My daughter’s three-week holiday break ended today with the start of school. My husband also returned to work after being on holiday hours, too. So after the shock of 6:30 AM carpool, I got the desktop computer — and the house — to myself, and had no more excuses for getting DOWN TO WORK.
Except…
…WHERE DO I BEGIN?
I have a to-do list chock full of tasks that are mostly mundane or unpleasant: housekeeping, bill paying, meal planning, organizing.
I have another list, of activities I have promised myself I am going to find time to engage in this year:
1. Read more books (I have always been a reader, but lately all I seem to be able to muster time for are newspaper and magazine articles and websites).
2. See more movies (I am determined to relaunch my old “Moms Movie Club” – even if I am the only member!)
3. Socialize more (I love seeing friends, but I’m lazy. Easier to kick back at home in the evening than get dressed and get out of the house. I need to fight this!)
4. Exercise (actually, this item is on both lists. It sounds like fun until I think about actually DOING it.)
5. Write a post for at least one of my websites EVERY SINGLE DAY. (Even if I don’t have much to say. Hence this.) And visit other blogs and comment there. You know, OLD SCHOOL.
If you could see inside my head, you’d laugh at the amount of time I spend thinking of topics to write about. I’ve got a running commentary on everything: items in the news, stuff I see on the shelves at Target, something my kid just told me, what I’m watching on television. And I cannot wait until I can work these topics into posts — especially during holidays when solitary time is scarce.
So it is ironic that once that opportunity finally arrives, my mind goes BLANK.
It has not always been this way. I have developed some bad habits over the years, abetted by the constant distraction of social media, which is supposed to be an asset. Just as I need to work out my body, I think these writing muscles have to be stretched again. Hopefully, my brain still has enough muscle memory that it won’t take too long.
This is one of a series of old blog posts I’m re-publishing in honor of my 9/10’s of a decade writing SoCal Mom. This was posted December 29, 2006 while on another Christmas visit to England and Wales.
In the shadow of the cathedral in Bath. (c) 2006-2012, Donna Schwartz Mills
I had a good laugh Christmas Eve, while watching the weather report on the BBC News channel.
“Today was cold and gray all over the country,” the weather reporter intoned. “Tomorrow we’ll have more of the same. Frankly, we don’t foresee anything different until later in the week, when we will see a drastic change…”
I held my breath, hoping for the announcement that we would finally have a sunny day.
“…when the gale winds return, bringing colder temperatures and rain.”
Drastic change? I told my husband of this forecast, and he just groaned. Of course, having grown up here, he couldn’t have expected anything else in late December. The days are short, the skies are gray, and the temps are as far away from Southern California as you can get.
“It’s beautiful in L.A.,” my sister told me on the phone Boxing Day. As usual, she spent Christmas Eve with her mother-in-law in San Pedro, before moving up to our house. (After all, why should the fact that we’re not there prevent her and her family from spending a restful day at our house before driving back up to Sacramento.) “The sun is shining, and I think it must have hit 80 degrees this afternoon.”
“Is it smoggy?” I asked her.
“No, it’s clear and beautiful,” she replied.
I sighed. I was definitely feeling a whiff of homesickness. Come to think of it, that’s what usually happens after I’ve been away for two weeks. It’s predictable.
Besides, after three days of Christmas partying, we were all getting a little stir crazy. I still cannot get used to the fact that EVERYTHING closes here from late afternoon Christmas Eve until the end of Boxing Day on December 26. That’s three days of little to do but enjoy the company of your family within the confines of your home. Yes, the parks are open and we saw plenty of folks walking around Roath Park Lake, but that wasn’t all that appealing to this heat-seeking Californian.
It was clear to all of us that it was time to plan a day trip.
In 15 years of travel to Britain, I’ve seen remarkably little of the country. For years, we’ve talked about taking side trips to other areas of interest: the Lake District, Devon, Cornwall, even North Wales and Edinburgh. The problem with each of those locales is that it would take more than an hour’s drive to get there – and all would be more enjoyable in the summer, when we have a shot at enjoying some decent weather.
“How about Bath?” I asked my husband.
Bath is in southwest England, just about one hour’s drive from Cardiff (and two hours from London). Gareth and I met friends there on my very first trip to the UK 15 years ago, and we returned with his fam ily a few years later, but we’ve never brought Megan there, so it would be new to her.
“I don’t know. You really want to go to Bath again?” he asked.
Well, it’s close. There’s plenty to see and do there. And the gorgeous architecture and scenery would ensure that he would be able to take some wonderful photos, even if the weather is horrible. That last point clinched the deal. We awoke early yesterday and set out for Bath.
We couldn’t have picked a better day. “What’s that funny looking yellow thing up in the sky?” my husband joked.
“I believe it’s called the sun, Gareth,” I said. And it remained visible in the sky until it set.
Bath has been designated a UNESCO World Heritage site, thanks to its spectacular Georgian architecture and the remains of baths and temple built when the town was a major outpost of the Roman Empire. However, the restorative waters of the hot spring that gives the city its name have made it a destination since the days of the Celts. This year, the city opened up a state-of-the-art new spa where modern day visitors can experience the reputed healing properties of Bath’s famous hot spring.
We began our day by touring the ruins of the Roman baths, which were uncovered in the 1880’s by sewer system workers. Excavation revealed one of the most elaborate structures left by the Roman occupiers. As I’m still feeling a little guilty for taking Megan out of school three days early so we could save some money on this trip, I’ve been determined to include some education for her. This was a no-brainer.
The tour concluded in the 18th Century Pump Room, where Jane Austen (and many of her characters) often dined. There, a man dressed in Georgian attire was handing out glasses of the fabled spring water. Gareth and I weren’t going to try it again, but Megan was game.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said after her first exploratory sip. “It’s not so bad.” She then proceeded to drink the water and almost did a spit take. “Yes it is that bad!” she coughed. We thanked the gentleman as we returned her glass.
It was lunchtime and the Pump Room was still fairly empty, so we decided to stay for a bite. The room is rather formal, with a bill of fare to match. Fortunately, they offered a children’s menu that included simple dishes like spaghetti, so everyone was happy.
Gareth and I do not usually drink at lunch, but the ambiance of the room suggested that a glass of champagne would not be inappropriate. I started my meal with a mixed green salad dressed with an olive oil and coarse mustard vinaigrette. Both Gareth and I ate the Slow Roast Belly of Somerset Pork, a small roulade of meat set on a bed of creamed cabbage and leek-mash potatoes and apple gravy. It was delicious, but I think my mother-in-law made the best choice: a vegetarian strudel of butternut squash and spinach in puff pastry.
It was after 2:00 when lunch was finished, and Gareth wanted to get some pictures of Bath’s famous Royal Crescent, where people still reside. As we only had about 90 minutes of daylight left, we decided to find it – but first, we were captivated by a pair of very professional buskers, performing a juggling and unicycle act in front of the Pump Room. (Sample patter: “Oh, you’re from America? Here on holiday – or studying a foreign language?”)
As we made our way back down to the center of town, we passed the Jane Austen Center, and I realized that there was so much to do and see in Bath that we should have planned this to be an overnight visit. We decided to leave Jane for the next time so we might be able to tour the city’s magnificent Abbey before it closed at 4:00.
It was dark when we exited the Abbey gift shop and we were feeling a little peckish, so we decided to have a spot of tea before heading back to Cardiff. We stopped at Sally Lunn‘s, which has been in operation for 300 years in Bath’s oldest former residence (built around 1482 — but with foundations that date back to when the Romans were there). Sally Lunn herself was a French refugee who opened a shop in 1680, where she sold buns that became the rage of Georgian England… and whose recipe is still used today. I ordered the “Victorian Cream tea,” which included one-half toasted bun smeared with the establishment’s own lemon curd and accompanied with clotted cream. My bun-half looked like the bottom of a giant hamburger bun — but it was soft and fresh and yummy, as was the lemon curd. I would definitely return.
We left Bath feeling happy and full. And as we awoke this morning to a day of steady rain, we are happy to have had a sunny day in Bath.
This is one of a series of old blog posts I’m re-publishing in honor of my 9/10’s of a decade writing SoCal Mom. This was first published in December 2005.
Each December, our PTA holds its last meeting of the year in conjunction with a holiday dinner. Sometimes it’s held at a member’s home – but last night, it was a no-host affair at the Northridge Olive Garden.
I imagine that the restaurant employee who booked our reservation for an elementary school PTA, pictured a nice, sedate gathering of teachers and mothers enjoying a nice holiday meal together.
That picture would be wrong. At least this year.
Let’s just say that a couple of the moms had about five too many cocktails.
By the time we started the “white elephant” gift exchange, these women were standing on the chairs, hooting and hollering as if they were at a strip joint instead of a PTA meeting. In fact, one of them invited Ricky, our cute young waiter to take them to The Candy Cat.
“I’m game,” he said. “I’ve never been to a place like that.”
I doubt if he got to do it last night. Shortly after that, the management of the Olive Garden threatened to kick us out — they were getting too many complaints about the noise — from the patrons in the bar. One of the moms wound up sick in the bathroom. And while the rest of us were trying to figure out who was going to drive these ladies home, another one sobered up enough to call their husbands to get them.
It’s the most fun I’ve ever had at a PTA gathering.
DISCLOSURE: I have no business association with The Olive Garden or its parent company and received no compensation for mentioning them in this post.
When I finally realized my hair was thinning, I got bangs. I hate bangs, but I cannot go out in public without them. They are my version of a combover. I wonder if Donald Trump feels the same way about his hair, which is now a reliable laugh line for every comedian in the country? Of course, Trump could choose to forego combing his hair over the front of his head if he wanted. Bald is acceptable on men, and can even be sexy. (Ask Bruce Willis. Or my husband.)
Christmas is six days away and I bought my first gift yesterday. This is an improvement over Chanukah, when my last minute shopping was even worse: everything purchased on the day the holiday began.
I have not always been this much of a flake.
I was not a huge procrastinator when I was young. I carried a DayRunner and I used it — but my memory was so good back then that the mere act of writing something down ensured that I would remember. I rarely needed to look up the phone numbers of my family and friends; I just knew them.
Of course, I was a single woman, with only myself and a cat to look after. My job was basically nine to five. Even after I purchased my first computer, my time online was mostly social and finite (you paid for access by the minute back then and the cost was exorbitant). The things I needed to do on a day to day basis were fairly manageable and did not spill over to the following week – or month. I met my deadlines. I got things done.
I am not like that any longer. I have stopped creating daily to-do lists because after the first five or six tasks that I HAVE to accomplish on any given day I feel so overwhelmed that I want to curl into a fetal position and cry. So I typically begin my day with a plan to tackle the squeakiest of all my competing squeaky wheels… until I crash right into a whole ‘nother automobile with a couple of flats.
All right, so that was a stupid analogy; proof I’ve been spending too much time writing automotive posts and not enough on taking care of business. For example: I began writing this post at 8:14 AM… until I remembered I had to get an invoice in to a client (so I could get paid before the year ends!), that we had a new blog action at MOMocrats that needed to be disseminated, that I had agreed to participate in a social media campaign to stop the violence – oh, and there was laundry and dishes and pets to be cared for, too.
Chanukah finished on Saturday. I was proud that I removed the menorah on Sunday morning and placed it near the sink so I could clean it — where it still sits. There is a stack of Christmas cards on the dining room table, just waiting for me to address and send. It’s silly to do that in the morning, when my brain is freshest for the kind of focus I need to write — right? That’s the kind of task I can do at night, when I’m relaxing in front of the TV. But still, they sit.
And then there’s the tree. My husband and daughter trimmed it over the weekend, and it looks nice but beneath it, there are no gifts. I need to do some shopping for my daughter, my husband, my nieces and American nephew. Buying gifts for the British nephews is always problematic. I mentioned this to my husband two weeks ago, but did I act on it? Of course not. Part of the problem is that they are not little kids any longer, and the distance means we don’t see them very often, so figuring out what they would like isn’t easy. There always seem to be issues with customs when sending something from the US, and even though Internet commerce makes shopping overseas easier in theory, in practice it’s not what you’d think. UK-based companies won’t accept payment with a US credit card. In fact, the only one we’ve found that will accept our orders is Amazon. I’m pretty tired of sending the boys gift vouchers from Amazon.co.uk, but so far, I have not found a solution. So if they are reading this (which I doubt!), they can count on receiving our usual Christmas greetings.
It’s 11:30 now. Once this post is finished, I’ll try to get a little more of that shopping in. But I’m not hopeful. I cannot handle crowds and the longer I wait to hit the stores, the faster I will want to get out of there.
Friday was a minimum day at my daughter’s school, as she wrapped a week of finals before the annual holiday break. I usually bitch and moan about having to quit work at 12:00 to drive to school and get her, but not this time. By then, I knew what had happened in Newtown, and I could not wait to see my kid and hold her close — which has been my inclination whenever the nation has been touched by tragedy.
It is what I did after Columbine, when she was just a toddler, and what I did in 1999, when white supremacist Buford Furrow shot women and children at the Jewish Community Center a couple of miles from our home (after we got the hell out of the neighborhood while the police were conducting a manhunt). It was how I handled my shock and disbelief after the fall of the World Trade Center her second week of kindergarten. I hugged my daughter after each and every report I heard of a child who was abducted… or harmed… or killed. I held her close and I wondered if there was any way to ensure that she would always be safe.
I got the news of the massacre in Newtown the way I learn of all breaking events these days: from my Facebook and Twitter feeds. I had ceased working anyway by the time I needed to leave for school — but without the audio and visual cues of broadcast coverage, I had been able to stay somewhat detached from the horror. In the car, I heard the anguished voices of the people of Newtown… and the President’s speech, where he choked up talking about the babies who had been lost on Friday. And I started to lose it, too. I could not wait to hug my baby.
And then, school was out.
My daughter threw her backpack in the trunk of the car and slid into the passenger seat.
“Can I drive?” she asked.
Did I mention that she is 16 now and has her license?
I was not in the mood. I just wanted to get us home.
“The movie is at 5:00,” she said. I vaguely remembered telling her I had no problem with her seeing a movie after school with her friends. This was no longer true.
“I’m not sure about that now,” I told her. “Did you hear what happened today?”
She had, and she did not think that an event that happened at an elementary school 3,000 miles away had anything to do with her ability to go to the movies that night with her friends. She said it wasn’t fair.
My daughter’s study load doesn’t give her much time for a social life, so on the rare occasions when she wants to get out with some friends, I am all for it. But now, all I could think of was those families in Newtown, and the people who were terrorized at the mall in Oregon earlier that week — and the massacre in the Aurora movie theater just six months ago.
No, no, no, no, no.
“You’re right,” I said. “It’s not fair and it’s not logical. I just don’t want you going alone to a movie at a mall tonight. I don’t expect you to understand that now, but maybe some day when you have kids of your own, you’ll look back on this and get it.”
One thing was certain: she did not get it now. We argued a little more and drove the rest of the way in silence, and when we were home she went straight to her room and shut her door.
I did not get my hug.
A friend called me later that afternoon to talk of the horrible events of the day — and our kids. I asked her if she thought I was being unreasonable.
What I actually said was, “Am I crazy?”
“No, Donna. You’re not crazy. I absolutely would not let my kids to to a movie theater tonight! What if someone decides to pull another Batman? I bet the other kids’ parents feel the same way.”
Maybe. One of them is the child of two schoolteachers. I bet this hits even closer to home.
I felt better about my decision – but not about the world we live in, where a parent has to be afraid to let her kid go to a mall, a movie theater or even to school. The rational me knows that I cannot lock my daughter safely away for the rest of her life; I want her to be out in the world and to feel strong and unafraid. But no one is immune from random acts of violence, none of us is 100% safe. But at least, for this one night, we would all be together.
I knocked on her door and peeked in. She had fallen asleep.
By the time her dad got home, she was up and about and was no longer sulking about missing the movie. We had a nice dinner and a pleasant evening. And when it was time to go to bed, I asked her for a hug.
Ringo Starr 6/23/12 (Photo credit: Talk Radio News Service)
The Beatles were in the news this week, with Paul McCartney headlining the 12-12-12 concert benefiting victims of Hurricane Sandy. And last weekend was the anniversary of the death of John Lennon. So I was reminded of this post I wrote back in 2005, describing my meeting with another member of the seminal band of my youth.
It’s obvious that you guys love the show biz stories. So in a pathetic attempt to get you all to keep coming and commenting — and even come back to read my posts about how boring and mundane my life is now — I’m going to honor a request and expand upon one of the items I mentioned in yesterday’s post: My interview with Ringo.
I’ve mentioned before that my first full-time job after college was at a legendary radio programming and consulting firm called Drake-Chenault. I got this job quite by accident — they happened to be located in a nondescript office building in Canoga Park, while I was still living with my parents in Chatsworth during my last semester at CSUN. I had just finished an internship at KHJ-TV and wanted another one; they happened to be looking for someone to assist with research and writing of a syndicated Top 30 countdown show.
I went in for my interview and I was given an article about an artist who had a hit song at the time. I was asked to read the article and write a couple of blurbs from it that would serve as introductions to the hit record.
I didn’t get the internship. Instead, they offered me a full-time job with pay. It wasn’t much pay, but for a 24-year-old rock fan, it was a gift from God. I got free records (the first CD had not yet come on the market and MTV was a year away from being launched), free concert tickets — and I got to interview the artists who would have hits on the Billboard Hot 100.
Although our radio show was syndicated on a couple of hundred stations throughout the country, we were definitely not on the record companies’ “A-list.” Interviews with superstars did not often come our way, but all the new artists did. Since in 1981, you had no idea if an act, say the Go-Go’s, was going to be a one-hit wonder or a superstar, you agreed to do the interview because tape pretty much lasted forever, and you could use an artist’s reply to a question about her childhood decades after you talked to her, and it would still be true.
And because company founder Bill Drake had been a radio superstar in his own right in the 60’s and 70’s — and had the foresight to save hundreds of radio interviews conducted then — we had access to artists who wouldn’t talk to us any longer: Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart, Michael Jackson (although his voice hadn’t yet changed), etc. I became a master at taking an old Smokey Robinson tape and finding quotes that would be relevant two decades later.
Of course, you can only recycle old interview material so many times before you long for an update — which is why we also jumped at the chance to interview those once-bright stars who had lost a little of their luster. (We also played selected oldies interspersed with our current hits, and periodically updated a landmark 52-hour radio special called “The History of Rock and Roll” — so we did have ways to use new reminiscences by artists who were past their celebrity prime.)
We also managed to score interviews with big stars who were part of groups but had solo albums to promote — which is how I got to talk to Phil Collins, Lindsay Buckingham and Stevie Nicks (among others).
Ringo, of course, was in a different category altogether — always relevant because the music he made with the Beatles remained that way (and still does).
In 1981, Ringo was promoting a new solo album called “Stop and Smell the Roses.” During this period, record companies were using all kinds of gimmicks to make their vinyl products more interesting — I still own some fun picture disks from this era. The Ringo record wasn’t one of those, but it was manufactured with the scent of tea roses.
Anyway, I jumped at the chance to meet with Ringo at his Beverly Hills hotel (the Beverly Wilshire, now famous as the location for “Pretty Woman”).
My employers thought they would use this for some publicity and for the first (and only) time, sent a photographer to document the event.
By this time, I had been on the job as an interviewer for almost two years, and had become pretty blase about chatting with the rich and famous. But THIS was something else entirely. I was pretty excited about it — but determined to appear cool.
I arrived on time for my early afternoon appointment with Ringo. I was ushered into the parlor of an enormous suite, and told that he would be with me shortly.
I waited. And waited.
Eventually, Ringo and his wife, former Bond girl (and co-star of “Caveman”) Barbara Bach, entered the room. He apologized for keeping me waiting — they had only just gotten up after a late night. (Years later, after he’d confessed to years of problems with alcohol, I realized that both were probably hung over, but I was pretty young and naive back then — it didn’t even occur to me.)
Barbara (beautiful even without makeup) sat on the couch by the window and nibbled on a room service breakfast while Ringo and I sat at the dining table and did our interview thing.
I had read that Ringo was the one Beatle that everyone got along with, which is why all the others would contribute songs to his solo efforts. They loved the guy. And in person, he was just as nice as he was reputed to be.
I went through my list of questions. I always prepared for these interviews by reading everything I could get my hands on about the artist, and we had a lot of material on hand. (We had several file cabinets filled with official bios and clippings gathered from every publication you could think of, and in Ringo’s case, these went back several years.) I knew that he didn’t like talking about The Beatles (and according to one article, only ever referred to them as “The Fab Four”). It was my habit to first talk about whatever the artist was promoting, which always made him or her happy — that was the reason I was granted the interview in the first place. After we got that out of the way, I could ask my other questions — and at that point, most artists were relaxed and happy to comply.
So I began by asking him how the album came to be, and to talk about each of the tracks (some of which were contributed by the two other remaining Beatles, so I got some tape of that). There was a method to this — at this point, before the album was even in the stores — we had no idea (a) if it was going to be a huge hit or not and (b) which songs would be released as singles and possibly hit the charts. So this way, I was covered.
We finished talking about the album and I honed in with questions about the Fab Four (yes, I called them that — whether or not the article was true, it seemed a good idea). And then I couched the inevitable question. I told him that I knew it was a painful subject for him, but I would not be doing my job right if I did not ask him about John. (At this point, Lennon had been dead for less than a year.) And as I said in yesterday’s meme, tears did well up in his eyes as he talked about his old friend’s murder and how he missed him.
At the conclusion of the interview, he shook my hand and said, “Thank you, my dear. You made it very easy.”
It was one of my proudest moments and a memory I cherish to this day.
This is one of a series of old blog posts I’m re-publishing in honor of my 9/10’s of a decade writing SoCal Mom.
This year I brought a menorah along for our family photo at the Christmas tree lot.
Each December, we meet our friends Debbie and Tim for dinner at Rosti, followed by a trip to Tapia Brothers to get our Christmas trees. We’ve got 10 years of photos of our girls frolicking around the big prop tractor and real live farm animals. It is a holiday tradition for our mixed-religion nuclear family living in a city without anyone else to rely on.
I used to try to delay the Christmas decorations until Chanukah had come and gone, except during those years when the two December holidays overlap, in which case, it is impossible — or those years when we spend Christmas with my husband’s family in Wales, in which case I lobby not to put up decorations at all, because we’re not home to enjoy them. (I usually lose that fight, but I try.)
This year, when my husband announced he wanted to buy the tree earlier, I didn’t see any reason to delay — even though the only time our friends were available for this was last evening; the second night of Chanukah. So we met for dinner, were greeted warmly by the restaurant’s host, posed for family photos among the trees and fake Santas and chickens and sheep… and lit the menorah later that night in presence of the tree.
It has not always been this easy. And it may not always be.
I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with the December holidays. I wouldn’t go so far as to call it a Fox News-style “War on Christmas,” although there have been years when my husband has accused me of that. It’s complicated, and I should have expected complications when I fell in love with someone of another faith. He has trouble understanding how it feels to be a member of a religious minority, and I have trouble understanding why he just doesn’t get it.
My husband grew up in a country with a state religion, and while we do not have one here (although some people are trying!), I grew up knowing I was different. In the early 1960’s, public school kids were still taught prayers. I was in my elementary school chorus and sang traditional Christmas carols in our Christmas program just before we broke for Christmas vacation. I loved those beautiful traditional religious songs, but I worried that G-d would be angry with me for singing the parts about Jesus. So I would lip sync those words and hope that was okay.
I don’t sing carols any longer (at least, not when anyone can hear me), but I will occasionally break out the sheet music and play them on the piano. I’ve got an iPod playlist of over 100 Christmas songs and enjoy listening to them once Thanksgiving is over and the holiday season has truly begun. I also own a small collection of Christmas movies which I insist on watching this time of year: the usual ones, like “It’s a Wonderful Life” and “Miracle on 34th Street” to modern ones like “Love, Actually.” My husband finds this odd, but there simply aren’t that many good movies about Chanukah.
I don’t mean to give you the impression that we are always alone. My sister’s family and my parents live 400 miles away, up in Sacramento. It’s not nearly as hard to get to as Great Britain, where my husband’s people reside. And she and her husband and kids drive down here every December to spend time with his family, who have always welcomed us to join them. And then most years we go up north to spend New Year’s Eve with them.
But my husband and I wanted traditions of our own. The annual trip to buy the tree is one of them. We also set aside one day to visit Santa Monica’s Kings Head Shoppe for Christmas goodies imported from the UK. We open our gifts on Christmas morning, locate a link to view the Queen’s Christmas message, and try to talk or videochat with the family in Wales. I roast a chicken and bangers purchased from the Kings Head, along with potatoes and other veg. And we tend to be too full to want dessert, so most years the purchased Christmas pudding ends up sitting in my pantry until it’s past its sell by date. (But we have it, just in case.)
Tonight we will decorate that tree after we light the Chanukah candles. And then, I just may watch my all-time favorite Christmas movie: The Bishop’s Wife, which I love because it’s whimsical and it’s got Cary Grant and David Niven, who as the bishop delivers a sermon that makes me feel a little teary.
Tonight I want to tell you the story of an empty stocking.
Once upon a midnight clear, there was a child’s cry, a blazing star hung over a stable, and wise men came with birthday gifts. We haven’t forgotten that night down the centuries. We celebrate it with stars on Christmas trees, with the sound of bells, and with gifts.
But especially with gifts. You give me a book, I give you a tie. Aunt Martha has always wanted an orange squeezer and Uncle Henry can do with a new pipe. For we forget nobody, adult or child. All the stockings are filled, all that is, except one. And we have even forgotten to hang it up. The stocking for the child born in a manger. Its his birthday we’re celebrating. Don’t let us ever forget that.
Let us ask ourselves what He would wish for most. And then, let each put in his share, loving kindness, warm hearts, and a stretched out hand of tolerance. All the shining gifts that make peace on earth.
Peace on earth. Good will to all. This is something we can all aspire to: Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, atheist, human.
Betty White signs books at the Grove Barnes and Noble.
Betty White is a national treasure.
My 16-year-old daughter has loved Betty ever since she stole “The Proposal” from Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds. Thanks to that movie, a whole new generation fell in love with the sweet and salty persona that have made her America’s grandmother.
As a child of the 1960s, I was already a fan. Betty White has been a TV presence since the beginning of commercial television. I grew up watching her on Password and the Mary Tyler Moore Show, and then as a young adult, enjoyed her turn on The Golden Girls. I even got to witness her work ethic, humor and grace first-hand during the 1980s when I worked at the Tonight Show. (The words “We booked Betty White for the sketch” would bring a smile to the jaded faces of the staff and crew – we all knew that for at least one night, the jokes would hit their mark and our boss would be happy. Which made all of us happy, too.)
But I was as surprised as you were when Ms. White became an icon for our nation’s youth.
My daughter keeps a list of celebrities she has come in contact with (after all, this is Los Angeles!) and ones she’d like to meet. Betty White was at the top of the latter.
On Friday, I received an email from the Grove shopping center, notifying me that Betty White would be signing her photo book, “My Life at the Zoo,” at the Barnes and Noble there. When I mentioned it to Megan, she begged me to take her — even though this is her finals week and it would cut into her study time. She assured me it was all under control.
“I really want to meet her,” she said.
What could I say? After all, it’s Chanukah.
Great Customer Service at Barnes and Noble for The Betty White Book Signing
So yesterday morning, I pulled up the email and followed the “more information” link to get the details (i.e., what time to be there). That’s when I learned that this would be a wristbanded event, and that wristbands were being distributed at 9:00 AM.
It was already 11:00. Could they have given out all the wristbands already? And even if I wanted to, did it make sense to drive to the Grove twice in one day?
So I called the store. I explained the situation: that my daughter was a huge Betty White fan, but we live way out in the Valley and she doesn’t finish school until 3:00 and it would take us at least an hour to get there. Would there even be wristbands left by then?
“Probably not,” the sales associate said. “But let me check with the event staff.”
She put me on hold for what seemed like just a second. “Given your situation, they’ll put a couple of wristbands aside for you.”
I don’t know what that says about the world we live in, but the fact that she asked, that she didn’t just end the call, that she was able to solve my simple problem with a simple solution — well, it made my heart soar. Granted, we aren’t talking about an author of Mick Jagger or Martha Stewart celebrity — but it’s been a long time since I’ve experienced customer service like this. Kudos to Barnes and Noble at The Grove.
They didn’t even ask me to pre-purchase Betty White’s book. But since I was going to have to do so anyway, we finished the sale over the phone. The woman assured me that the book and wristband would be waiting for us that afternoon behind the checkout stand.
“Did you get the name of the store employee you talked to?” my husband asked.
No. I figured her shift would be over by the time we got there, so what’s the point?
“Don’t be surprised if it’s not there,” he said.
The Book Signing
I spent much of yesterday preparing for our trip to The Grove. I packed up her laptop, just in case she needed it to study for her exams. I figured we would leave immediately after school and make use of the wi-fi in the bookstore’s cafe. And since her camera takes nicer pictures than mine, I charged it up for her. The store said that photos would be allowed from behind the rope line. I wanted to get one.
The associate I spoke with that morning was good as gold: our book and wristband were indeed waiting for us. I asked when we needed to get in the line.
Waiting for Betty White.
“You should be back by 6:00. She’s really popular.”
Megan did not need the laptop or cafe wi-fi to study for her exam in calculus, so we grabbed an early dinner at one of the center’s restaurants and got back in plenty of time for the line. Her wristband displayed a large “C,” so we were directed to wait with the rest of that group on the store’s second level.
There was also an “A,” “B” and “D” group, as well as a stand-by line, who were told they would get a chance to meet the star if she was up to staying past the allotted time.
The folks there ranged in age from quite elderly people on down to young hipsters with assorted tattoos and piercings. I sat beside a woman who runs a business selling animal portraits in the style of Leonardo da Vinci. She had brought one to give the famed animal lover. It did look amazingly like something da Vinci might have sketched.
By 7:00, the store was pretty crowded with Christmas shoppers as well as Betty fans. The actual book signing was taking place on the level above ours. This particular Barnes and Noble holds celebrity book signing events ALL THE TIME and so I should not have been surprised at how efficient they are at it. It only took a half hour to get to the head of the line.
And there she was. We had been told that she would not personalize any of the autographs, but that did not equate to her being unfriendly. You could hear that recognizable voice as she greeted each and every person who had waited to see her. She looked exactly the way she looks on television (which means she looks pretty damned great — hard to believe she’s turning 91 years old).
Betty White at last night’s book signing at The Grove.
I moved to the area behind the rope line. I wanted to get a shot of her signing Megan’s book. And since their encounter took a total of about 30 seconds, I needed to do it fast.
But I had never used her camera before. I did not get the camera on until their encounter was finished and then I could not locate the zoom. And so when push came to shove, I could not even snap a picture.
That’s because I somehow managed to set the camera on video mode. So I unknowingly shot this (including my disappointed exclamations that I didn’t get the shot):
So I don’t get any prizes for photojournalism on this one. But I did get to drive home with one very satisfied teenager, who got to meet one of her favorite celebrities and even has something to show for it.
And she got an A on that calculus final.
Nothing to disclose on this one! No money or product was awarded me in exchange for this post.
Why am I posting old photos of Cardiff and London today?
Because today marks NINE years of writing SoCal Mom! The launch of this new site is one way I’m commemorating my “blogiversary,” especially as I speed to to the decade mark. (What do you get a blogger for her tenth blogiversary? You have a year to figure it out!)
Over the next year, I’ll be highlighting some of the better posts I’ve written over most of the last decade — especially those you are likely to have missed. (Want to see that first post? It’s still over at Typepad.) I think I was a better writer then. There were no rules every blogger HAD to follow. I never expected anyone other than friends and family to read my blog, so there was no pressure to do any SEO. And nobody I knew even understood what a blog was – let alone companies, PR people, marketers. There was no Twitter, Facebook, Pinterest, Tumblr or any other social media platform to distract me from doing what I wanted to do: write an honest account of what I was experiencing at the time.
I started blogging in December 2003 to share one of our family vacations in the UK – which included a brief fling in Paris (my first — and so far, only time there).
We snapped a ton of photos with our first-ever digital camera (they had only just become affordable then), and upon our return, I created a Typepad “Photo Album.” I put together a number of these until 2005, when I began sharing my photos on Flickr instead. As years went by and my sidebars became more and more crowded, I stopped displaying the photo albums on my home page. So I suppose it’s fitting to make this the first post I’m porting back from the original site.
These are shots taken in my husband’s home town of Cardiff, Wales. Much of what is depicted has changed — especially my husband, my daughter and me.
Tesco Extra
Is it weird that the first thing we do in Cardiff is head to this grocery store to shop?
Gareth and I really love to shop at this supersized supermarket, the first store we’ve seen in Britain that’s open 24 hours. Except on Sunday. Gareth and I joke about it being 24/6. Still, my sis-in-law says this has saved her, because between raising three rambunctious boys and going back to school for her degree, she can shop late at night. At least, they are moving in the right direction.
H Not too many Schwartzes I know celebrate Christmas.
Schwartz Christmas
While shopping in the Tesco SuperCentre, I found this display of Christmas baking items and thought my nice Jewish family would get a kick out of it.
Cardiff Market, established 1892
Cardiff Market
Here’s the the entrance to the more traditional Cardiff Market, one of my favorite places to visit in the City Centre. It reminds me of our own Los Angeles Farmers Market, where my grandmother used to take me for an international lunch… and where Gareth and I often visit now with Megan. The one in L.A. was established in 1934. The one in Cardiff opened over 40 years earlier.
Gareth snapped this shot of the booths (which sell everything from fresh meats, fish & produce to rugs & clothing, etc.) from the second level of the Market (where vendors sell fast breakfasts, lunches & teas — as well as used records, videos, pet supplies and collectibles). Check out the Victorian glass and ironwork ceiling!
View from the second level of Cardiff Market.
The Cornish Bake House
Our favorite spot for Cornish pasties.
No trip to Britain would be complete without a savoring a hot pastie (pronounced “pah-stee”). These are like meat turnovers and were the original bag lunch for the men who used to go off to the coal mines. The Cornish Bake House in Cardiff makes some of the best we’ve ever tasted.
Unfortunately, there’s no seating inside the shop — and our picky little eater refuses to even try them. So we hit upon a great idea: after buying our pasties, we hightailed it over to the nearest McDonald’s, where we purchased a Happy Meal and some nice soft drinks… then went up the stairs to find ourselves a comfy table and chairs. (This McDonald’s was decidedly upscale, with a large-screen TV showing music videos and expensive Internet kiosks.)
Terrace Houses
This is the hood where my husband grew up. Most of these houses were built around the turn of the 20th century.
Home Away from Home
When I first started visiting Cardiff, this was a Lloyd’s Bank. On our last trip, we discovered that it was now a Starbucks! Looks just like the ones in the States, doesn’t it?
One of the nice things about this trip is that after 12 years, I finally feel confident enough to walk to the shops on Albany Road unaccompanied by Gareth. I know that sounds weird, but my instinct when crossing the street is to look in the wrong direction — and pedestrians in the UK do not have the right of way, and motorists will not stop for them!
But I guess I finally licked the fear of becoming roadkill — so this time around, if I awoke before my husband, I didn’t have to sit around and wait for him to go and get a paper — I said good morning to Neil and Marion, walked out the door, bought a couple of papers — and if I really craved a cup of coffee, I stopped off at this Starbucks. (Note: My husband tells me our beloved Starbucks on Wellfield Road is no longer there. I will need to find another spot for coffee the next time we visit.)
Roath Park opened in 1894. This lighthouse was erected in 1912, to commemorate Captain Robert Scott, who embarked on his ill-fated Antarctic expedition from Cardiff.
Check out the Victorian ironwork along the side of this bridge.
We All Scream for Ice Cream – Even when it’s freezing.
I found it amazing that the ice cream truck at the park gets such great business, even on days that just hover above freezing. Then again, I am also perplexed by the fact that the Brits will often drink a steaming cup of tea on a hot summer day (and pronounce it “refreshing”).
No trip to Cardiff would be complete without a visit at Castell Coch, one of three very different old fortresses in the area. However, in Wales, it seems as if you cannot walk 10 blocks without stumbling over the ruins of some old castle.
Help! I’m Trapped!
After Cardiff, we moved east to London for a 24-hour period before we had to catch our flight back to Los Angeles.
That’s where Megan took this shot of Gareth clowning around in a phone box. It was rumored a few years back that these distinctive booths would be discontinued in favor of something more modern. I’m glad that didn’t happen. But I just read in a magazine that BT is converting some of them to Internet kiosks, which would allow people to hook in and check their email. I think that’s a wonderful way to integrate the traditional with modern communication needs. (You can tell this was written before the advent of affordable smartphones!)
There was very little we can afford at Harrod’s (even truer in 2012!), but I’d heard they held a great January sale. Alas, even at 40% off, Dior clothes for kids were still too rich for my blood. They do have fun souvenir items for tourists, and over the years have expanded that department so that it now takes up about half the floor it is on — and we did end up buying a lot to bring back home. The Food Hall is also something that is not to be missed.
Princess Diana Memorial at Harrod’s.
As the signs around Harrod’s expressly forbid photography, we were not able to show you the in-house Starbucks and Krispy Kreme (imagine! at Harrod’s!). But owner Mohammad Al-Fayad has been on a crusade to prove to the world that the deaths of his son Dodi and the Princess were the result of foul play, so a sign next to this memorial announces that photos are allowed here only. Encased in plexiglass in front of the pictures are the wine glasses the couple drank from prior to embarking on that fatal ride, as well as a huge diamond engagement ring that Dodi purportedly was going to give Diana that evening.
Tower Bridge
The Paris leg of that trip included an enjoyable cruise down the Seine, so we decided to repeat the experience in London. Unfortunately, we opted to ride the Thames in the wrong direction, toward Greenwich, which means that the Tower Bridge was the first — and final — famous structure we would see on the voyage. However, all was not lost as we did enjoy visiting Greenwich.
One of the first things you see when you dock at Greenwich is this famous clipper ship, the Cutty Sark.This souvenir shop claims to be the world’s first, thanks to its geographic location.This is the building that housed the observatory in Greenwich. It is no longer used as an observatory, because of all the interference from the lights of London — but it’s still home of Greenwich Mean Time and the Prime Meridian.My husband straddling the Prime Meridian, with a foot in each hemisphere.
My daughter’s three-week holiday break ended today with the start of school. My husband also returned to work after being on holiday hours, too. So after the shock of 6:30 AM carpool, I got the desktop computer — and the house — to myself, and had no more excuses for getting DOWN TO WORK.
