HAPPINESS IS . . .

Remember the cartoon strip "Happiness Is. . ."? Well, here are a few of mine. Take a minute and think of your own!

Happiness is riding your bike down that secret path you discovered years ago and it's still special.

Happiness is knowing you helped put a smile on a friend's face.

Happiness is capturing the briskness of an early August morning before it hits 90 degrees.

Happiness is knowing you picked the right person.

Happiness is your child saying, "Look at the sunset!"

Happiness is calling the town you grew up in "home", even if you don't live there any longer.

Happiness is playing that music box your old boyfriend gave you.

Happiness is laughing so hard you really do pee your pants!

Happiness is having two brothers!

Happiness is an unopened box of tissues to use up while watching Cinema Paradiso.

Happiness is a yellow smiley face latch hook rug.

Happiness is old friends and new friends.

Happiness is a phone call from your sister right as you're picking up the phone to call her.

Happiness is the memory of your little red rug from kindergarten.

Happiness is having a mother-in-law you love.

Happiness is reading Gone With the Wind for a fourth time, and not deciding until the last page if Scarlett wins back Rhett.

Happiness is smiling in your sleep because your dream really is that good!

Happiness is loving a book so much you write a character analysis of each one so you never forget them.

Happiness is thinking fondly of your parents and calling them!

Happiness truly is the simplest of things in life. Discover it every day.

Kindles, Nooks, and Old-Fashioned Books

I want to embrace the 21st century. I really do! I've turned in my foot-long cell phone for something narrow and chic that slides into my pocket. It vibrates and makes me feel good. I blog, e-mail, and Facebook. I do Intel spreadsheets and PowerPoint presentations when forced. But God, I hope I never get an e-reader.

I was on the subway this morning and didn't have my own reading material. I thought I'd just "borrow" material from the woman next to me. She had a Kindle. Nowhere on the "page" did it list the book title or the author. I need to be a bit discriminating when I'm readdropping. (Yes, I just coined a word. I get credit.) I want to know if it's a mystery, textbook, romance or porn. But with an e-reader, there is a setting so the title and author are hidden from prying eyes.

Seated across from me, a passenger was reading Paulo Cohello. Not my favorite author, but if we were next to each other, I'd have spent a few minutes craning my neck to read a page or two. Don't worry, I'm aware how irritating others might find my readdropping habit. I'm starting to think the Kindle reader on the subway intentionally didn't display the title so as to deter my readdropping.

For most of us, it's difficult to start up a conversation with a stranger. However, reading material--visible reading material--is a perfect ice breaker. Recently, a fellow rider was reading A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry. I was consumed with the need to voice my opinion. After giving her my over-dramatic review of how well the author portrays the strength of the human spirit no matter what horrific events crash down onto the characters, she looked at me and said, "It's so depressing. Does it get a little lighter?" Apparently, she didn't listen to a word of my five-minute diatribe. I missed my stop I was so involved in my re-enactment. I noticed her bookmark was barely placed one-third into the book. (Another thing e-reader doesn't have visible.) I gave her a smile. The virtual bubble over my head stated: You think it's depressing now, you may want to lock up the kitchen knives before you finish the book.

I've read tv scripts over people's shoulders, perused porn magazines, and read a term paper about Louis Pasteur via my neck-craning method. Along the way, its opened up some lively conversations.

I can only hope my readdropping days and talking to complete strangers aren't coming to an end.

Long live the paperback!

Here a List, There a List, Everywhere . . .

The other day a co-worker saw me making a list.

"Wow! That's what I need to do!" he exclaimed.

I mean . . really! Half my day is taken up writing lists. I don't have a blackberry or iphone/touch/pad so it's all done the old-fashioned way. A pen and paper. I usually have a notebook with me, but not always. Really, anything that soaks up ink will do. Sturdy toilet paper, receipts, back of checks, envelopes, hand. The possibilities are endless. When I need to make a list, it needs to be recorded that instant. It's that important!

I have a variety of lists:
Things To Accomplish Immediately
Things To Accomplish By Next Week
Things I'd Like To Accomplish Immediately
Things I'd Like To Accomplish By Next Week
Things I Think I Should Accomplish Soon
Things I Should Have Accomplished in High School
Things I Should Have Accomplished in College
Things I Should Have Accomplished . . You get the modus operandi
Things I'll Never Accomplish No Matter What
Grocery List For Trader Joe's
Grocery List For Zabar's
Grocery List For Local Grocer on The Corner So They Don't Go Out Of Business
Questions To Ask My Son's Teacher At The Next Conference
Questions I'd Really Like To Ask My Son's Teacher But Am Too Afraid To Ask
Realistic Goals
Semi-Realistic Goals
Goals So Unattainable If List Got Published I Could Be Committed

I'd like to pass on some List-Making Tips so your lists can be as productive as possible!

1. Date the list, including the year. Lists have a way of resurfacing. I was speaking elementary Spanish to my son's French teacher. He hadn't had Spanish for two years.

2. Write neatly. Better yet, print. Many times, I can't decipher what I've written. I spend the remainder of the day trying to recall what I needed to accomplish that day.

3. When the goal is accomplished, make a neat check next to it. I've crossed out goals on my "To Do" list so severely, only to waste time later wondering what I crossed out and why I scribbled so angrily. Yet again, another time waster.

4. Be specific, yet comprehensive.
"Call TJ. Tell her you saw her honey w/ another woman."
First and last names always. This list could find a black hole only to resurface two months later. Did you mean your friend TJ or your friend Taylor Jean? Do you mean Honey, her cat, who went missing, or honey in reference to her dirt-bag husband? See, you can never be too specific.

5. Once your hand starts to cramp from your list-making, take a break and do whatever the hell you want to do. And have fun!

Christmas Ornaments

It's January and the Christmas decorations are coming down. In December, as I was decorating the tree, I realized I do this for me, not my children.
Go ahead, judge me! Call child services!

As I got out my Christmas accouterments, (garland, ornaments, lights, stockings, snow globes, icicles, Santa salt and pepper shakers, earthenware North Pole teapot) I encouraged the kids to come help me until my throat hurt.

"Come on, you guys! Help me decorate this . . . gosh . . . dang . . . tree!" Eventually, I started putting the ornaments on by myself.

That's when it hit me. Each one of these ornaments take me to another time, another place.

In 1986, my roommate and I made ornaments. I picked up one of my favorites, a cross-stitched Gingerbread Man. "Run, run, run, as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the Gingerbread Man." Every time I read that book, I root for the little guy with the gummy bear buttons. Curse that fox for doing what comes naturally.

A year later, a friend and I went to Hong Kong. I purchased two dozen intricately beaded snowmen and angels. I envision a factory full of Chinese workers diligently stitching each bead onto my Frostys and Gabriels. Their eyebrows knitted together as they curse. "All this work to put on a tree for two weeks. Crazy people!"

One year, my Jewish boyfriend loaded me down with beautiful hand blown ornaments from Aventura on Columbus Avenue. But my most treasured ornament from him is a dill pickle in honor of my favorite food. Or was it because I liked the shape so much? Mmm, I'm not sure now!

In the early '90's, my husband and I hosted Christmas parties. Friends gave us beautiful ornaments. As I hang these, I vow to get in touch with each and every one of them.

I hang old Christmas cards if I deem the friend worthy enough. I have a 15-year-old card that gets displayed every year. It's from a friend who moved to LA with her husband and baby. Never mind that she has two more kids and is now divorced. When I hang that card, I get to reminiscence about something that no longer is.

I have ornaments commemorating my wedding and my children's births; handmade Sunday School ornaments from my children. I hang these with extra care.

My daughter finally did come to help. After hanging the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, she skipped back to the TV room, content that she had done her job. (Only I get to handle Dorothy and Toto.)

Another year has come and gone. Good tidings to all!

Bookstore Lover

November 28, Sunday after Thanksgiving.
Allocated drive time to airport: 50 minutes.
Accomplished in 40 minutes.
Allocated time for luggage drop-off/security/frisking: Two hours.
Accomplished in 20 minutes.
Free time before boarding: 1 hour, 40 minutes.
Eat lunch: 1 hour.
Time to kill: 40 minutes.
My daughter and I meandered to Borders Books.
Touch, touch, touch. Smile, fondle, get a tear in my eye. I love books. I think I actually caressed a couple of volumes and had to resist kissing Edward's face on the cover of New Moon by Stephenie Meyer!
I perused every category from children's, bios, sci-fi to romance and best sellers.
It was pure joy.
"See this book?" I asked my 10 year-old. "The author was my teacher in college." I turned the book over and waved at Alice Sebold's picture.
"The Lovely Bones?" she asks. "Sounds like a good book, Mom," her voice sprinkled with sarcasm.

I grabbed a David Sedaris book as if I were embracing the actual author.
"I love him!" I shrieked.
"You're married," she reminded me.
"Okay," I corrected myself. "I love his writing. My favorite book is called Naked. There's one short story about him in a nude trailer park and . . ." I stopped talking as she ran off to get away from me and hopefully to peruse her own books.

I gripped The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver as if I were strangling the African green mamba that had me crying for days. Some books are too emotional to revisit and that's one of them.

The cover of The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery taunted me. "I will pick you up again and I will finish you." I admonished the book and myself by shaking a finger at it.

"Who are you talking to, Mom?" My daughter darted into my aisle. She continued without waiting for my answer. "Whatever you do, don't go into aisle 4. Stay away. Just stay away." She put her arms out in an attempt to block any movement.

I nodded my head knowingly. "It's alright. I already blew kisses at Edward Cullen's picture on the 2011 Twilight Calender. You think I should buy it?" She scurried away faster than Edward could fly Bella up a mountain.

I stood in front of the Robert Ludlum, Dan Brown, etc. aisle. I, once again, affirmed to myself, that I will pick up a thriller/mystery book soon, very soon.

My husband and son took a break from the NFL game on TV and joined us.

"We need to board the plane soon," my husband said.

"Give me a minute. Come with me," I signalled to my son. "Remember in school you read six paragraphs about the Crusades. Well, there's a lot more to them than what you read." I handed him a two-pound book, The Crusades, by Thomas Asbridge.

My son reached for Badasses, by John Madden.

"Can I get this?" he pleaded.

I pondered. The title was inappropriate, it cost $25.00, but my son might actually read it.

After having a delightful time meandering around the store (with and without my daughter) my son chose a book in 37 seconds. We bought it and headed for our gate.


Post Script: It will be sad when book stores go by the way of the drive-in movies. I hope we all have fond memories of one, whether it be a Barnes and Noble, a Shakespeare Books, or a Tattered Cover.

ANTHROPOLOGIE

No, I didn't misspell anthropology. I am referring to the lifestyle catalog ANTHROPOLOGIE. I just coined this term: lifestyle catalog. What's it mean? I don't know, it just sounds very twenty-first century. It's actually a women's clothing, shoes, and home goods catalog.

I am not "a shopper." I rarely peruse department stores. On-line shopping doesn't turn me on.
However, not only do I enjoy looking at my ANTHROPOLOGIE catalog, I thrive on it. I attempt to become one with it. I have the july, august and september issues! (I didn't capitalize j,a, and s because they don't.)

I know I'm being manipulated by the marketing department. But damn, they're good! Experiencing this catalog, is like discovering my personal book of dreams that I didn't know was in my subconscious. I turn the cover page of the september edition which is matte and seems to be made out of recycled paper. Seemingly unappealing, but here it works. I'm transported to the Pampas of Patagonia with white steeds surrounding me. The model is holding the harness of one of these horses. She's stupidly clad in a ruffled, high-waisted plaid kilt complimented with a ridiculous half-cape sweater thrown over her shoulders. I've never been a horsey person, but I want to be there,on those desolate pampas, hitching up my kilt and swinging my thigh-high boot-covered leg over the bare back of this steed!

A few pages later, the model is sprawled on the ground, next to a saddle. Maybe the steed threw her off! Regardless, I want to lay on that dirt, strewn with rough-hewn blankets and caress the well-worn saddle, just like she is. I don't even know what's for sale here: the saddle, the model, the wind. All I know is I want everything on page 7, september edition--even the dirt.

Even some of the clothes are ugly. I mean, if they're ugly on a 5'10", 110 pound pre-teen model, imagine what they're going to look like on you and me! Even that is a marketing ploy, somehow! They're bordering on mind-control.

I used to visit their encampment. (Referring to it as a store is too pedestrian. It's the marketing, I tell you!) I haven't recently been there and here's why. I needed a peasant shirt. (Don't we all?!) I walked inside. To the right is clothing. To the left are home goods. I decided to make a loop around. I did not buy a shirt that day, but I do own a Guatemalan patchwork, six-cushion sofa. So now, I just do the catalog.

september edition, page 38. For sale, an Anouk shower curtain--$118. Even I draw the line. But it is imported. I wonder from where? Is Anouk in Turkey?

I turn the page and am swept from the South American pampas to a French cafe' with stained glass, old-fashioned sugar dispensers and dusty, dead butterflies displayed in cases along the paint-chipped walls. "Un cafe' du lait' et croissant, s'il vous plait," dances on my lips. (It's the only French I know. Well, that and the Father John, are you sleeping song.) The model has on a necklace with ecru curtain tassels attached to the faux over-sized pearls. It's a bit much, but still . . .

Obituaries

Obits fascinate me. I assume they interest everyone, but perhaps I'm wrong. There's a standing joke in New York City. Because of the lack of desirable apartments, one must peruse the obituary pages to find a vacant apartment. After making note of the address of the deceased, cab it over to the building ASAP to submit an application.

I read obits in The New York Times. I read them in my hometown newspaper. I read them in newspapers I've never read before. I don't need to know the deceased to find it interesting. Each obit reveals an untold story.

Do you ever wonder what your obit would say? How many lines would you rate? Who would write it? Are you so famous (or will you become so famous)that bookmakers take bets on when you'll die?

Reading the obits in the 1980's and 1990's, it seemed remarkable to be born in the nineteenth century and die in the twentieth. Now, we are all in that category, straddling two centuries. For one's life to touch three centuries though. That feat alone makes a person fascinating. There aren't many of those obits.

Death notices of babies, children, and teen-agers are just plain awful. A premature death is a death of dreams and plans that will never come to fruition.

When a deceased has served in the military, I hope they were given the respect they deserved throughout their lifetime. They did more than the rest of us, regardless of what we have accomplished.

All obituaries are informative, but The New York Times obits have status. Even as these people exit life, they get Andy Warhol's "fifteen minutes" in death also. Only the most accomplished in their field rate space in the Times--politicians, ex-cons, actresses, writers, scientists, professors, painters, athletes, retired military generals, cartoonists. I'm familiar with some of the deceased names, but only once did I have a connection to someone in these pages.

On the other hand, my hometown newspaper brings back a host of memories and emotions when I read the death notices. I learned a lot about my Grandmother from her obit. It made me wish I would have known her better when she was alive.

Recently, the paper published my fifth grade teacher's obituary. In her 34 years of teaching, she taught a lot of children. One of the things I recall about Mrs. Horwege was her reading Rudyard Kipling's, "Rikki-Tikki-Tavi" to my class. As she imitated the mongoose's voice, over and over, "rikki-tikki-tavi, rikki-tikki-tavi" a line of saliva was ever present, seemingly connecting her upper and bottom lip together. I still love that book today.
My older brother, of course, has a different recollection. He sees her standing in front of the classroom, shaking a three pound text book at the class. "You'll come back to thank me some day for making you outline this entire geography book," she declared.
I think this one death will cause all her pupils to pause and reflect for a moment about her, about their elementary years, and even their hometown. In her obit, it told of her childhood, riding with her father and brother on snowy, cold days to get to school. I wonder if she ever shared that with the class and I just forgot.

An obituary is an exclamation point at the end of a sentence that you've written. It's rainbow sprinkles on top of a frosted chocolate cupcake that you baked.

Enjoy life.
Along the way, you'll do good deeds.