stones, trying to make sense of what is clearly senseless violence.
In the days after the massacre at Columbine, I wrote down my thoughts which are very similar to my thoughts today.
What Remains
Two boys enter, eyes wide
will their plan go off?
a hail of bullets
snap bang pop
are they fireworks?
screaming madness
chaotic masses of teenagers scramble
duck
hide like soldiers
hunted like animals
boo, laughs the gunman, as a bullet splatters a brain
cuts short the life of a star athlete
a popular student,
a boy
a friend
somebody’s son
hooting and hollering
who’s the next target?
who believes in god?
who’s to be spared?
can they get them all?
thousands of lives shattered in agonizing moments
frantic voices whisper desperate pleas
last loving words into cell phones
images flashed over airwaves
millions hear dark voices
"I hear the gunmen,
help us please! i’m calling from under my desk"
a teacher lies bleeding
"hang on hang on," his students cry
a final look at his children and he
lets go
camera crews in the midst of chaos
is this a primetime movie?
no, it’s breaking news, breaking news: "Bullets ring out at another American school"
call in the analysts, the shrinks, the gun owners, the priests, where are the goddamn parents?
a boy shot in the head hurls himself out a second floor window
a girl screams out the pain of the nation
"he put a gun to my head"
are they animals?
villains?
Satan worshipers?
neo-Nazis?
or mentally ill boys?
somebody’s child becomes a murderer
others are left like rag dolls in twisted horror
tears, questions, and no answers
lost dreams
children who never grow out of their teens
pointing fingers
parents cry out why? how could this happen here?
who’s responsible?
the day after, a child goes off to school
"am i safe, mom?" he asks
thousands of moms lie
secretly cry
pray
hope
for a better day.
4-24-99
And one more thought on the political circus that has overshadowed the terrible events in Arizona. This one, from the Grateful Dead:
"Throwing Stones"
An installment in The Annotated Grateful Dead Lyrics.
Picture a bright blue ball, just spinning, spinnin free,
Dizzy with eternity.
Paint it with a skin of sky,
Brush in some clouds and sea,
Call it home for you and me.
A peaceful place or so it looks from space,
A closer look reveals the human race.
Full of hope, full of grace
Is the human face,
But afraid we may lay our home to waste.
There's a fear down here we can't forget.
Hasn't got a name just yet.
Always awake, always around,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Now watch as the ball revolves
And the nighttime falls.
Again the hunt begins,
Again the bloodwind calls.
By and by, the morning sun will rise,
But the darkness never goes
From some men's eyes.
It strolls the sidewalks and it rolls the streets,
Staking turf, dividing up meat.
Nightmare spook, piece of heat,
It's you and me.
You and me.
Click flash blade in ghetto night,
Rudies looking for a fight.
Rat cat alley, roll them bones.
Need that cash to feed that jones.
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
[Bridge:]
Commissars and pin-stripe bosses
Roll the dice.
Any way they fall,
Guess who gets to pay the price.
Money green or proletarian gray,
Selling guns 'stead of food today.
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Heartless powers try to tell us
What to think.
If the spirit's sleeping,
Then the flesh is ink
History's page will thus be carved in stone.
And we are here, and we are on our own
On our own.
On our own.
On our own.
[Instrumental]
If the game is lost,
Then we're all the same.
No one left to place or take the blame.
We can leave this place and empty stone
Or that shinin' ball we used to call our home.
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And the politicians throwin' stones,
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
[Bridge two:] Shipping powders back and forth
Singing black goes south and white comes north.
In a whole world full of petty wars
Singing I got mine and you got yours.
And the current fashion sets the pace,
Lose your step, fall out of grace.
And the radical, he rant and rage,
Singing someone's got to turn the page.
And the rich man in his summer home,
Singing just leave well enough alone.
But his pants are down, his cover's blown...
And the politicians throwin' stones,
So the kids they dance
And shake their bones,
And it's all too clear we're on our own.
Singing ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Picture a bright blue ball,
Just spinnin', spinnin, free.
Dizzy with the possibilities.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Ashes, ashes, all fall down.
Friday, December 31, 2010
New Year's at Nanny's
It was a long way down and I was not afraid of falling.
I’ll tell you the truth. I contemplated jumping.
Warm sticky air blew my dark mane around in a swirl. I stood, barefoot, on the concrete, sporting black shorts, a red rhine-stoned t-shirt, and a devilish grin. I leaned far over the balcony railing, staring straight down a dozen stories. I gave it a good, long thought.
I glanced over at my sister. Her feathered dirty blond hair whipped around in the wind. Her sparkling blue eyes speckled with golden dots said what they always said. “Ga head, do it, I dare you.” She was my muse, and I, her monkey.
“Stacy, do it, do it!”
“Don’t you dare!” Nanny hollered through the sliding glass door. Our great-grandmother marched across the living room towards us in her white open-toed sandals, exposing her sheer stockings and two month old chipped pink pedicure. Her baby blue polyester pants hugged her thighs as she swished in our direction. Dozens of elephant figurines watched from their perch on the mantel. (They faced the front door for “good luck,” according to Nanny, a superstition savant).
“Do it, do it!” my sister encouraged.
I released a couple of colored paper streamers from my clenched fist and watched as they floated down, down, dowwwwwwwn. We squealed, “Whooooooooooa!”
Nanny’s Aqua-netted blond hair would have stood on end if it could have moved a millimeter.
“Stacy, that’s against the law!” she shrieked.
“No, it’s not,” my sister whispered to me, concealing her grin.
“You girls get in here right now!” Nanny tapped her long acrylic crimson nails on the glass.
Alissa handed me a noisemaker to see what I would do next. I wound up and released it off the balcony as if I was throwing out the first pitch at the Phillies’ home-opener.
“That’s it, I’m calling the police!” Nanny shouted from the other side of the door. She was too afraid to come out on the balcony. Always was.
“The police? Nanny, it’s New Year’s Eve!” my sister attempted. “They’re only streamers!” Streamers that Nanny had bought for us, assuming we’d have a tame celebration inside her modest one bedroom apartment, with Al Jolson singing, “You Made Me Love You,” softly on the record player.
“I don’t care. I’m calling the police! And you know what they’re going to do?"
Nanny’s made up face flashed scarlet and contorted into that of an angry clown. She shook a crooked finger at us through the smudged glass and hollered, “They’re going to come arrest you!”
I was six years old and my sister was nine.
“They don’t arrest kids,” my sister reassured me, with her signature eye roll.
Nanny stomped into the kitchen and lifted the yellow phone receiver, smudged like a spin-art painting, with coral lipstick and beige foundation. She pretended to dial, watching us, watching her.
She couldn’t fool us. She slammed the phone down, abruptly.
“Come back in here right now, we’ll play “Miss America,”” Nanny begged.
“Miss America” was a game we played every time we visited Nanny and Pop-pop, in their high-rise Hallandale, Florida, apartment. "Miss America" consisted of us dressing up in Nanny’s blond bob wigs, gawdy costume jewelry, and false eyelashes. We caked on her outdated smelly lipstick and clunked around in size 8 platforms from the ‘60s. Nanny loved to pick up a hairbrush (her microphone) and introduce us, even if it was only to the elephants and Pop-pop, who acted as the judges.
“And now I would like to introduce to you contestant number 4. This blond bombshell hails from Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and enjoys tennis and rollerskating. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome, Alissa . . .”
“We don’t want to play “Miss America!” I yelled back, shaking my head at her through the glass. My long hair swirled up in the night air wildly.
Nanny would not give up. “I know, we’ll watch Marcus Welby.” Alissa imitated barfing off the balcony as Nanny paced back and forth on the linoleum kitchen floor.
My sister glanced down at the two fistfuls of silver and black streamers that she clutched in her hands. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Nanny! This is what people do!”
“Girls, I’ll make you some ice cream!” Nanny was desperate. “I have delicious vanilla ice cream in the ice box. I’ll make you a bowl.” Ice cream was Nanny’s best dish by a mile.
“Okay, Nanny, we’re coming in!”
“Good!”
I let both fists of streamers go, much to my sister’s delight.
“Girls!” Nanny yelled in a panic. Alissa launched her streamers into the humid air.
“Don’t!”
I felt a rush through my toes on the concrete. It sizzled up my legs to my outstretched arms, right off the balcony, and through the humid wind, over the palm trees toward the ocean in the distance and across the universe.
"HAPPY,
HAPPY,
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPY,
NEW YEAR!"
I’ll tell you the truth. I contemplated jumping.
Warm sticky air blew my dark mane around in a swirl. I stood, barefoot, on the concrete, sporting black shorts, a red rhine-stoned t-shirt, and a devilish grin. I leaned far over the balcony railing, staring straight down a dozen stories. I gave it a good, long thought.
I glanced over at my sister. Her feathered dirty blond hair whipped around in the wind. Her sparkling blue eyes speckled with golden dots said what they always said. “Ga head, do it, I dare you.” She was my muse, and I, her monkey.
“Stacy, do it, do it!”
“Don’t you dare!” Nanny hollered through the sliding glass door. Our great-grandmother marched across the living room towards us in her white open-toed sandals, exposing her sheer stockings and two month old chipped pink pedicure. Her baby blue polyester pants hugged her thighs as she swished in our direction. Dozens of elephant figurines watched from their perch on the mantel. (They faced the front door for “good luck,” according to Nanny, a superstition savant).
“Do it, do it!” my sister encouraged.
I released a couple of colored paper streamers from my clenched fist and watched as they floated down, down, dowwwwwwwn. We squealed, “Whooooooooooa!”
Nanny’s Aqua-netted blond hair would have stood on end if it could have moved a millimeter.
“Stacy, that’s against the law!” she shrieked.
“No, it’s not,” my sister whispered to me, concealing her grin.
“You girls get in here right now!” Nanny tapped her long acrylic crimson nails on the glass.
Alissa handed me a noisemaker to see what I would do next. I wound up and released it off the balcony as if I was throwing out the first pitch at the Phillies’ home-opener.
“That’s it, I’m calling the police!” Nanny shouted from the other side of the door. She was too afraid to come out on the balcony. Always was.
“The police? Nanny, it’s New Year’s Eve!” my sister attempted. “They’re only streamers!” Streamers that Nanny had bought for us, assuming we’d have a tame celebration inside her modest one bedroom apartment, with Al Jolson singing, “You Made Me Love You,” softly on the record player.
“I don’t care. I’m calling the police! And you know what they’re going to do?"
Nanny’s made up face flashed scarlet and contorted into that of an angry clown. She shook a crooked finger at us through the smudged glass and hollered, “They’re going to come arrest you!”
I was six years old and my sister was nine.
“They don’t arrest kids,” my sister reassured me, with her signature eye roll.
Nanny stomped into the kitchen and lifted the yellow phone receiver, smudged like a spin-art painting, with coral lipstick and beige foundation. She pretended to dial, watching us, watching her.
She couldn’t fool us. She slammed the phone down, abruptly.
“Come back in here right now, we’ll play “Miss America,”” Nanny begged.
“Miss America” was a game we played every time we visited Nanny and Pop-pop, in their high-rise Hallandale, Florida, apartment. "Miss America" consisted of us dressing up in Nanny’s blond bob wigs, gawdy costume jewelry, and false eyelashes. We caked on her outdated smelly lipstick and clunked around in size 8 platforms from the ‘60s. Nanny loved to pick up a hairbrush (her microphone) and introduce us, even if it was only to the elephants and Pop-pop, who acted as the judges.
“And now I would like to introduce to you contestant number 4. This blond bombshell hails from Bryn Mawr, Pennsylvania, and enjoys tennis and rollerskating. Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome, Alissa . . .”
“We don’t want to play “Miss America!” I yelled back, shaking my head at her through the glass. My long hair swirled up in the night air wildly.
Nanny would not give up. “I know, we’ll watch Marcus Welby.” Alissa imitated barfing off the balcony as Nanny paced back and forth on the linoleum kitchen floor.
My sister glanced down at the two fistfuls of silver and black streamers that she clutched in her hands. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Nanny! This is what people do!”
“Girls, I’ll make you some ice cream!” Nanny was desperate. “I have delicious vanilla ice cream in the ice box. I’ll make you a bowl.” Ice cream was Nanny’s best dish by a mile.
“Okay, Nanny, we’re coming in!”
“Good!”
I let both fists of streamers go, much to my sister’s delight.
“Girls!” Nanny yelled in a panic. Alissa launched her streamers into the humid air.
“Don’t!”
I felt a rush through my toes on the concrete. It sizzled up my legs to my outstretched arms, right off the balcony, and through the humid wind, over the palm trees toward the ocean in the distance and across the universe.
"HAPPY,
HAPPY,
HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPY,
NEW YEAR!"
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Princess For a Night
I had always wanted to see Prince live in concert.
I had been a fan ever since my mom, exercising questionable judgment, took me to see Purple Rain, the soft-porn film, at the theater, in 1985 at the ripe old age of 10.
I loved Prince then, when he was a just a troubled son, a misunderstood musical genius and a loner, who charmed women into dropping their clothes with a simple devilish grin. I loved his poofy sprayed hair, his dark eyeliner, how he rocked out on guitar with every ounce of his soul.
And I loved Prince even through his "awkward stage" when he wanted to be known simply as a symbol.
Twenty years on, it seemed impossible that I had never seen Prince play live. I could not wait to get my hands on some Prince tickets. And, I didn't just want to attend the concert. I wanted to sit on the floor, preferably somewhere in the first 10 rows.
And, truthfully, I wanted to be called on stage to dance with Prince. I expected to be.
Was this a far-fetched fantasy? I honestly did not think so.
Did I know for sure that Prince would even call members of the audience up to dance with him? I was just hoping. I had seen Bobby Brown and countless other singers do it, so I thought it was a possibility.
I phoned my friend, Emily, to tell her that I had secured 15th row tickets for us to see Prince at the Wachovia Center in Philly, and I added: "You know we're gonna get called on stage to dance with him."
"Oh, we're TOTALLY getting on stage," she replied, genuinely believing in my dream too.
"Let's dress like Apollonia," I suggested. "Do you have any leather one pieces you could bust out?"
"Hm, let me think about it," Em laughed. "Or we could always wear raspberry berets?" she offered.
For weeks our conversations carried on like this. What could we wear/do/say to secure a spot on stage with Prince?
I bragged to my sister, too, about my impending big night with Prince. "Yeah, right," she snorted over the phone. "You'll see," I promised. "I'm getting called up there."
"Well, I'll be in the 5th row, so I won't miss you," she joked.
As the big night approached, I called Emily one last time.
"I'm just wearing jeans," she said, sighing, somewhat defeated.
"Jeans?! What about the leather, the beret? We need to stand out so Prince can spot us!"
"I don't know, I'm wearing jeans," she said. "Why, what are you wearing?"
"Black pants and a shimmery white tank top. I did some online reconnaissance and I saw some pix of Prince from a show in New York last night. He's dressed all in white. So, of course, I want to match him," I said half kidding.
I skipped through my high-rise building's lobby and waved to my favorite doorman: "Hi, Rafiq!"
"Hey princess, lookin' niceeee," he smiled.
"I'm heading to the Prince concert."
"Aw, girl, have fun!"
"Thanks! I'm going to dance on stage with Prince."
"Go get'em, girl," Rafiq replied, shaking his head, giggling.
Prince was electrifying on stage. His tiny stature gave way to an enormous presence, that of a musical genius and a born performer. He owned the stage, which was set up in the round - a complete circle with long walkways extending out of the circle in 6 different directions. The band played in the middle of the circle and Prince danced, jammed, and gyrated about.
Much to my dismay, the Purple One invited two African-American women up on stage to dance with him for the second song of the show.
"NO WAY!" Em yelled from our 15th seats, which may have well been the last row in the arena.
"This is BULLSHIT!" I joked. "I want my money back."
"Well, I guess we'll just have to sit back and just enjoy the show," Em conceded.
Several songs later, I stood up. "I'll be right back, I'm going to the bathroom," I told Em.
On my way back down to our seats on the floor, a heavy set man dressed in all black approached me.
"Are you a dancer?" he whispered/yelled into my ear over the booming bass.
"EX.......CUSE ME?" I responded, fearful he was seeking a stripper.
He saw the panic in my face. "I'm the guy who picks girls to dance on stage with Prince," he continued. My mind screamed, "OHMYGOD! NO WAY! NO WAY! NO WAY! I saw flashing images of me in a music video with Prince.
"Can you dance like a sistah?" he asked.
"Absolutely," I told him. I didn't know what that meant. Didn't care. I could dance. I would dance.
"Great, because you're going up on stage after this song," he said. He slipped a plastic bracelet around my wrist.
I looked around for the hidden camera and the team of producers spoofing me. I saw 15,000 screaming fans.
"Wait. WHAT?!!! I have to go get my friend! She has to come with me!" I yelled back at the guy.
"Ok, but hurry up, meet me up at the side of the stage after this song."
I skipped ran back to Emily and screamed:
"YOU'RENOTGOINGTOBELIEVETHIS (breath)
SOMEMANINTHECROWDJUSTGRABBEDMEANDTOLDMEHE'STHEGUYWHOPICKSGIRLSTOGOONSTAGEWITHPRINCE (breath)
ANDWE'REGOINGUPNOW (breath)
COMEWITHME!"
I think Em lost consciousness for a second and then we bolted up to the side of the stage, jumping hurdles of chairs, shoes, and cups of beer along the way.
"This is my friend," I informed the man, catching my breath.
He scanned her up and down. "Sorry, Prince doesn't let anyone in jeans on stage," he told us.
"I'll TAKE THEM OFF!" Em begged.
"No, you can't take your pants off," the man chuckled, as if he had heard it all before.
"I'll trade pants with you?!" she offered. His pants would have fit 10 Emilys. "No, you can't wear my pants either," he explained calmly. "You need to go back to your seat."
Em was crushed, but she looked at me and did what a great friend would do: "You HAVE to go up. This is a once in a lifetime thing."
"But," I started.
"Just get up there and have fun!" she nudged.
And that was it.
Now, I'm walking up 6 wooden steps with 6 other women who look just like me or a shade or two darker, ready to dance with Prince. Our only instructions:
"Smile, dance, and DON'T TOUCH PRINCE."
I'm thinking those 3 commands over and over again, plus: "Don't trip, don't fall off the stage, and don't look like a deer in headlights."
The stage is sweltering hot from the white flashing bulbs and the energy of the crowd. And, there, right next to me, is PRINCE. Inches away, rocking out on guitar. I am clearly a head above him, despite his high heeled boots. I smile at him, he smiles back and I become part of the show.
He's belting out his hit song, "Kiss," and I decide to work the catwalk down towards the audience on the side of the arena where Em is sitting. I spot her jumping 10 feet in the air (15 rows back) as if she's hopping on a pogo stick. She has a huge smile stretched across her face and she's dancing while jumping.
And then, right there, 5 rows from me and Prince, I see a familiar face. It looks like my sister, only deathly, ghostly white. She spots me on stage and she takes a second to hoist her jaw off the floor. I am pulling out every dance move in my repertoire and pointing at her, mouthing the words, "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!" She snaps a photo of me and Prince but without a flash, it's too dark to ever see.
3 songs, approximately 15 minutes later, my mission is complete.
I return to Emily and we just start yelling at the top of our lungs. "OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"
"We have to leave!" Em shouts to me.
"Why?"
"I mean, WHAT is going to top THAT? Let's go call everyone we know!"
We do just that.
My parents don't recognize my voice become I'm so high from my encounter with the Purple One. I have to convince them that it's me. "That a girl!" says my mom. "You said you were going to do it."
I don't know if it was the fact that Prince enjoys women with dark features, like me, or the fact that I was dressed to match his entourage, like a lunatic, or if I was just giving off a certain energy that night, like "damn it, I'm here to dance with Prince," but my night as a "princess" made me a believer in believing that anything and everything is possible.
The universe, much like my beloved Prince, is mysterious.
I had been a fan ever since my mom, exercising questionable judgment, took me to see Purple Rain, the soft-porn film, at the theater, in 1985 at the ripe old age of 10.
I loved Prince then, when he was a just a troubled son, a misunderstood musical genius and a loner, who charmed women into dropping their clothes with a simple devilish grin. I loved his poofy sprayed hair, his dark eyeliner, how he rocked out on guitar with every ounce of his soul.
And I loved Prince even through his "awkward stage" when he wanted to be known simply as a symbol.
Twenty years on, it seemed impossible that I had never seen Prince play live. I could not wait to get my hands on some Prince tickets. And, I didn't just want to attend the concert. I wanted to sit on the floor, preferably somewhere in the first 10 rows.
And, truthfully, I wanted to be called on stage to dance with Prince. I expected to be.
Was this a far-fetched fantasy? I honestly did not think so.
Did I know for sure that Prince would even call members of the audience up to dance with him? I was just hoping. I had seen Bobby Brown and countless other singers do it, so I thought it was a possibility.
I phoned my friend, Emily, to tell her that I had secured 15th row tickets for us to see Prince at the Wachovia Center in Philly, and I added: "You know we're gonna get called on stage to dance with him."
"Oh, we're TOTALLY getting on stage," she replied, genuinely believing in my dream too.
"Let's dress like Apollonia," I suggested. "Do you have any leather one pieces you could bust out?"
"Hm, let me think about it," Em laughed. "Or we could always wear raspberry berets?" she offered.
For weeks our conversations carried on like this. What could we wear/do/say to secure a spot on stage with Prince?
I bragged to my sister, too, about my impending big night with Prince. "Yeah, right," she snorted over the phone. "You'll see," I promised. "I'm getting called up there."
"Well, I'll be in the 5th row, so I won't miss you," she joked.
As the big night approached, I called Emily one last time.
"I'm just wearing jeans," she said, sighing, somewhat defeated.
"Jeans?! What about the leather, the beret? We need to stand out so Prince can spot us!"
"I don't know, I'm wearing jeans," she said. "Why, what are you wearing?"
"Black pants and a shimmery white tank top. I did some online reconnaissance and I saw some pix of Prince from a show in New York last night. He's dressed all in white. So, of course, I want to match him," I said half kidding.
I skipped through my high-rise building's lobby and waved to my favorite doorman: "Hi, Rafiq!"
"Hey princess, lookin' niceeee," he smiled.
"I'm heading to the Prince concert."
"Aw, girl, have fun!"
"Thanks! I'm going to dance on stage with Prince."
"Go get'em, girl," Rafiq replied, shaking his head, giggling.
Prince was electrifying on stage. His tiny stature gave way to an enormous presence, that of a musical genius and a born performer. He owned the stage, which was set up in the round - a complete circle with long walkways extending out of the circle in 6 different directions. The band played in the middle of the circle and Prince danced, jammed, and gyrated about.
Much to my dismay, the Purple One invited two African-American women up on stage to dance with him for the second song of the show.
"NO WAY!" Em yelled from our 15th seats, which may have well been the last row in the arena.
"This is BULLSHIT!" I joked. "I want my money back."
"Well, I guess we'll just have to sit back and just enjoy the show," Em conceded.
Several songs later, I stood up. "I'll be right back, I'm going to the bathroom," I told Em.
On my way back down to our seats on the floor, a heavy set man dressed in all black approached me.
"Are you a dancer?" he whispered/yelled into my ear over the booming bass.
"EX.......CUSE ME?" I responded, fearful he was seeking a stripper.
He saw the panic in my face. "I'm the guy who picks girls to dance on stage with Prince," he continued. My mind screamed, "OHMYGOD! NO WAY! NO WAY! NO WAY! I saw flashing images of me in a music video with Prince.
"Can you dance like a sistah?" he asked.
"Absolutely," I told him. I didn't know what that meant. Didn't care. I could dance. I would dance.
"Great, because you're going up on stage after this song," he said. He slipped a plastic bracelet around my wrist.
I looked around for the hidden camera and the team of producers spoofing me. I saw 15,000 screaming fans.
"Wait. WHAT?!!! I have to go get my friend! She has to come with me!" I yelled back at the guy.
"Ok, but hurry up, meet me up at the side of the stage after this song."
I skipped ran back to Emily and screamed:
"YOU'RENOTGOINGTOBELIEVETHIS (breath)
SOMEMANINTHECROWDJUSTGRABBEDMEANDTOLDMEHE'STHEGUYWHOPICKSGIRLSTOGOONSTAGEWITHPRINCE (breath)
ANDWE'REGOINGUPNOW (breath)
COMEWITHME!"
I think Em lost consciousness for a second and then we bolted up to the side of the stage, jumping hurdles of chairs, shoes, and cups of beer along the way.
"This is my friend," I informed the man, catching my breath.
He scanned her up and down. "Sorry, Prince doesn't let anyone in jeans on stage," he told us.
"I'll TAKE THEM OFF!" Em begged.
"No, you can't take your pants off," the man chuckled, as if he had heard it all before.
"I'll trade pants with you?!" she offered. His pants would have fit 10 Emilys. "No, you can't wear my pants either," he explained calmly. "You need to go back to your seat."
Em was crushed, but she looked at me and did what a great friend would do: "You HAVE to go up. This is a once in a lifetime thing."
"But," I started.
"Just get up there and have fun!" she nudged.
And that was it.
Now, I'm walking up 6 wooden steps with 6 other women who look just like me or a shade or two darker, ready to dance with Prince. Our only instructions:
"Smile, dance, and DON'T TOUCH PRINCE."
I'm thinking those 3 commands over and over again, plus: "Don't trip, don't fall off the stage, and don't look like a deer in headlights."
The stage is sweltering hot from the white flashing bulbs and the energy of the crowd. And, there, right next to me, is PRINCE. Inches away, rocking out on guitar. I am clearly a head above him, despite his high heeled boots. I smile at him, he smiles back and I become part of the show.
He's belting out his hit song, "Kiss," and I decide to work the catwalk down towards the audience on the side of the arena where Em is sitting. I spot her jumping 10 feet in the air (15 rows back) as if she's hopping on a pogo stick. She has a huge smile stretched across her face and she's dancing while jumping.
And then, right there, 5 rows from me and Prince, I see a familiar face. It looks like my sister, only deathly, ghostly white. She spots me on stage and she takes a second to hoist her jaw off the floor. I am pulling out every dance move in my repertoire and pointing at her, mouthing the words, "I TOLD YOU! I TOLD YOU!" She snaps a photo of me and Prince but without a flash, it's too dark to ever see.
3 songs, approximately 15 minutes later, my mission is complete.
I return to Emily and we just start yelling at the top of our lungs. "OH MY GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOD!"
"We have to leave!" Em shouts to me.
"Why?"
"I mean, WHAT is going to top THAT? Let's go call everyone we know!"
We do just that.
My parents don't recognize my voice become I'm so high from my encounter with the Purple One. I have to convince them that it's me. "That a girl!" says my mom. "You said you were going to do it."
I don't know if it was the fact that Prince enjoys women with dark features, like me, or the fact that I was dressed to match his entourage, like a lunatic, or if I was just giving off a certain energy that night, like "damn it, I'm here to dance with Prince," but my night as a "princess" made me a believer in believing that anything and everything is possible.
The universe, much like my beloved Prince, is mysterious.
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