Essays & Media

My heart is in my throat as I listen to Joni Mitchell’s surprise performance a week ago.

“You’re going to love the music,” I said to my great-niece as we walked to the Cadillac Palace Theatre to see a production of Jesus Christ Superstar last night.

I celebrated turning fifty with a pie party, surrounded by family and friends.

Abi Gezunt was written for a Yiddish film that came out in 1938, called Mamele (little mother), that starred Molly Picon (1898 -1992).

Winters is just off McClurg Court on the Chicago River, It’s an excellent, clean venue that offers great performers, an intimate setting, and reasonable prices.

First time I heard Bela Fleck and the Flecktones was at the Denver Botanic Gardens during the summer of 1991.

Once, after I gave change to a homeless person who was begging in front of the Art Institute of Chicago, six or seven other people charged at me with their hands open, and I fled.

I’ve been emailing my publisher these last couple of weeks to find out how many of my books sold during a particular time period during which I tried using an advertisement.

He usually gets back to me within a day, so I naturally assumed that Dano was annoyed with me — last month I finally admitted that I would NOT have a manuscript ready to turn in by September 1st. That means I no longer need 2/6/23 as the launch date for my fourth culinary mystery. He’d already told me several times that the best way to sell more books is to publish a new one each year. I kept telling him that I’m not a fast writer.

If I were called to the witness stand, I’d immediately admit that I made up the three mysteries I wrote and someone else published, without really knowing a single thing about solving crimes.

How is it possible that new writers, having just joined Medium last month, have already found close to 1000 followers? I’ve been here since last year and am nowhere near that! Here’s what I think:

It is not natural when two actors (in a movie) or characters (in a book) open their eyes after a full night of sleep and immediately engage in passionate sexual intercourse.

Last night, we celebrated our anniversary at a much-loved Wisconsin supper club that was a time machine back to the 1970s. The music (think Carpenters or Captain and Tenille) was ‘musak’ of the 1970s, the décor was ‘hunting lodge’, and the food, including a canned, sliced pear as a garnish, could have been served at one of the restaurants I waitressed at in high school.

Yesterday, we drove two hours to a small town in Wisconsin where we’d found a charming old bed and breakfast run by a young couple who live with their toddler in the back of the house.

The air has been a sickening color since Monday. I’ve tried to stay inside because my face, head, and lungs ache and it’s hard to breathe. I wore a mask the few times I needed to leave our building. It felt weird to remove the mask when I went inside the grocery store, the physical therapy office, the senior home where my mother-in-law lives.

Waking up.
Because as I age, each day is a miracle. I survived horrible asthma and a surprise bout of cancer in my fifties, but all of us are surviving something these days. We joke about starting our conversations with “organ recitals” in which everyone lists their aches and pains before we can proceed with real conversations.