Flintstones Mobile

Thought I’d be back this Monday but turns out I’m on the bench for one last week.  So Sherri Frank Mazzotta has kindly filled the breach and is batting 4th.  Thanks, Sherri.  Will see everyone next Monday.

 

I never learned how to drive.  Not formally, at least:  No driver’s ed.  No practice rides in parking lots.  When I was 17, Dad pulled into the A&P and said, “Okay, you drive.”  So we switched places.  I got behind the wheel of his big-ass Lincoln Town car.  This was back in the early ’80s, before they’d shrunk the Lincoln and all cars down to environmentally friendly versions.  The hood stretched two-lanes wide.  The pedals seemed far away.  “Which one is the gas?” I asked, just to be sure.  Then I adjusted the rear-view mirror, clutched the wheel, and off we went.

We took back roads that had corn fields on both sides.  Cows and horses in pastures.   It was August and sunny and I was scared to death, wincing at oncoming cars, hoping the road was wide enough for both of us. But I was driving.

“Go easy on the brakes,” Dad said.   Every time I touched them, we’d both pitch forward toward the windshield.  This was before people wore seatbelts too.

By the time we hit the highway, I was feeling more confident.  I put my elbow on the arm rest, the way Dad always did.   “I’m doing pretty good, aren’t I?” I asked.  He just shook his head and told me, “Keep both hands on the wheel.”

I drove for an hour.  I was trembling but exhilarated by the time I got out of the car.   Dad let me drive on the way home, too.  All went fine until I stopped hard at a light.  He lurched out of his seat, grabbed the dashboard, and hit his head on the sun visor.  “That’s it,” he said.  “I’m driving.”

And that was the end of my driving lessons.

Still, I got my license on the first try, though I failed the parallel parking part of the test.  I guess parallel parking isn’t that important in New Jersey, where every house has a driveway and every store a parking lot.

Soon afterwards, I took Mom’s Mustang to the mall.  It was dark and raining when my sister and I finished shopping.   I got confused trying to find the entrance to Route 80, and somehow headed up an off ramp.  I managed to turn around, but as I made a second turn, a car rammed into our passenger-side door.

That was the end of driving Mom’s car, too.

After that, I became terrified to drive.  Not because of the accident, but because I never got enough practice.  My friends picked me up and dropped me off on endless trips to the movies, Burger King, and the mall.  It’s true, there wasn’t much to do in Jersey.  My older sister got up early to drive me to work.  My brother took me to play rehearsal.   I became a perpetual passenger, carted around like a sack of laundry.  Dependent on others to get where I was going–which I resented.

At night, I dreamed I was trying to drive but the car wouldn’t move unless I ran with it, like Fred in his Flintstones mobile.  Even then, I couldn’t keep it going for very long.  My legs got tired.  The car stalled.  Others speeded by, but I was stuck.

Then I moved to Boston and didn’t need a car.  I could get most places by bus or subway.   My friends drove, so I could also get to the beach–but only when they wanted to go.  I hated that Volkswagen commercial with the tag line, “Drivers wanted.”  It implied that drivers were bold, fun-loving people.  And passengers were just dullards, relegated to reading maps and scraping up change for tolls.

Then I moved to Boston and didn’t need a car.  I could get most places by bus or subway.   My friends drove, so I could also get to the beach–but only when they wanted to go.  I hated that Volkswagen commercial with the tag line, “Drivers wanted.”  It implied that drivers were bold, fun-loving people.  And passengers were just dullards, relegated to reading maps and scraping up change for tolls.

I was also ashamed I couldn’t drive.  It was my deep dark secret, hidden the way some people hide the fact that they can’t read.   To me, it meant I wasn’t an adult.  I wasn’t in control of my life, which was difficult to accept.

When I got a job opportunity in Sudbury, I rented a car for the interview.  Sure, I’d rented cars before, but each time felt like the first time:  Sweating.  Trembling.  Sleepless a week in advance.  After I got the job, I borrowed money to buy a car.  Maybe I was motivated by the prospect of a new situation.  Or maybe I was just tired of waiting on rides.  But suddenly I owned a car and I was a driver.  I was breathing the sweet scent of gasoline on a regular basis, and it felt good.

It took years to feel comfortable behind the wheel.  Now, I drive all the time:  At night, in the rain, in the snow.   Between Massachusetts and New Jersey.  On one of those trips, an 18-wheeler ran my car off of Route 84, and I ended up in the gully between lanes.  My husband jolted awake in the passenger seat, cursing.  But the car was fine.  We were fine.  So I just pulled up onto the road again and kept driving.  Sure, I was shaken.  But I knew how important it was to get back in the saddle.  Or in this case, back in the bucket seat.

Others may be proud of their golf scores or their cooking skills, but driving is still one of my biggest accomplishments.  Every time I merge onto Route 128 without being hit by a truck, it feels like a victory.  I take my place on the highway and smile, knowing that I’ve moved far beyond my Flintstones mobile.

“If everything seems under control, you’re just not going fast enough.” Mario Andretti

I.M. WITH MOM

Next up during my recovery month (which is going well) is Harry K.  Enjoy!

 

K.: I just met with a career prostitute.

M: Oh my goodness!

K.: She talked to me for three hours about her experiences.

M: Another chapter for your “chick lawyer” book?

K.: Probably. I’ve been thinking about chapter headings. Maybe one could be, “Harry, what should I wear to Court?”

M: I remember thinking it needed more chapters.

K.: Or another, “Harry, will you buy me some cigarettes?”

M: Good…! Keep thinking!

K.: “Harry, am I going to jail?”

M: Yes!

K.: These are the common questions and many anecdotes flow from these.

M: I can only imagine.

K.: The prostitute’s stories were amazing.

M: Yes, I’ll bet, and think of the ones she did NOT tell you.

K.: She was arrested for indecent exposure once because she was wearing a very tight cat suit. She represented herself.

M: Did she win?

K.: She stood up at her arraignment and said to the judge,…

M: Male or female judge?

K.: Male. So she said…

M: Suspense is killing me!

K.: “Your honor, you see anything indecent about me?”

M: Lol.

K.: She also told the judge, “I’m from New York, and this is how we dress, and when I drove over the border, I saw a sign about not having any guns, but I didn’t see nuthin ’bout no dress code!!”

M: ROFL!

K.: Yea, I liked that one a lot. She won, too. Case dismissed at arraignment.

M: Good for her.

K.: She stabbed a guy once, too.

M: Such talent…wasted on johns.

K.: Apparently the cops knew her well enough to know that she was justified.

M: Self defense?

K.:  Yea.

M: What else have you been up to?

K.: Well, I went to the jail to visit a couple of my guys recently.

M: I bet they’re not as interesting.

K.: They have some amazing stories too, but that prostitute was pretty remarkable.

M: Yes, I can tell.

K.: One of my guys has a tendency to use a lot of malapropisms. He said he had a “pleflora” of papers.

M: Not a malapropism exactly.

K.: No, but cute. Another time he said something about “racial epitaphs.” And he said that the cab of his truck vibrated and “cogitated like a washer/dryer.”

M: I see that for all intensive porpoises he was still able to get his point across…

K.: Despite the flaw in his ointment…

M: Did you insure him that you would profligate him through the lecherous waters of the system?

K.: Yes, yes! He’s been hanging around in libido for so long that any progress will make him extantic! The prosecutor is venomously opposed to a dismal of the case!

M: Stop stop!! Lol!

K.: By the way, he injured his onus.

M: ROFL!

K.: Anyway, back to the jail. I was surprised by the number of unsupervised children playing just outside the doors. It was dark out.

M: How old were they?

K.: Well, I’m no good with that, not having had any myself….

M: Yes. Big disappointment.

K.: Sigh. I’d say they were maybe eight or nine years old.

M: Were the guards watching them?

K.: No, not even the guards seemed to notice them. It was downright Dickensian.

M: Did the kids notice you?

K.: Yes, they immediately stopped sliding down the rails and running in circles to rush up to me to say hello!

M: Cute!

K.: Yes, but weird. Anyway, I had some serious trouble with the metal detector.

K.: Yes, but weird. Anyway, I had some serious trouble with the metal detector.

K.: I did get in finally – I’ve gotten pretty good at navigating the process – getting the right clipboard of forms – lining up the grooves in the locker tokens with the nubs in the locks – -figuring out how to switch off between walking shoes and high heeled shoes and such.

M: So what happened with the metal detector?

K.: The underwire bra phenomenon!

M: Oh dear.

K.: Yea, no visible metal on me anywhere – rings, off; glasses off; watch, off. Annoying buzz nevertheless.

M: How did you figure out it was your bra?

K.: The dreaded WAND detector! Silent over the legs, silent down the arms, silent over the back, BEEP BEEP BEEP over the breasts!  Cripes.

M: Well, you know, you don’t really need to wear a bra…

K.: Yes, Mother.

M: We’ll have to figure a way to work it into the chick lawyer book.

K.: That should be easy. If I ever get around to writing it…

M: How is music going? Are you going to start your own band some time?

K.: Nah.

M: Even go on the road?

K.: Nah.

M: You could get preggers!

K.: Sigh.

M: Well, Em, I really don’t know how you do it all [admire, admire]. I’m glad to know it’s my daughter who is being one of the GOOD ones, giving lawyers a GOOD name for a change.

K.: Awww, thanks, Mom. I love you!

M: I love you, too.

K.: Later.

M: Later.

Phantom Gourmet

This past Thursday I had shoulder  surgery which knocks me out of the writing box for about 3 or 4 weeks.   Rather than close shop I’ve asked people to substitute for me.  First up is Sherri Mazzotta:

 

These days, food is big business.  There are “Food Phests” in every city.  The Food Network offers 24 hours of programs such as “Good Eats,” “Cupcake Wars,” and “Barefoot Contessa.” Book stores are filled with food magazines and food “memoirs.” Chefs are now celebrities recognized by first name alone:  Giada, Paula, Emeril, Nigella.  And it’s no longer just the Phantom Gourmet helping us find the best pancetta-stuffed pork chops in town.  We’ve got plenty of food bloggers and restaurant reviewers pointing us in the tastiest direction.

My husband and I like to think we know “good” food, though our definition sometimes stretches to include the pancakes at several north-Jersey diners. We have our own way of judging the quality of food, and it has nothing to do with Michelin stars.  For us, it comes down to a simple question:

If we were on death row, what would we choose as our last meal?

We often debate this over a weeknight dinner of spaghetti or cereal. I hope that doesn’t mean we’ve run out of conversation after eight years of marriage.   Never mind what we might have done to get on death row.  Never mind that we don’t live in a state that sanctions the death penalty.  And never mind the politics seething behind the issue of capital punishment.  The important part of the conversation is the food.  What foods are so deliciously stupendous that we’d choose them over all other foods as the last thing we’d want to eat before exiting this world?

Truly, isn’t that the highest praise we could give a meal?  Isn’t that worth far more than any Zagat’s rating?

Steve envisions a day’s worth of meals, though I told him that was cheating, since you’d only get one meal.  One choice.  For breakfast, his menu includes eggs benedict with steak.  For lunch, a pepperoni pizza.  And for dinner, the Capital Grille’s filet mignon, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and potatoes au gratin.

“I don’t think the Capital Grille does take out,” I tell him, because I’m a stickler for detail.

“Somebody from the prison could go pick it up.”

“Why would they do that for a convicted felon?”

“They’d have to.  It’s my last-meal request.”

I shake my head.  “You couldn’t eat all of that in single day.  You’d get sick.”

But really, does it matter how much indigestion your last meal causes if you’re going to be put out of your intestinal misery–and all of your misery–at the end of the day?

Since I first selected it, my last meal hasn’t wavered.  Despite all of the warm goat cheese salads, Kona-crusted sirloins, and chocolate lava cakes I’ve eaten over the years, when it comes right down to it, I’m a Jersey girl at heart and like the simple things in life.  My last meal would be a Bertucci’s pizza with roasted zucchini followed by a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.  And don’t forget the Rolling Rock.  If I’m going out, I’m not going out sober.  The only question is whether or not to add pepperoni on the pizza.

“Bertucci’s isn’t that good–not if it’s your last meal on earth,” Steve says.

As if there’s a right answer.  As if this isn’t all about opinion.

“Pizza and ice cream are the perfect combination,” I say.  “I can’t think of anything I’d rather have.”

Of course, you’d have plenty of time to think about your last meal while on death row.  But I’m a planner, so I’d feel better knowing that I had this figured out before my cell door slammed.  One less thing to worry about, I suppose.  Troubleshooting, as a friend of mine always says.  But how hungry would you be if you knew you were about to die?  Pretty hungry, I think.  Especially if you’re a stress eater like me.

Steve and I use the last meal as a yardstick when we try out a new restaurant:

“These steak tips are great,” he says.  “Really tender and flavorful.”

“Yes, but would they make your last-meal request?” I ask.

He puts down his fork to give serious thought to this question.  Finally, he looks at me and says, “No. They wouldn’t.”

I smile:  There are good meals, there are great meals, and there are last meals.

Who needs restaurant critics?

There are web sites cataloguing the last meals of criminals who have been executed (http://www.famouslastmeals.com/ and http://www.icanhasinternets.com/2012/02/the-last-meals-of-the-infamously-condemned/). Here, for instance, you can learn that serial killer John Wayne Gacy’s last meal included a dozen deep-fried shrimp, a bucket of original recipe chicken from KFC, French fries, and a pound of strawberries.  The sites include photos of the criminals as well as their last meals–in case you have trouble picturing what that bucket of chicken looks like.

Not everyone chooses a complete meal.  Aileen Wuornos opted for a cup of black coffee. Timothy McVeigh selected two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream.  Velma Barfield, the first woman to be executed in the United States after the 1976 return of capital punishment, asked for a can of Coke and a bag of Cheez Doodles.  I hadn’t considered snack foods as part of my last meal, since I’d want to save room for the pizza.  But if calories don’t count, appetite is infinite, and we’re using my husband’s multi-meal approach, I’d tack on a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, perhaps as an afternoon snack.

One of the strangest last-meal requests came from James Edwards Smith in Texas. Instead of a meal, Smith requested a lump of dirt, apparently for a Voodoo ritual.  Because dirt wasn’t on the approved list of prison foods, his request was denied.  He settled for a cup of yogurt instead.  Maybe yogurt was on the approved list for the Voodoo ritual, because I can’t imagine choosing anything so nutritious.  I’m not going out sober, and I’m not going out skinny either.

And speaking of Texas, which has executed more people than any other state since 1976 (count:  478):  In September 2011, the state announced that it would no longer accommodate the last-meal requests of prisoners on death row (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/23/us/texas-death-row-kitchen-cooks-its-last-last-meal.html).  Those scheduled for execution now receive the same meal served to other inmates in the unit.  Talk about being robbed.  Talk about getting a bum rap.

Inmates can blame convicted killer Lawrence Russell Brewer, whose last-meal request included the following : Two chicken fried steaks with gravy and sliced onions; a triple meat bacon cheeseburger; a cheese omelet with ground beef, tomatoes, onions, bell peppers, and jalapenos; a pound of barbecued meat with half a loaf of white bread; a bowl of fried okra with ketchup; three fajitas;  a meat-lover’s pizza; a pint of Blue Bell ice cream; a slab of peanut-butter fudge with crushed peanuts; and three root beers.

Does anybody really eat okra?  Or know what it is?  Maybe if Brewer had left out the fried okra, nobody would have taken notice.   Or maybe if he’d actually eaten any of the food he’d ordered…

Perhaps the Food Network could do a show about last meals.  Apprentice chefs might cook their best beef wellington or chicken parmigiana for a panel of death-row inmates.  The inmates would choose which meal they’d want on their final day.  Again, is there any higher praise?  The show might be called, “Dead Man Cooking” or “Cooking with the Convicts.”  Hey, in a world with programs focused on the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” and “Dog The Bounty Hunter,” it’s not such a crazy idea.  It would definitely put a new spin on the concept of “Phantom Gourmet.”  The winning chef would get a spot on “Good Morning America” and his/her own show – this time, cooking for people who are likely to be alive to watch future episodes.

But don’t rely on “Bobby Flay’s Barbecue Addiction” or “Rachael Ray’s Tasty Travels,” to help you decide what’s best to eat.  Give it some thought.  Ask one simple question:  What would you choose as your last meal?

“One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well.” Virginia Woolf 

I MADE IT ‘TIL 10

I’d planned to watch the show until the bitter end while sifting through the #OSCAR tweets for today’s post.  Well, I still plan to sift and winnow-but it won’t be ’til the bitter end.  My head would have exploded and then you’d get no tweets and I wouldn’t have a column.  So, these tweets finish after Christopher Plummer’s Award.  I really did try

 

THE RUNWAY:

@Ethan_Anderton: “Let the next five hours crawl by!”

@tinch: “We’re still here with people entering a building.”

@lizzwinstead: “As bad as these red carpet questions are, they are better than John King during the debates.”

@dustinj: “The best dressed at our house tonight will be our 3 kids in clean pajamas after bath time.”

@james_priya: “Here is Sacha Baron Cohen as The Dictator spilling Kim Jong-il’s “ashes” on Ryan Seacrest.”

@shutupbuck: “That awkward moment when Melanie Griffin tries to snort ashes off Ryan Seacrest’s jacket.”

@GailPennington: “Big mushroom buns on top of women’s heads. No.”

@michael_epps: “All of these borrowed jewels. Not impressed. Elizabeth Taylor, and the old Hollywood stars rocked their own bling.”

@swish: “Why is a Brit doing Red Carpet interviews on ABC? Brits should steal our difficult acting roles, not superficial small talk roles.”

@waitwait: “Colin Firth’s wife’s dress looks like it was designed to catch food that falls out of your mouth. This is a dress we need.”

@barbarachai: “Nick Nolte kills me. “If I knew what you said, I’d be able to answer you.””

Capricecrane: “The only thing sadder than being 2nd choice host tonight is everyone’s telling Billy Crystal to break a “hip” instead of a “leg.””

@pourmecoffee: “Billy Crystal may be a little late. He’s coming all the way from the 80’s.”

Josh Hara @yoyoha: “who’s that?” – best follow up question to “who are you wearing?”

@LizB: “My first outfit change! eberjey pajamas, purple with pink trim. the 2010 collection.”

@LouisPeitzman: “Really grateful to Glenn Close for bringing matronly chic back.”

Imogen Lloyd Webber@illoydwebber: “Nothing like a “red carpet” show to remind one that actors need writers.”

@DamienFahey: “Every Oscars red carpet interview is as graceful as running into someone you kind of know at the supermarket.”

@SteveHuff: “We’ll all be happy children in the sun again when this is over, right? “I was lying in a burned-out basement…””

 

THE OSCARS:

@BorowitzReport: “If a black-and-white silent film wins Best Picture it will give hope to surveillance cameras everywhere.”

@seanoconnz: “Billy Crystal is sitting through a power point presentation about who now works in Hollywood since he stopped working 13 years ago.”

@hulu: “Take a drink if you’ve got Sammy Davis Jr. and Justin Bieber making a Hitler joke in your Oscars drinking game.”

@alyssabereznak: I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the music is drowning out billy crystal’s voice.”

@slackmistress: “Oscar gift bags this year include a week-long trip to the Catskills, a Viagra prescription and a selection of hard candies.”

@Zap2itRick (about the winner): “I did not know Gregg Allman had a second career as a cinematographer.”

@SteveDahlShow (about the winner): “I bet that cinematographer gets REALLY good pot!”

@DougBenson: “Billy Crystal is at Octavia Spencer’s seat, begging her to do some one armed push-ups when she wins.”

@tohoscope: “Is it me or is Billy Crystal looking more and more like Bela Lugosi?”

@StevenAmiri: “In case you were wondering, Billy Crystal is old and Jewish.”

@lizzwinstead: “Guess Jennifer Lopez thought this was The Golden Globes.”

CJ Werleman@rationalists: “I can see Jennifer Lopez’s nipples. They taste like TV screen.”

@chrisburlingame: “A film from Iran just won an Academy Award as Rick Santorum throws together some ill-conceived talking points.”

@dbrauer: “Think any Republican presidential candidate will rip the Academy for the Iranian film beating the Israeli one?”

@NotBillWalton: “Responsibilities of Oscar volunteers: Fill empty seats, direct traffic in the aisles, and remind Nick Nolte that he’s still on Earth.”

@DamienFahey: “If you miss the Oscars, catch up on the show by heading to the nearest Home Depot and staring at a beige paint swatch for 3 hours.”

@MarinaGipps: “Every year I’ve watched #oscars i kind of felt like these people were gollum & whatever unlikely award was “my precious”…”

@AntDeRosa@KeithOlbermann: “This is the WORST EPISODE of Downton Abbey EVER.”

@DeathAndTaxes: “Is Cirque Du Soliel what it’s like to be French and on acid at the same time?”

@brentalfloss: “And that’s what you do when you fall off of another man’s upside-down-feet on live national television.”

@LaurelSnyder: “This is the part where they dangle Chris Rock in front of us, and we laugh, before we trudge back to Billy Crystal.”

@JillMorris: “I think Hollywood is still too depressed about Heath Ledger to focus.”

@PhilCokesBrain: “People introducing the people who introduce people to make a speech makes Tony LaRussa’s bullpen usage seem normal.”

@bengreenman: “If Hugo picks up some major awards along with this tech-award sweep, will the headline be “Huge-O”?”

@vulture: “You’re only two years older than me, darling. Where have you been all my life?” Plummer to his Oscar.

@DougBenson: “I have a plumber named Christopher Actor.”

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.- George Carlin

 

 

 

THE EYES HAVE IT

When I first sat down to write this post a number of ideas flashed through my mind, but I just didn’t feel like heavy this week.  So I’m doing what a ton of bloggers get shit about.  That is, writing about what they had for breakfast.

But I’m not gonna write about breakfast.

When I got my new eye prescription, I put the lenses into a pair of frames I’d been using for years.  I like them, but it was also time for something different.  Really different.  Then a Groupon coupon that would save me some serious shekels sealed the deal.  I committed myself to a store where I’d seen odd and wild frames in their window.  Hey, spring is just around the corner.  The greening of Zach.

This “new image” idea actually began a few years ago when I spent a week with Sue’s relatives in an Adirondack cabin where Calvin Coolidge used to summer.  Twelve year old Bella had blue frames that I adored.  Problem was, I worked with lawyers then and spent a fair amount of time in court.  I always removed my earrings, but still played fast and loose with turtlenecks rather than shirts and ties.  But blue glasses…way out of bounds.  I’d hate to have any jury affected by my questionable fashion sense.

But I don’t go to court anymore.  Which made it time to stretch.  To find those blue frames, or their 2012 equivalent.  Sue graciously accepted my invitation to come along.  Perhaps it was a defensive move.  In other, similar, circumstances she had let me shop alone, then greeted me and the results with a sadly shaking head. (I never brought home a leisure suit, I swear.)

You gotta love Harvard Square.  Hell, if we melted down all the silver and gold attached to the bodies we’d all be rich, though I’m not one to cast aspersions given my earrings and bracelets.  The young women in the eyeglass store were also loaded with facial (and I’d guess body) piercings, still, they looked at me funny when I said I wanted something a little outrageous.  Couldn’t blame them–I was a sixty-three year old in a store meant for twenty-somethings.

After those initial glances, the two youngsters took me on. I guess there’s enough strange in Harvard Square to allow for mine.  Along with Sue, they cheerfully pitched in.  I felt like I had three personal shoppers all bringing me frames to try on.  Which was incredibly helpful.  Despite my vision of blue, I had no real idea about what I was looking for.

Odd how often that happens.  I knew I wanted something different, but when it came right down to it, I felt like I’d walked into a room to get something, but was stopped cold in my tracks upon arrival.  I was there for a reason–hell, I could taste it–but for the life of me couldn’t figure out what.

Here, it was did I want round fronts?  Go for a 1950s look with dark on top of the lens that fades to grey as it circles the bottom?  Was I interested in a return to the 70s with “aviators?”  So many questions and a whole lot of choices.

Went through the blues (surprise, surprise), but either they weren’t the shade I wanted or were the wrong shape for my face.  Moved on to green, purple, and even mustard.  Same problems.  Either the color or shape didn’t quite cut it.  I was beginning to think my quest was gonna end in disappointment.

Sue and the clerks saw the beginning of my funk and suggested I slowly, methodically go shelf by shelf instead of taking the kid in a candy store approach I’d adopted as soon as we’d walked in.  Off I went, this time looking carefully at each frame.  Wouldn’t you know it–about halfway around the track, an oversized fuchsia caught my eye and found its way onto my face.  I liked them, liked them as much as Sally Fields believed the members of the Academy liked her.  I thought I had finally found my frames until the younger and more metallized of the women slid next to me.  Aware that I was beaming and also aware that Sue had simply shrugged, she carefully chose her words.

“It seems you like this pair.”

“I do, actually.”

“They are pink, you know.”

The pink was what had attracted me.  And I was old enough to be secure of my sexuality.

“I know,” I replied.

“The shape works, but they really look Elton John.  Want to try them in tortoise shell?”

I shook my head, watching the color catch the light.

“And I think I have a pair you’ll like better.  Wait here and I’ll get them.”

Wait here?  Of course I was going to wait here.  Wait and think about whether I wanted to look like Elton. “I’m not the man they think I am at home. Oh no no no, I’m a rocket man.”  Hadn’t he been recently honored at the Kennedy Center Lifetime Achievement Awards?

The young lady returned and fidgeted.  “I would feel like a used car salesman if I let you buy that pair of frames,” she said earnestly.

“Rocket man burning out his fuse up here alone…”

She handed me a pair of absolutely clear, round frames and suggested I try them on.  Truth was, they fit my face perfectly.  And their clearness was definitely outside my normal groove.  Still, with the pink, I could be Rocket man.

As I stared hard into the mirror it eventually dawned.  I wasn’t Elton John, was never gonna be Elton John, and I don’t really enjoy burning out my fuse alone.  Plus, I never even cared about Lady Di.

But I was the reflection I saw behind those clear frames and knew it.  I guess pink, blue, green, purple, and mustard are just going to have to wait.  Maybe when I’m 64.

The Boy Wondering:  “I’m at an age where I only use the word ‘hip’ to describe an ongoing medical condition.”