Underwear Ware

It was a perfectly wonderful south Florida day, until about 10AM.  Susan and I screwed up making the coffee but no big deal.  We still enjoyed our catch up conversation and just being together.  Because my exercise schedule was a little off I thought it would be a good idea to go to my cousins club house and get on the treadmill.  There was plenty of time to exercise, get a bite to eat and still make it to my 2:00 meeting about Gefilte Fish Chronicles the Musical at the Wick theater in Boca. I figured I would put my stuff in the car so it wouldn’t be forgotten. This is an important detail to remember.

For whatever reason, incompetence, a stupid GPS or roads that seemed to change in mere minutes, getting lost was the norm rather than “oops” — which is me being stupid.  But I know the difference between Yamato and Glades road.  Thing is that when you’re driving to see a little bitty sign that suggests you turn immediately in order to take Butts to Glades.  But that’s not important now.  Anyway, I was happily on my way to Broken Sound. 

The first indication that things were not going my way, was when I took my stuff into the club house and didn’t have my earphones or the clothes I had packed to change into.  At this point the clothing for my workout was clown pants, sneakers, and my Boonton T-shirt.  But where was the additional bag with all my dress clothing.  Back at Susan’s. So, I exercised took a shower dressed unencumbered by any undergarments. All I had was the t-shirt and clown pants. but no underpants. bra, shoes or make-up. Now, I know that young people who don’t  have floppy boobs or a gelatinous tush, don’t have to wear underwear.  Not the case with me.  And not to have earphones  on the elliptical, tragic.  There was no question about dressing.
What to do.  I didn’t have time to get back to Susan’s. But I figured the Town Center would have a pair of underpants, a bra and some reasonable shoes. 

First I went to Macy’s for the shoe’s and got a really cheap pair of Steve Madden’s  for $20. I asked the GPS to find the closest Forever 21.  And while there was one right around the corner in the Mall, they suggested the drive to Delray would be 25 minutes. There isn’t even a Forever in Delray— trust me.  So rather than get back in the car and drive for 25 minutes. Right past the food court and around the corner, is the store.  Not a great Forever but one none the less. They have to have a lingerie sections I thought as I wandered around the store.  When I asked the sales person she looked at me like I nuts, like she didn’t know the word bra.  It reminded me of the time when I asked a sales person in lingerie  for thongs,  and she directed me to the underwear department.  There was a time when what we now call flip flops were called thongs.  OK, and honest mistake.  But there was never a time that my travels took me to Forever and they didn’t have undies and bras. Well, this one didn’t.   

It was getting late and given my travel history I thought it was time to get on the road. The directions seemed simple enough. (Oh, I had no bra or underpants, but I bought a large t-shirt to cover the floppers. ) And off to Costume World, which for the time being houses the CEO of the Wick Theater.  After about fifteen minutes nothing looked familiar.  When I checked the GPS it said I would arrive at my destination in two hours.  Nonsense, my trip thereto other day took twenty minutes max.  After I put the destination in the GPS four more times, it said to head west toward Dixie Highway, which it also said it was South Federal Highway — where the meeting was to take place. You ask yourself, does a GPS have the capacity to lie?  Apparently it does.  My arrival was without fanfare, an hour after I set out, but exactly on time for the meeting  It was harrowing.  Lots of cocktails on the agenda for the evening.

Not to change the subject but let’s change the subject.  When I hear Drump speak it makes me feel like there must be music to make me feel better, and there is, but it’s all music from those years when we were in the midst of the struggles, in the 60’s — Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Crosby Stills and Nash singing, “Ohio”, Richie Havens, Bob Dylan and Micky Katz — don’t ask.

The President is going to Mari-lago again.  i don’t think we need to worry about the President’s health — the people in Palm Beach may kill him for the disruptive inconvenience he is causing them every week.  We’re just sayin’… Iris

Campaign Pals - Not THIS Campaign

What the media and the public don’t understand is that Drump knows exactly what he’s doing.  For example, now all the Drump supporters will feel bad for “Oh poor Ivanka” (lets be honest, my mother in law said it a long time ago,  “Ivanka is a stupid name.” ) and look for her clothing line. Her father is not stupid - he got two days of free publicity for the line.  Kelly Anne, did exactly what he wanted her to do.  Did he take her to task for her ethical mishaps?  Don’t be ridiculous.  He probably asked her to do it.  The Drump Administration along with most of the Republican House and Senate in ages, have lost their moral core.  The Drump journey cannot be separated from the appointees or elected officials.

Not to distract from my rantings, but today the officer in the TSA Precheck line searched my sparkly bag, which I told him looked very nice on him. They saw something.  What could there be in that bag I thought? After taking everything out of the bag and spreading it all over his station he finally found the culprit  — the Metamucel. He held it up, opened it and poured some out. Remember the first time you went to the drugstore to buy sanitary napkins or rubbers?  You thought you would never get over the embarrassment.  Such was the feeling today.  Does everyone in the airport need to know I don't have regular bowel movements?  It seems they do.

Politics has been a big part of my life mostly because it gave me the opportunity to meet so many terrific people and then meet wonderful people through those people.  Yesterday I found the daughter of one of my dearest political friends.  Another nice story about what political relationships used to mean.  Among other things, those friends were loyal, caring, insightful, committed to positive change and yes, loving.  Sure there was sex on the campaign trail but that’s not what I mean.  Although my X (the sperm donor -  that’s how we refer to him because he did give me a great kid), once accused me of giving blo jobs in back seats — now you know why he’s my X.  All those years ago, in the light ages, (these are the dark ages), when you could count on the friends you made in the campaign. When I arrived in DC, unencumbered by money, a job, or a place to live, the one possession I took with me, was my Fiat 500 Station wagon. It wasn’t much of a vehicle. It was small, you could say tiny because that would not be an exaggeration. But it was big enough to sleep in.  And that’s what happened. I slept in my car on Capitol Hill, close to some hotels so I could clean up for job interviews. On occasion, when I wanted to take a shower, I would swing by my pals, Jane and Wes — they had a great house, a great kid and a shower.   At some point Jane asked where I was staying that didn’t have a shower. When my answer was my car, they insisted I move in with them until I could find a job and somewhere to live. It was an incredible experience. They were early civil rights activists, so the frequent parties we had were populated with their friends like Julian Bond, and creme de la creme of the Carter Administration.  We were family.  But when we all realized that they were talking to me and not to each other, it was time for me to go.

They got divorced. Wes had lung cancer and a heart condition, and died some years ago.  Jane remarried and has early Alzhiemers — but when we talk she laughs and seems to remember all the silly things we did.  Yesterday, after much too long, I found their daughter, LD on Facebook. She looks just like her mom did when we met.  A smile never to be forgotten. We have not talked yet but I am happy to report that her parents passed down their values. And her postings on Facebook are exceptional. She is a writer, I expected her writing to be literate, but her choice of postings are thoughtful, moving, perceptive, and right in line with what a smart and progressive thinking person person might post.


In my dotage, I find reflecting on times and people I love or loved, just remind me that the future can be a great as the past… I better get busy.   We’re just sayin’… Iris

That Next Stage. Did Someone say Stage?

To all our faithful readers I owe you an apology. Remember I said that Trump wouldn’t be that bad, after all he was a Democrat 2 years ago.  Turns out he is more horrible than any of us could have imagined.  But enough about Drump, he is not worth the paper this is printed on…Hold up it’s not printed on paper so I guess he’s worth nothing.  Over the last few weeks My Facebook has taken a real hit.  It was necessary to defriend a number of people who, although I like them, have taken to calling me horrible names.  Those kind of comments are neither welcome nor appropriate.  Moving on to a much more important informations.

A good friend, Linus asked his sister (also a dear friend), Lucy, to tell him a story.  Here is the story;  “a man was born and  he lived and died, the End”.  If only it was that simple.  Turns out, living is quite complicated.  Not only that, but the complications only increase, until in fact, you die.  Which unfortunately we all will.  

When I was born my grandmother Sadie sad it was too bad I wasn’t a boy. So the doctor put a mustache on me, because my dad had a mustache and I looked just like him. The consequences were that I always had a mustache (ask any girl with dark hair) but I didn’t have a penis. I didn’t understand what that meant until I got older than a few hours, because my dad (the true man in my life), always thought I was fabulous.  He was sure I could do anything and luckily I believed him.  The struggle began when I was in high school and they made me take home Ec, (cooking and sewing), instead of learning something worthwhile, like auto mechanics or wood shop.  That was my introduction to gender injustice.  As you can imagine, fighting injustice is a life-long occupation.  Luckily, I am a baby boomer, there was no shortage of injustice in the 60’s and 70’s. By the 80’s I was exhausted, but we made change. Real change in civil rights, human rights, women’s rights, academics and the war.  Who could ever have imagined we would have to do it again. In case you haven’t noticed, the Cabinet and most of the White House staff are white men, mostly old white men  It looks like th 50’s and their thinking has not progressed into the 21 century.

Back to life and transitions, personal and professional.  We talked, as Lucy said, about being born. Now we’re into the meat — or the lived. areas of Communication called to me.  Mostly teaching and politics.  Emerson College, in those years  accepted those of us who did not do too well on SAT’s, but it prepared me for any career path of my choice, and remember, my dad said I could do anything, so off we go.  Once you get  hooked on politics it is hard to go in any other direction. Once you become part of that conversation, it is hard to learn another language.

Anyway, Waltham high School, Boston University and a Jewish bakery in Brookline and St Mary’s in central Ma. made it possible for me to continue my whole life education. The living continued with a disastrous marriage and a wonderful child.  The passion for politics continued and miraculously  a Presidential campaign appeared.  After painful losses we became President.  But I had no job and was living in my car  In this case you used all your resources to survive. At that point in this endless recounting of “alternative facts”, the greater unknown determined I would work in Presidential Politics every four years, while in between remained a mystery.  Teaching at University level, The world of non-profits, Television Executive, and theater were always on the horizon, but never more than  four years because then there was an election.

Once again, marriage and an amazing child.  Selfishly, I was not to be deterred from any dreams — what a lie, but moving on….  There was government and television.  The conversation was the same.  Was I lucky, I traveled all over this country and the world, working with terrific, smart, savvy people.  Henry Kissinger was my dinner partner at the White House Correspondents dinner.  Movie stars, musicians, Pulitzer Prize winners, Cabinet Secretarys, Stan Lee, Stewart Mott, Congress people, Senators, the rich and famous, the Easter egg roll, and yes I danced with Fred Astaire, lived in India with Dickie Attenborough when we were producing Gandhi, and always had the Presidential Box at the Kennedy Center.  There was no place I couldn’t go, and nothing I couldn’t do. 

They say all good things have a time limit.  Which is probably true, but so what.  I am and was beyond fortunate both personally and professionally.  I find myself at a crossroads.  Should I retire or spend the last quarter (I am a “fourth quarter Queen”), doing exactly what I have dreamed.  Which would be OK but I have already done everything I dreamed — except producing my musical. 

Anyway, when things are confusing or untenable, or fantastic, we often look for the “comfort and joy” part of our lives. Sometimes we think we have found the answers and sometimes we are still asking questions.  Yes, the continued questioning takes us forward but we will never find the answer to, “why me?”   How do I go on?  What does my future look like?  My guess is it looks like the past with me always yelling about injustice, trying to encourage young women to get a grip, and hoping beyond hope that my kids have learned about what’s a good life, from me, our family, and all works that went before they were grown up.

We’re just sayin’… Iris