Rest in Peace, Robert B. Parker

I was so busy over the last two days and so caught up with the news from Haiti, that I didn’t get to the obit section of the paper as I usually do. So I completely missed the sad news about my very favorite author dying at his desk on Monday morning.  Apparently, he died while he was doing what he loved.  He was writing another Spenser book.

I  read lots of obits about him on line, and the best thing I read was that he was just a great guy to be around. Funny, a great cook, totally in love with his wife,  and very similar to “Spen-suh.”  As the ew.com article said, perhaps he’s sitting at  the heavenly writer’s round table,  with the likes of  Hammet, Chandler and  MacDonald.  He’s certainly earned his place among the most prolific and great detective  novelists around.

This is what I posted on ew.com:

I too gasped in utter shock when I heard about the death of my favorite author. Like so many of the comments posted, I too feel like I am losing someone who has been part of my life for the past 25 years — literally half my life. I have read every Spenser book, as well as the Sunny Randall & Jesse Stone series. He was indeed a master storyteller, and a master dialogue writer.

His heroes are tough on the outside, a mess on the inside. He showed us the dark side of his characters, whether they were paid assassins, recovering alcoholics or vulnerable PIs. How I will miss new cases for Spenser, his cooking, his love of Pearl, the Wonder Dog, his left jabs, right hooks and all his cool moves. But most of all I will miss that wise-ass character who could talk his way out of a paper bag. I’ll miss Hawk and Rita, and even his ever so efficient Susan. Parker wrote some of the sexiest, most romantic scenes without ever getting graphic. He knew how to feed the reader’s imagination. He is the last of that gentlemanly breed of writers we will likely never see again.

My deepest condolences to his wife Joan,  to whom he lovingly dedicated each book, to his children and extended family. His stories, and his memory, will live on, and I know I will treasure them.

Thank you, Mr. Parker, for so many great days and nights of reading bliss with some of the coolest characters around.

with Pearl, the Wonder Dog

Listen to this haunting version of

“Moon River” sung by Parker and his son, Dan:

Moon River sung by Robert Parker and his son Dan Parker

“You Never Know”

(Advanced warning:  This is a rant, no question about it.

That’s what blogs are for, aren’t they?)

You Never Know.

It’s a great new Wilco song that came out this summer.

And a wonderful catch phrase.

 

 

Come on kids, your acting like children, act your age

Every generation thinks its the end of the world.

It’s a secret I can’t tell

It’s a wish down a well,

I don’t care any more, I don’t care any more.

But you never know…

Applies  to lots of things.

Like job job hunting.

There are days when I feel like singing that refrain out loud…

On the top of my lungs.

I don’t care anymore.  I don’t care anymore.

(I know, I know.  I’m not supposed to dare write those words, commit them to eternal blogosphere, in case a potential employer may be reading.  See warning above.)

So I ask those who are reading:

When’s the last time you had to do this?

And keep smiling all the while…

I wish that for just one time, you could stand inside my shoes.

So I try to stay positive.

All while networking, emailing resumes, going on interviews, trying to tune out the background noise of the monthly job statistics (no new jobs created in forever; more cuts on the horizon).

http://www.bls.gov/news.release/pdf/empsit.pdf

But we, the job seekers, we Gotta Stay Positive.

Gotta stay positive...

Whoahoho
We gotta stay positive
Whoahoho
We gotta stay positive
Whoahoho
We gotta stay positive

(with regards to The Hold Steady).

While keeping up on industry trends, reading about layoffs at media mainstays the New York Times, Time Inc. and Forbes.

FORBES!!!

The place where those sparkling, glittering Faberge Eggs and eternally battle-ready toy soldiers greeted me every morning for three years, along with a bunch of other millionaire’s chachkes.

Home of the Rich List. I worked on the very first one!  I spent a year compiling like a thousand names and researching (pre-internet!) the backgrounds of potential candidates.

I always thought that this privately held company would be immune to the whims of the stockmarket.

It’s the CAPITALIST TOOL, for cryin’ out loud.

The latest Rich List

Malcolm must be spinning his motorcycle wheels in his grave.

Gotta run.

Have a networking call to make.

Hey –

You Never Know.

October Road

So here we are, in the middle of October. It feels like the middle of February out there. Been freezing inside and out since last Thursday, even got out the down coat and fleece boots!  No oil in the tank, so no heat at home. Waiting for delivery.  Can’t wait for it to warm up! (the temp outside is just approaching 50! Hooray!)

Fall is my favorite season, mainly because my birthday ushers in the season as  the first official full day of autumn.  I love watching the spectacular nature show we are fortunate enough to see in this part of the world.  Except that I miss my beautiful old maple tree that fell last winter during a storm.

I miss looking out my bedroom window to be greeted each morning by a blaze of orange, red and yellow.

So instead, I enjoy the trees on the block, but it’s not the same. I really feel our tree gave us so much,  just like Shel Silverstein described in The Giving Tree.  Our tree gave us shade in the summer and cooled off the house.  It gave us privacy.  It gave us our favorite first day of school picture spot.  And it gave us that beautiful technicolor show every fall. (I have to admit that the one thing I don’t miss is the endless supply of leaves to rake…)

It was just about a year ago, on a  stormy, blustery Saturday afternoon.  While dozing on the living room couch  I suddenly woke with a start. I heard a  noise that sounded like a bookshelf crashing.

I called upstairs, saying WHAT WAS THAT?  After a minute, my husband said look outside.

To my horror I saw our tree, split vertically down its middle, with the largest portion resting on the house. It didn’t exactly come crashing down.  It fell as gently as a tree could.  So for that I am very grateful.  There was some slight roof and gutter damage. But it could have been much worse.  We were pretty lucky.  No downed wires, nobody hurt.

Cutting down a tree is not only terribly expensive, it’s a very emotional experience.  I couldn’t bear hearing those tree cutting saws, the grinding machine. It was almost evil.

My house now looks totally naked without it’s mighty tree in front. All that’s left is a stump.

So as we enjoy our first fall without our tree, I realize just how much I do miss it.

The Fall has Fallen

Last tree standing…

In Living Color, against a beaufiul blue October sky

090909

It’s one of those dates that comes around once in a lifetime.

We’ve had numerical calendar fun since 010101.  They had a devil of a time with 060606; people scrambled to get married on 070707. My daughter was almost born on 030303 (false labor).

We have but  three more cool repeats to look forward to:  101010, 111111 and 121212.

There’s something about today’s date.  For one thing, it made me think of  that Beatles song from the White Album:  Number 9, Number 9, Number 9… (Do you think that’s why the entire remastered Beatles catalogue, as well as Beatles Guitar Hero, were released today?)

I like the nines – the way they look next to the zeros.  They give the feeling of being whole, not broken.

But there’s an upcoming date that is broken.

9-11 will always be broken for so many.

We’re coming up on eight years,  and still no permanent memorial has been built.

It’s embarrassing.  But  really, its  just plain sad.

I recently came across a Twitter request to participate in a beautiful project to remember each one of the victims by writing about them.  Here’s an excerpt describing  Project 2,996.

9/11/09 will mark 8 years since the attacks of World Trade Center I and II, The Pentagon, Shanksville, American Airlines Flights 11 & 77, and United Airlines Flight 93 & 175.

On that day 2,996 people were ripped from their lives. But as the media and society tend to do, they have focused on the killers. We’ve all learned more about them than we wanted to. On that day many of us made a pledge to never forget what happened.

I was so moved by what I read that I signed up immediately.  A few days later,  a name was emailed to me.

I will remember Robert M. Levine.

You can still sign up:   http://project2996.wordpress.com/2009-signup/

Maybe in some small way we can try to make that day whole again by remembering these individuals.

//

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There Ain’t No Recession at American Girl Place

Who says there’s a recession going on?

Are you struggling to pay your bills? Unemployed? Trying to figure out why the world has turned upside down?

Well, look no further than American Girl Place, conveniently on one of New York City’s toniest retail blocks. Once you step inside, the real world instantly melts away.

I spent about an hour there this afternoon with my 6 year old daughter  (she was “warned” before we crossed the threshold that this was not a shopping trip.)   I was amazed by the number of shoppers in the store, but more so by the sheer excess of the place.

My daughter was literally like a kid in a candy store, drawn to each and every doll, accessory and display with great awe and excitement.   She already understands that the smallest item in the store is ridiculously overpriced (a set of toy pierced earrings is $20, as is a set of doll underwear). But I have to admit that the sheer joy of watching her run from one part of the store to the next was wonderful.  She she just couldn’t get enough.

To her credit, she was very good about sticking to our deal of not asking to buy stuff.   Even when I showed her  clothes in her size (which were much more realistically priced than the doll clothes),  she enjoyed the fact that the doll outfits came in her own size.

The store was buzzing with lots of little girls holding American Girl dolls.  Many were dressed in matching doll/owner outfits, right down to hairstyle and headbands.  Some had their pictures taken in the Photo Studio, and many were off to High Tea at the Doll Cafe.

Then there’s the dolly Hair Salon. Don’t like your doll’s do? Take her for a haircut, style, blow dry, etc. – prices range from $5 to $20. The line was 2 deep as children and their parents watched their dolls getting done up on doll sized salon chairs by human doll hairdressers.

But that’s not all – there’s more:

Want to get the doll’s ear’s pierced? No problem.  There’s a counter for that.
A custom made T shirt? There’s a whole book of colors and styles to choose from.
Doll bunk bed? Backpack?  It’s all there.  And plenty more.

The shopping bags were loaded up.

The store definitely attracts tourists.  It also gets grandmothers happy to indulge the wishes of their granddaughters. (I spoke to a woman who just brought her granddaughter’s doll in to the Doll Hospital.  After it’s fixed, she told me, it will be sent home in a hospital gown!)

Then there are the parents who can afford all of this stuff and never say no to their kids,  or more likely, feel bad about saying no and buy stuff they just can’t afford.

In the ladies room, a mother came in with her daughter, who was holding a doll. “Be careful not to put the doll on the floor so she doesn’t get dirty,” said the mom. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “There are special doll hooks in the stalls for that.” I promise I am not making that up. They’re they are, right over the toilet paper holders.

Incredible. They’ve thought of EVERYTHING.

While looking through the free catalogue on the bus ride home, I couldn’t help but notice the irony inherent in a few of the historical dolls descriptions. Here are two glaring examples:

“As a girl growing up during the Great Depression, Kit sees her dad lose his business overnight. To help save their home, Kit becomes resourceful. With Ruthie by her side, Kit also learns to treasure what money can’t buy—friends and family.”

Really. I guess it’s a good thing American Girl Place didn’t exist during the Depression.

“Molly McIntire is growing up during World War Two. She wants the war to end so that her dad can come home from overseas. With her English friend, Emily, at her side, Molly learns the importance of pulling together—just as her country must do to win the war”

Hmmm. I guess there are no wars beign fought now, or any little girls wishing for their dads to come home.

Of course there’s always excess in society and there expensive things to be bought all the time. But American Girl has built it’s reputation on being a wholesome, historic, good old fashion toy for the average American girl. They’ve done a brilliant job of marketing the dolls as characters, especially the historic ones, creating book series and soup to nuts accessories for each.

What they have not done is make these dolls available to the average American Girl.  At least not without their parents taking out a home equity loan first.

When Airports Feel Like Hospitals

This coming Monday is Labor Day.

That’s the day my second born will fly the coop.

Literally.

Leave for distant shores.

Shores that are 6,000 miles from home.

He is making aliyah. Moving to become a citizen of Israel.

I’m very proud of him.  He is following in the footsteps of many before him, living the dream, our dream.  He’s following  the path of his older brother, who did the very same thing exactly one year ago.

This Monday will mark the third time in less than a month that I will be saying goodbye to another one of my kids.

Rewind to mid August.   My oldest  – home to visit for a a month and a half – returned to Israel.  We had a great time together.  He makes me laugh.  We laughed together watching Craig Ferguson’s monologues and puppet voting polls. We went for sushi.  We argue politics.  He loves asking me hypothetical questions.  I got used to having him around again.

Then it was time to say goodbye. When I enter the airport, I am overcome with a sense of dread, for those final few minutes when we have to say goodbye. I cry.  I sob.  I watch as he says goodbye to my husband, my little girl -  his baby sister – and his other brothers.   I wave and wave until I can no longer see him in the crowd and he passes through the security doors.  I cry myself out of the airport.

One down, two to go.

On Tuesday, I said goodbye to my third child, off to Israel as well for a post high school year of study. He was away for 8 weeks this summer and returned with just a couple of weeks  at home before leaving.  We shopped.  We talked. We argued.  We went for Rita’s Gelatto.  He’s my concert partner, my Dave Matthews Band go to guy, my Lost watching companion.  He makes me laugh, he makes me scream. He reminds me of me when I was 17.

Then it was time to say goodbye. I entered the airport with that same sense of dread, knowing that goodbye scene was about to unfold.

He’s just a boy – not yet 18 – off to distant shores, 6,000 miles from home.  Off to learn and grow,  spiritually, emotionally.  But we had to say goodbye.  Same scene, fewer players. I cry myself out the door.

Two down. One to go.

Monday is Labor Day.  Labor of love?  Labor of saying goodbye.

I will be saying goodbye, again, to one of my sons.  I will walk into that airport with that same sense of dread, which I hope will be diminished by the happiness of those who are going — a planeload of new olim, going to start their new lives together.

But I got used to having him home.  He was only here for a few weeks, back from being in Israel, then in summer camp.  I got used to it.  He’s my helper.  Reliable. Dependable.  He makes me laugh. We discuss politics, movies.  We play Bananagrams.  He helps me cook.   He loves his little sister.  We took her to the Science Museum,  the Big Apple.  And now I’m going to have to let go.

Again.

It’s like walking into a hospital.  That knot you get in your stomach.  That sense of dread.  The feeling that you hope things will be okay.

Three down.

None to go.

For now…

So Much to Say, So Much to Say…

Never at a loss for words, I usually have something to  say about a variety of topics. So I decided to give myself a place to stick my 2 cents in.”  (That’s how I heard it growing up.)

Today is Tisha B’av, the saddest day of the year on our Jewish calendar. Maybe it’s not the most ideal day to start a blog, being that this is a day of mourning.  Yet it is a day that is very thought provoking and I’d like to share a  few thoughts,  maybe not so random.

The Beit Hamikdash, Holy Temple, was destroyed because of sinat chinam — baseless hatred — because of the way individuals treated one another and the way community members treated each other.

The baseless hatred — well that happens in every generation, community, family, etc.  Aka gossip, yenting, telling tales out of school (another one of those phrases I grew up with), jealousy, keeping up the Jonesbergs, etc.  We are all familiar.

I just finished watching an online reading of Eichah (the Book of Lamentations) which took place last night at the Gush Katif Museum in Jerusalem. I had only just heard about this museum, a tribute/memorial to the once-thriving, beautiful and fruitful communities that were forced to abandon their homes exactly four years ago.

The megillah reading was followed by the reading of kinot, including a special kinah mourning the loss of the communities and the life of Gush Katif. (If you want to watch this moving video, take a look at http://bit.ly/JakvO)

As I watched, I was struck by the fact that within this small group was a range of people, from  kipppah sruga to black hat and whatever comes in between.  As I listened to the words of that very moving new kina, I felt the pain they share scream from the screen, as they repeated the refrain “Oy, meh haya lanu.”   What has befallen us.  What we used to have.  Woe unto us…

The sinat chinam that came before and during  the “separation.”   The pain that so sadly unites this group.

Tisha B’av is a day for all Jews to be united by sadness, but this brought it home.

Ad hayom hazeh.

We are still grieving, for what we had so long ago, and for what we lost so recently.

When a person you love dies, you never stop grieving for them. The pain gets less intense — but it never goes away.

The lesson we learn? To be better people, to be nicer to each other, more thoughtful to members of our community (that’s another discussion…)  and to be diligent enough to never let these tragedies happen again.   With that in mind,  read today’s Washington Post editorial.   (If only the NY Times were as “liberal”.)

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2009/07/29/AR2009072903167.html?referrer=emailarticle

In keeping with the spirit of the day, here are a few pictures I took  while walking in Jerusalem’s Old City in March.

Wishing you a meaningful rest of Tisha B’av.

Old City wall, iron scrollwork, March 09

Top of Sha’ar Zion – March 09

View from the Kotel plaza @ dusk – March 09

Tangled up in Blog

Maybe this should be the title of my blog…

Stay tuned for Random Rants.