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Life According to Alda

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Earlier this month, I had the profound privilege of hearing award-winning actor, director, and yes, writer, Alan Alda address a membership event at The New York Public Library. I’ve been a fan of Mr. Alda’s since his eleven-year stint as wise-cracking, martini-mixing, soul-searching surgeon Benjamin “Hawkeye” Pierce on the iconic television series, M*A*S*H. (For any kiddies out there, MASH stands for Mobile Army Surgical Hospital–okay, my job is done).  The show lasted longer than the Korean War on which it was based, and yet I still remember filling up during the final episode in yes, 1983, because eleven years didn’t feel like nearly enough.

This grainy photo is Alan Alda working the room-trust me.
This grainy photo is Alan Alda working the room-trust me.

Mr. Alda’s two memoirs to date are NEVER HAVE YOUR DOG STUFFED: AND OTHER THINGS I’VE LEARNED and most recently, THINGS I OVERHEARD WHILE TALKING TO MYSELF.  The latter raises the question, “What makes a meaningful life?” The book, which I’ll admit I haven’t read–yet–is now topping my to-buy list or my Christmas wish list, take your pick.

In the course of his hour chat–and yes, it felt like an interactive conversation, not a lecture–Mr. Alda relayed his near death experience five years ago during a vacation trip to Chile. I won’t go into grizzly details–like me, you can read the book. Basically while he was touring Chile, he was seized with sudden, terrible abdominal pains and rushed by ambulance to the nearest hospital, which happened to look a lot like the set for the field hospital in M*A*S*H. He easily could have died. Obviously he didn’t. Ultimately his life was saved by a canny, skillful surgeon who correctly and quickly diagnosed the problem and working under, by Western standards, very primitive conditions, fixed it.

The experience, however, left the actor not only asking, “What makes a meaningful life” but with a living-in-the-present focus that is truly delightful and dazzling to behold. Apparently this…immediacy, for lack of a better word, is common among many people who come close to dying. For most, though, the feeling gradually wears off. Not so for Mr. Alda.

After the lecture, he opened the program to questions from the audience. Johnny on the spot at microphone #1 was a pint-size lady with the demeanor of a flame-spewing dragon and yes, the mouth of the lion that roared.

“I was a fan of your father,” she began–and yes, she likely was a contemporary of Robert Alda, too. “But I wonder about these celebrities today who use their celebrity status to tell us all what to think and how to vote and how to act as though we need them to tell us how it is…Blah, blah, blah…Yada, yada, yada… And well, I’d be very interested to hear your thoughts.” (Note: Her invective was a lot longer and a lot nastier, but I’m summarizing lest my hand cramp).

Now, Mr. Alda’s political beliefs and past activism, including his ardent campaigning for the Equal Rights Amendment, are matters of public record. I have my opinion about all that and yes, I’ll leave you to yours. What I will say is that if you’re going to a) invite a person to speak to your organization and then b) spend your own good money to attend said speech, insulting your guest is just well, damn bad manners. And memo to the “lady” of whom I speak, madam just because you were hatched when dinosaurs walked the earth doesn’t automatically make you wise. And FYI, we came that night to hear “Life According to Alda,” not life according to you, so next time mind–or better yet, close–your crochety yap.

But back to Alan Alda.

Obviously Mr. Alda has put on some years since his MASH days. Then again, so have I. And yet that smile, that sparkle in his eye, that lance straight stance and yes, that wonderful voice are still there in full force, the essence of a man who not only lives in the moment but has given so very many of us so very many moments that are truly memorable. 

Hope

PS: And yes, I had a Fan Girl moment. Shaking his hand at the evening’s end was as close to weak kneed as I’ve come in well, some time.

PPS: Next time, as promised, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun…”

Food for Thought: Recalling all Facsimile Foods

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Okay, the Tasti D Lite that used to be mere steps from my building is now The Lite Choice and, heads up, I’m less than pleased. The Lite Choice–talk about a misnomer. I didn’t get a choice, a say,  and certainly not a vote.

But then I’m pretty fed up with what as of now I’m calling “facsimile foods,” low calorie, low-carb, low-fat faux foods that ape the look and yes, texture of the Real Deal and yet still manage to taste like…nothing. Bio-engineered sesame seeds perched atop my crackers–where will the madness end?

Okay, I get that The Lite Choice is supposed to be not only low-fat but also organic and yes, kosher. The question for Yours Truly isn’t what they left in–but what they took out. Hint: show me the cream!

Our grandparents ate real food and though some of that fare would be dubbed a heart attack-on-a-plate by today’s standards, let me point out that Back in the Day people actually moved their bodies, climbing real stairs rather than stair masters, hefting real bales of hay rather than bench pressing Nautilus machines. And yes, when mealtime rolled around, they sat down and enjoyed their very real food. Sans apology and most importantly, sans guilt.

I’ll withhold any additional direct comments on my Lite Choice vanilla cone lest I be sued–though in that event I’d remind you that real turnips don’t bleed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Softee, my former Plan B alternative, has just moved up to the top slot otherwise known as Plan A.

Mr. Softee? From a product branding standpoint, are we sure we’re sending the right um…message?

Food for thought: eat something real and savor it.

Hope

Romance B(u)y the Book Wrap-Up

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Despite Mercury apparently refusing to come out of Retrograde, yesterday’s Harlequin Blaze Historicals blog bash at Romance B(u)y the Book was a huge success as well as bunches o’fun. What a party we had! Bestselling Blaze Historicals authors Jacquie D’Alessandro, Jade Lee, Betina Krahn and our latest addition to the series line-up, Patricia Potter joined blog host Michelle Buonfiglio, Harlequin Senior Editor, Brenda Chin and Moi in steaming up the Blogosphere.

As promised, we all got a little bit naughty, a lotta bit bad. I got the proverbial ball rolling talking about size and how sometimes it sorta kinda matters. Jade Lee dissed on tantric sex, virgin monks, and how in her latest Blaze Historical, the two come together (so to speak). Thanks to Jade, I now know there’s even more to want–as in 9.5 hours more. Thanks a lot, Jade!

And we all agreed that while you can’t keep a good man down, with the right slip knot you can surely keep him horizontal. 😉

The blogging went on hot and heavy until almost 9 PM ET, with more than 140 of you stopping by! My heartfelt thanks to Michelle Buonfiglio and her Bellas for making us all feel so welcome we didn’t want to leave–literally. If it wasn’t for Richard Armitage of “North and South” waiting for me in my DVD player, I might still be over there.

And while even the good things in life must come to an end, in this case we’re not done yet. You can still catch the blog transcript with yes, my interview and juicy excerpt from Bound to Please at Romance B(u)y the Book.

Happy Weekend,

Hope

Blogging Today at Lifetime TV’s Romance Buy the Book

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Okay, chicks, I’m over today blogging with my editor, Brenda Chin, at Michelle Buonfiglio’s Romance B(u)y the Book at LifetimeTV.com. We’ll be visited throughout the day by bestselling authors Jacquie D’Alessandro, Jade Lee, Betina Krahn and latest Blaze Historical author, Patricia Potter.

The post topic: When Size Matters. I’d say more but really, doesn’t that sort of say it all? 😉

And bonus, we’re running a contest. Six separate winners will each receive signed books by Jade Lee (The Tao of Sex), Jacquie D’Alessandro (Jinxed) and Strokes of Midnight and It’s a Wonderfully Sexy Life by yeppers, Yours Truly.

So if you can, hop on over and join Brenda and I as we dish on what’s next for Harlequin’s sexy Blaze Historicals with Michelle B and her “Bellas.” Actually, if you come on over, that makes you a Bella, too.

On the Blogosphere Homefront i.e., “here,” look for upcoming posts on “Life According to Alda,” uber fab actor, director and yes, author Alan Alda whom I got to meet and yes, even actually touch last night and “Dating and Darwinism, The Old-New Frontier.”

So much to blog on, so little time…

Hope

Taking a Bite Out of the Big Apple

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For most of my adult life, I’ve lived by the mantra that we eat to live, not live to eat. That thinking served me in good stead–until I moved to Manhattan.

Food–gloriously good food–at all price ranges is available everywhere at all times.  At any given hour a good half of the pedestrians pushing past me on the busy streets are eating on the go. Once I saw a young woman, dressed to the designer nines, clicking down Fifth Avenue eating sushi. Okay, it was California Roll but still…

Apple 2000/01 by Stephan Weiss (1938-2001)
Apple 2000/01 by Stephan Weiss (1938-2001)

I’ve been playing gastronomic tourist since February–and grooving on every bite. Just as you can walk out your door and easily hear five languages other than English being spoken, you can step out onto most city blocks to a smorgasbord of cuisines from around the world. And if you don’t feel like going out, you can get any or all of those diverse cuisines delivered to your door. It’s well, pretty great.

I’m a seriously big list maker, and I have a food-to-try list just as I have a list for practically everything else. Topping my to-do’s since moving here was to partake of yes, a cupcake from the West Village’s Magnolia Bakery.  Sounds like a modest enough goal, right? If so, then you’ve never seen the line, which is usually not only out the door but wrapping around the corner and snaking up 11th Street. And yet the other day when I was walking home from my run at what should have been peak time, there was no line.  Nada. Peering through the storefront glass, I spotted two, maybe three, customers max.

My first thought was to ask what my fellow city dwellers must know that I didn’t. Were we talking evacuation? Armageddon? A return trip by Benicio Del Toro with me missing him yet again?

Sure, even one cupcake would pretty much cancel out the previous 6+ miles of cardio pavement pounding.  Then again if “Rome” was burning, was this really any time to be carping over calories or denying myself yummy carbs?

The bakery was even running a promo special: buy one Pink Ribbon cupcake and fifty cents of the proceeds would be donated to a popular breast cancer charity.  Scarfing down that high calorie, high carb cupcake wouldn’t just be physically satisfying.  It would be positively philanthropic! Social awareness blanketed in buttercream–really, does it get any better?

In the spirit of “an heir and a spare,” I bought not one but two cupcakes: a red velvet number and yes, the special Pink Ribbon promo.  The red velvet one I ate like a true New Yorker, which is to say while walking home.  Only unlike the uber cool chick with the sushi, I couldn’t pull it off. When I got home I looked like I’d been on the losing end of a paintball competition–assuming the game was played with pastry bags, not paint guns.

The cupcake was most certainly scrumptious.  Would I stand in line for it a really long time? Honestly, no.  But then at this point in my life there isn’t much in the way of food for which I would stand in line barring catfood and that assumes my fur-babies were down to their last collective can.

Other good eats for this week include lunch at Tea and Sympathy, also in the West Village, where I caught up with writer buddy, Dee Davis. Being what I like to call a “recovering vegetarian,” I’m not usually much for “British food,” so I gave the bangers and mash and like menu options a broad berth.  Instead I opted for the “Tweed Kettle Pie,” salmon and cod in a parsley sauce with a potato topping.  It was seriously delish.

And no New York City food report would be complete without pizza. One of my favorite stops is Amore’s on 14th Street though on the service end, the staff is starting to royally pi** me off. Memo to the young lady working late nights at the register: if I’m ever going to cross over to the Dark Side and embark on a Life of Crime, I’m a lot more likely to knock off the Manolo Blahnik store across from the MOMA than I am to scam an extra eighty cent pizza topping. Really. Maybe you might want to reward a regular customer with a little trust rather than making “her” untape and open her friggin’ pizza box every time like you’re the guard tasked with making sure the Crown Jewels don’t take a walk. If I say I ordered the white pizza, the one with the mozzarella only, then that’s what I’m packing–period.

Eat and be merry,

Hope

Laughing Out Loud (LOL)

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Last night my buddy Elizabeth Kerri Mahon of Scandalous Women blog fame and I turned out for the Film Society of Lincoln Center’s reception for uber actor, Benicio Del Toro.  The event was held at The Apartment on the 24th floor of the swank Hudson Hotel.  The hors d’oeuvres were fab, the white wine perfectly chilled, and the crowd styling.  But where oh where was the guest of honor?
From left to write, Hope, Stacey, Liz, Leanna, Elizabeth and Marianne celebrate Hope's birthday in style.
From left to um...write, Hope, Stacey, Liz, Leanna, Elizabeth and Marianne celebrate Hope's birthday in style.

Fortunately Elizabeth is a great date.  We noshed and chatted each up for a full two hours.  All the while I kept vigilant Famous Person watch on the room’s only entrance.

At least I thought I was vigilant.  Coming up on 10:00 PM and still no Benicio, it was pretty clear he must be sequestered in some VIP suite.  Or maybe he’d decided to take his entourage out for a night on the town?  Oh well, c’est la vie.  Give me an unlimited supply of mini crab cakes and yes, a second glass of wine, and well, after a while, I’m just happy to be there.

Elizabeth and I were deep into our current topic of conversation when the young woman standing next to us interrupted to ask, “Did you see Benicio? ” Her tone implied they were best buds, possibly even related.

“He was here!”  My eyes darted like a pinball machine gone beserk.  So much for playing it cool.

“Oh, yes.”  She nodded with lazy-lidded self-assurance, her smile so satisfied it was positively post-coital.  “Earlier, for a half hour.  He’s gone now.”

So I ask you, how does a person, say me, manage to stand in the same (modest-size) room with Benicio Del Toro for a full thirty minutes and manage to miss him entirely ?!?

But then Mercury is in Retrograde.  It’s the only explanation, or at least the only one I’m willing to entertain.  (The alternate one being that I am a complete idiot)!  You see, Mercury isn’t just in any ole Retrograde but  retrograde in my Sun Sign of Libra.   Allow me to take this opportunity to express my advance thanks for your support.  Seriously.  Last week my laptop hard drive crashed.  The other day I ordered, or tried to order, replacement bags for my vaccuum cleaner.  First online, then via the 800 number.  It didn’t go well.  Suffice it to say I’m looking into weaving them by hand.

Watcha gonna do?  Mercury goes into Retrograde just three times a year though when you’re in it, it certainly feels longer.  October 14th, the end of this quarter’s phase, isn’t that far away though personally I’m holding off on signing any contracts and purchasing electronics like say, that laptop I now need until October 20th.  I believe in giving Mercury Retrograde a broad berth.

In the meantime, I’m practicing self-therapy in the form of LOL–laughing out loud.  How many of us include “LOL” in our emails, not to mention all those smiley face emoticons, and yet rarely practice either?  Maybe we can’t literally laugh our problems away but for sure a good chuckle can go a long way in cushioning the blow.

I was walking along Central Park the other day when one of the carriage drivers called out to an apparently insufficiently cheery passerby, “What’s up wich you, boss?  Did you suck lemons for breakfast or what?  Give that puss a rest and smile, why dontcha?”

Hope mugs for the camera with Mr. Wall Street, a very ghoulish guy.
Hope mugs for the camera with Mr. Wall Street, a very ghoulish guy.
Good advice when you think of it.  To whit, see the picture of me mugging for the camera with Mr. Wall Street.  Last Friday my friend Dee and I were strolling the West Village, killing time before a dinner reservation came due, when we ran into this ghoulishly funny fellow stationed outside a local restaurant.  As for the group shot of my birthday bash at the Brandy Library last Thursday, well, I’m really not priming to punch someone out, promise!

Few things in life are free.  Fortunately laughter is still one of them.  So go ahead live it up, kick back, and have a laugh on me.

Hope

The One Who Got Away

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The One Who Got Away…We all have one, which is to say a “The One.” You know what or rather who I mean. The O-N-E. Maybe he was your first love or your first big love. Maybe he was both. Maybe you broke up with him–but I’m betting my next book advance he broke up with you. Maybe you never really had him in the first place…but again, I’m betting you did. At least long enough for a part of him to sink into your psyche and your soul. Like that tattoo you rethink years later, you can obliterate the image but not the experience. That shiny white scar is yours–for keeps.

Only by definition The One Who Got Away isn’t a keeper, or at least he hasn’t been so far. And yet who among us hasn’t been moved by those real-life stories of high school sweethearts who find each other on ClassMates.com or reunion night after years, decades apart and fall in love all over again, even marry, in mid- and sometimes late life?

In Every Breath You Take, my January Harlequin Blaze release, former FBI Special Agent Cole Whittaker and microbiologist Alexandra–Alex–Kendall meet again after five painful years apart. Like so many real life reunions, theirs is completely unexpected, the circumstances far from ideal. Alex is about to marry another man, the same man who’s hired Cole as a bodyguard to escort her on her upcoming overseas business trip. Crazy in love with her, Cole still can’t envision his life having room in it for more than The Job. And yet they have a chance, a slim one, to get it right this time: four days of 24/7, up close-and-personal togetherness in steamy Belize.

I hope you enjoy my newly posted sneak peek excerpt — it’s only going to be on my site for a blink of time, to be replaced by a more permanent excerpt in a bit, so don’t let it get away. When you get two ticks, please post a little note to let me know what you think. Or feel free to share a snippet of your One Who Got Away story, especially if he didn’t stay away forever. Happily Ever Afters, we like those around here. 🙂

Hope

Head Over Heels

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Okay, I have officially become one of those people. You know, Those People. The People who a mere week ago I felt completely justified, even compelled, to make fun of. The People so besotted with their Blackberry AKA Crackberry devices they can’t take their eyes or hands off them for a minute. No matter how public the place or how scintillating the social scene, their gazes are fixed on that tiny backlit screen, their nimble fingers tap, tap tapping away at the miniscule keyboard. These are the people who suddenly draw to dead stops on busy sidewalks–and hey, it’s Manhattan, so it’s not like there are lots of un-busy sidewalks–Subway stairs, and yes, sometimes even crosswalks.

Okay, so maybe I haven’t done the zombie stuck in crosswalk thing, but it’s only been a week.

I got my Blackberry–The Curve, she’s called–exactly one week ago, last Friday. Chalk it up to the whole Mercury about to go into retrograde thing or just damned bad luck, but getting her programmed and primed to come home with me wasn’t exactly a cyberspace cakewalk.

Stepping into the Verizon store I realized I’d left my glasses at home. That’s bad. For those of you who are shrugging like that’s no big deal, I’ll just say this: Girlfriend isn’t a kid anymore. As we get ahem…older, size matters in ways you’d never really thought about size mattering before. Reference the words “tiny” and “miniscule” above. Ditto for “glare” and “light.”

After the glasses panic, the episode turned into one big downward spiral. I didn’t get the woman retailer I like, the one who speaks in soft, lilting Indian-accented English, the one who explains technology “stuff” so calmly and so well that I always leave the store humming “I am woman, hear me roar.” Instead I got one of her relatives, the smug, unpleasant man with the bad comb-over and the brusque manner. For all his posturing, he didn’t really understand how the device worked. Unfortunately for me, he didn’t much care if I understood how it worked, either. We had to call Verizon technical support–a lot.

The store is in Manhattan’s East Village, on the ambulance route to Beth-Israel. Fridays are busy ambulance days. I’m not sure why. They just are. Being on the Verizon hot line with sirens blaring and the store’s disco music going at full throttle was…well, a lot. Don’t get me wrong, I like Donna Summer as much as the next child of the 80’s, but when your head is splitting, you’ve left your glasses at home, and your not-yet-purchased Crackberry is down to two bars and the seller is refusing to spot you a charger, five back-to-back choruses of “Hot Stuff” is quite enough.

Another thing that tends to happen more on Fridays than any other day of the week is people freak out. It’s as though whatever’s been bugging them all week builds and builds so that by the time Friday rolls around, instead of hi-fiving each other and doing a TGIF version of Snoopy’s happy dance they detonate.

Case in point: a young man whose cellphone had stopped working came into the store. It turned out he just needed a charger. Unfortunately he only had $10. To get rid of him, the retailer (the reasonable woman, not the bad comb-over dude) agreed he could just pay the $10. The “reduced price” charger with tax came to $10.60. But remember, he only had $10–period. She told him he could pay just the $10 but bad comb-over guy wasn’t having that. The kid, who’d begun to sweat and speak at a high volume (AKA scream), went outside and panhandled the 60 cents in record time. Looking on with my one ear plastered to the store phone funneling precious tech support instruction and the rest of me prepping to hit the ground if need be, I was impressed. He returned with the change, only by now bad comb over guy suddenly decided he could keep it. An even ten dollars would do.

Only this young man had gone to some effort to get that 60 cents. He didn’t feel like he was being treated respectfully. He wanted to be appreciated.

“People are rude sometimes,” he howled into my free ear, part fury and part lament. “People really should be nicer.”

Yes, they should. Fortunately there is a Happy Ending to report. The kid slammed the 60 cents down on the desk and left without brandishing a weapon (bonus!). The technical support guy and I struck up sufficient sympatico to get the basic set-up on my Blackberry programmed. (Did I mention he had a very sexy voice)? The bad comb-over guy shoved my “free gift,” some crap carrying case, at me along with my receipt and rebate instructions and wished me a nice weekend in the tone usually associated with “Go to hell.” I got back to my apartment, my Blackberry fully functioning (albeit down to one bar) and my body fully intact, and poured myself a glass of wine.

Curvy and I’ve had quite a week together. I’ve taken her all over the city, checking and sending email in places I never would have dreamt of checking and sending email before. Last night we went to The Modern, the sleek, white-marble topped bar/lounge at the Modern Museum of Art or MOMA. While I waited for my buddy Liz to join me, I sipped my glass of chardonnay and yes, tapped away at Curvy’s cute little raised button keys, sifting through emails, panning through photo attachments, sending reports on my “status” to Facebook. Ah, the techno-life! I’m not sure whether I’m taking Her out tonight or if we’ll be spending a quiet evening at home instead. Aside from cats on Fancy Feast patrol, there’s no traffic to speak of in my apartment, so staying home is probably safer. Either way, my Blackberry won’t be out of my sight.

TGIF,

Hope

Keeping it Real

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Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Liz Maverick and Hope celebrate Liz's birthday in style.
Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, Liz Maverick and Hope celebrate Liz's birthday in style.

I recently met a female writer buddy for Indian food in the West Village.  Over a leisurely dinner of vegetable samosas, curried shrimp, and palak peneer, we chatted about a host of topics–our current writing projects (a given), restaurants, a lecture she’d  attended that day addressing psychoanalytic perspectives on attraction and mating, an award she’d just received for her excellent blog on women in history, and the upcoming national presidential election,  including yes, The Palin Factor.  After exhausting these topics, we took the conversation down a notch–okay, several notches–to yes, men and dating.

Elizabeth and Hope exchange serious looks.
Elizabeth and Hope exchange serious looks.

No matter how balding, paunchy and yes, middle-aged a man may be, no matter that his job may suck or that he may not have a job at all, he still operates on the principle that he has a God given right to date twenty-somethings and models.   

It seems that while my friend and I write fiction, a disturbing number of single men are living it.

Case in point, my friend recently attempted to fix up her attractive, got-it-going-on male co-worker with her attractive got-it-going-on female writer friend.  The man, who works in the finance industry, was so open to the fix-up that on his lunch break he pulled out his Blackberry and went to said writer’s web site.  Sufficiently intrigued, he went on to read her bio, which briefly mentions her graduate degree.  Finishing, he turned back to my friend, smile dropping, and said, “Sorry, but she’s too smart.”

Okay, so once a woman is over thirty-five, dumb is what, the new sexy? 

Pu-lease. 

On the extremely off-chance any single men are perusing this post, listen up, guys.  Whether you’re in your 30’s, 40’s, 50’s or older, the time has come to get real about this dating-slash-life stuff.  You are not going to end up with a model or an A-list actress.  You are not even going to start out with one.  Even if Brad Pitt was to be taken completely out of the picture, even if you were to step in and be Angelina Jolie’s shoulder-to-cry-on, her rock, she is still not going to have you.  Ditto for supermodel Heidi Klume and A-list actress, Jennifer Aniston.  Your chance of scoring with these babes is not only remote.  It is nonexistent.

These women are simply not going to have you, so get over it.

I realize that for many of you this comes as a shock, one that you will need some time, anywhere from the next few minutes to the rest of your lives to absorb.  The good news is that there are actual, real life women who maybe just maybe might be persuaded to have you or at least to take you for a test drive–think Zip Car versus the longer-term commitment of say, Hertz.  Generally speaking we’re Manhattan single women 35 and older, and as a cohort we’re well-heeled, well kept, well read, and well employed.  We’re smart.  And sexy.  Like Forest Gump’s peas and carrots, like peanut butter and chocolate in a Reese’s cup, smart and sexy aren’t mutually exclusive.  They can go together.  In real life, they usually do.  Still have doubts?  Then check out these photos of my buddy, Liz Maverick’s birthday bash at Shalel last Saturday.

Dorchester author, Leanna Hieber takes Liz's Steampunk goggles for a test run.

Real life isn’t so bad, now is it?

Hope

Really!

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The other night a man had an “angry white male” meltdown a la Michael Douglas’s character in “Falling Down” on the sidewalk below my bedroom window.  Now before anyone gets their–meaning, his–boxers in a twist, allow me to explain that in addition to making a perfectly legitimate reference to the not-so-very-good 1993 film starring this otherwise wonderful actor, the individual in question was also really, really, really angry.  Certifiably…angry, and quite possibly certifiable–period.  Or at least that was my read of the situation based on the fists he was jabbing a hairsbreadth away from the startled faces of a trio of delivery people and yes, the expletives streaming from his mouth like…Well, enuf said.

The meltdown-ee was verbally accosting–as well as air punching–three deliverymen who’d set up a ramp across the sidewalk to get the goods, so to speak, from their truck to the convenience store next to my building.  They do this every night roughly around 1:00 AM.  It’s nothing new–really. 

But apparently circumventing the operation by crossing the street, walking down a block, and then re-crossing every night was blowing this dude’s bliss–big time.

The delivery guys handled the scenario far better than many of us would.  Rather than playing into the drama, they kept their cool and their hands to their sides–well, except for the guy who used his fingers to plug his ears.  Anyone of them could have pounded the screamer into the pavement, into pulp, only no one did.  Instead they stood there and took it until the guy finally exhausted himself and stalked away, spent but still seething.  At that point, they did break out and laugh and well, I couldn’t really blame them.

Meltdowns aren’t really laughing matters, but they do make the rest of us feel, if not exactly superior, then certainly uber together.  Meltdowns really aren’t so very bad–so long as they happen to other people.

I like to keep my blog sunny side up.  Ask me if the glass is half empty or half-full, and I’ll not only call it as half full, but I’ll point out that heck, you’ve also got a glass.  In hand.

And so this week has challenged me–big time.

I had to fire someone today, someone to whom I’ve paid good money, really good money, someone to whom I’ve been loyal, someone from whom I expected not only some loyalty but yes, decent service in return.  When my loyalty was tested beyond its limit, when a lack of professionalism collided with a surfeit of cockiness, causing a mistake of potentially colossal proportions for which I alone would take the hit, when I dared to stop being a good girl, to stop smiling and taking it while signing that big check, this someone–he–had the audacity to call me out for being emotional, for being a woman.

To paraphrase SNL’s Amy Poehler and Seth Meyers’ “Weekend Update” shtick, “Really ?  Really !!!”

To be really clear, I never once raised my voice to this man.  I used no expletives (not out loud, anyway–there was a thought bubble scenario) nor did I pantomime punching him out, tempting as that might have been.  And yet pointing out calmly, clearly, and yes firmly what he’d: a) done wrong and b) not done at all somehow made it okay for him to brand me as “emotional.”

Because I’m a woman.

As if being a woman weren’t bad enough, I am also a Libra–you know, the scales of justice, the eternal striving for balance, the expectation–demand–that things be fair. 

And so I did what any respectable Libran woman would do.  I got my Donald Trump on and I fired him.  On the spot.  Termination effective immediately.

Whether it’s that Hillary’s pants suits aren’t svelte enough or that Sarah’s lip gloss is too pink, apparently women remain the fifty-percent “minority” it’s still okay to blatantly and publicly degrade.

But what we women are isn’t only resilient.  As women–because we’re women–we’re downright tough.  You’d have to be tough to not only survive but thrive in these centuries-upon-centuries following yes, “The Dawn of Man.”

Back in July, I had the great pleasure of hearing Gail Blanke speak at the national Romance Writers of America conference in San Francisco.  Though I’m just over halfway through, Gail’s latest book, BETWEEN TRAPEZES, is riding high on my must-read-this-book list.  In it, she urges us all to “step into our power” not just once in a while but every single day.  Gail’s message isn’t specific to feminism or women but for the purpose of this post, I’m taking it that way.  Hey, as she points out in her book, we mostly make decisions based on interpretations, not facts, and since according to her we all get to make “It” up, for the few hours left of today, like the ole fast-food burger commercial, I’m having it my way.

Yes, really!

Hope

P.S.  Okay so this wasn’t exactly how I envisioned my launch post from my spiffy new WordPress interface but well, life happens.  Tune in next week and I promise to be back to my glass-half-full self.