Sunday, March 24, 2024

Holy Moly

I’m all for accepting my age and not portraying myself as if I’m going to be 35 and not 65 on my next trip around the sun, but I’m starting to wonder if/how age should play a role in my fashion sense.    

I’m surely not going to sport crop tops, for all those crazies out there who think that’s where I’m going with this, but NO. Absolutely not. What I’m talking about relates to what I wear below my waist.       

When I was a teen, I loved my jeans. I’d taper them to make them skin tight. I added patches, studs, embroidery, and whatever else I could hand sew to personalize them and snazz them up. A decade later – corresponding with life as a mom and longing for comfort above all else – I abandoned jeans altogether and became a leggings-only woman.        

While leggings will always be my numero uno, the fairly new stretch component on most jeans today has worked wonders to lure me back - under one condition: the holier, the better. I have found that my favorite jeans align with the number of holes on them: 1 hole is slightly amusing; 10 holes are a blast. So, if wearing them isn't fun, I might as well wear leggings. 

I didn't start off loving this look. When I first noticed distressed jeans with large holes, I was really turned off by the large portions of exposed skin as well as all the strings hanging from them. I did not understand how someone – anyone – would think these jeans looked presentable, let alone attractive.

One day, I happened to be in American Eagle and, as usual, checked out the clearance rack. Before long, I found myself in the dressing room with a pair, and not just any pair, but one with about 6 or 8 sizable holes.   

Five years later, I have almost as many distressed jeans in my closet today as pristine ones, and I almost never reach for the plain Janes.

With summertime just a few months away, distressed jeans with holes have an advantage: built-in air conditioning.

I have wondered why I rarely if ever see my peers wearing distressed jeans. Curious about who likes them, I took a poll of some 20 women – ages 55 and older – and asked them “Would you wear distressed jeans with holes?”

Most said NO, they would not, for these reasons: "I’d never pay for jeans with holes. What a rip off; They are awful; I give you credit for wearing them since it’s mostly young people I see in them; They don’t appeal to me...You’d never see these in Talbots; They are for the kids to wear." Two were open to them: "I like them but won’t wear them if the holes are too big; I like them but not if I’m going somewhere fancy.”  

The other day, I picked up my granddaughter from elementary school. Out of about 25 moms wearing jeans, I saw a handful of really cool moms - my kids' ages - with some rips in their jeans.

And then a very striking woman with gorgeous gray hair – dare I say another grandmom? – walked by and man...she rocked her holy jeans. 

Sunday, January 7, 2024

A Refreshed Perspective

It is easy to forget all the good in our society when so much of what we see and hear about centers on hostility toward one another.

As we have all been witness to, there has been a rise in vocalized hatred and acts of violence toward Jews and other minorities, most recently due to the conflict in Israel and Gaza. This reality has terrified me on many levels, even though – as a Jew – I have been ON ALERT for many years.

I am deeply saddened that my synagogue, where I have gone for more than 35 years, requires security personnel in place to open its doors to the congregation for prayer, religious education, or events. This has been ongoing since the mass shootings at the Pittsburgh synagogue – Tree of Life – in 2018.

Not long ago, I learned that a neighboring community where I like to walk woke up to vicious Antisemitic propaganda in their mailboxes. I guess I had been living under a rock, because I was shocked that a neighbor of mine would feel this way. Today I heard someone painted a swastika on a tree in another nearby development.

The level of widespread intolerance and disdain that has come to light in every area where people have differing opinions or backgrounds is astounding and horrifying. I rarely see any current event or political talk between Facebook “friends” or acquaintances without angry discourse that leads to aggressive threats, even on social media groups created to promote restaurants and businesses or talk about audio equipment or music or old homes.

I had begun to doubt my faith in humanity, thinking that only select people were kind and compassionate but that most were not. My grandbabies’ little faces and laughs were joys to behold and gave me that warm and wonderful feeling inside, yet I felt scared and angrier still that even I, the eternal optimist, wasn’t happy they would be inhabiting this severely troubled world.    

What a downer of a blogpost for the start of 2024, you’re probably thinking...but NO!

This story is actually to express the opposite sentiment. Despite everything I’ve been ruminating over of late, I’m starting to feel hopeful. I feel the sunshine coming out once again.

I credit my 2023’s volunteer experiences for this change of heart. I had always enjoyed volunteer work but stopped during the pandemic. I find it so gratifying to help others and fun to meet people I wouldn’t have otherwise.    

I am now involved with 2 places: Surrey Senior Services – an aging-in-place organization that describes itself as bringing people, resources, and programs together to benefit seniors in the community – and “Lasagna Love,” an organization that pairs “chefs” with local families in need of a meal.

After talking to my dear friend/sister-in-law about Surrey, where she works in the development sector, my fabulous former co-worker and I started to spend one afternoon a month helping out in the dining room at Surrey. With lots of other terrific individuals, we help to prepare for a busy lunchtime and bus tables during and after the meal. Every now and again they ask us if we want to be servers, which I haven’t had to do yet, thank goodness, as it is nail biting for me given that my last experience doing this when I was 18 years old didn’t go so well. And – surprise, surprise – I have also begun to write stories about their volunteers. The people I have met from Surrey are absolutely amazing humans, so writing these stories truly feels like an honor.

With Lasagna Love, I make several lasagnas each month and deliver them to families experiencing some kind of hardship. The gratification I feel when dropping off a lasagna – despite a slight concern that it’ll be too dry or cheesy or not enough cheese or too much meat or not enough meat and so on – has been considerable. Doing this always reminds me that we are more alike than different, and I/we might just be one unfortunate situation away from needing some level of assistance.

This New Year's resolution is to continue volunteering to help others. I’d love to hear from you if you know of other organizations that are in need of volunteers.



Friday, December 22, 2023

"If That's the Worst Thing I Do"

David and I have a “shtick” that keeps us in check. It started with my calling him out on various habits he has, like leaving trails of crumbs where he sits or empty wrappers around the house. About a year ago, he started to say, “If that’s the worst thing I do...” meaning to him that our essence as a couple should carry more weight than the living together minutia that can get in the way.      

Although I usually chuckle when he says that because I think it’s a genuinely funny way to get himself off the hook when I make a grievance or two, I am OK with his good-natured retort because I also know he’s heard me and will pay more attention going forward.  

What I appreciate most about the comment is that it reminds me quickly and in a gentle manner of the “big picture”: this relationship is something I cherish and want to preserve, so what I say and do – when I am paying attention – is in accordance with that.

While marriage and friendship are obviously different animals, I’ve come to view my friendships in much the same way: as living organisms that need to be nourished as best I can. I thank my lucky stars for the dear friends who are there for me – in spirit if not always in person – and am so appreciative for the guidance they have provided for me to be a better friend, just by being who they are.

There are situations when a time conflict gets in the way and leads to my missing a significant event in a friend’s life. I am saddened when I know I’ve disappointed someone important to me: if I couldn’t attend a wedding or baby shower or naming, or maybe I forgot to ask about a doctor’s appointment or unintentionally said something bothersome, and so on. I am grateful to the friends who did not hold these disappointments against me because they believed in the big picture of our friendship. Unknowingly, they taught me how I’d want to handle similar situations. 

We live in an enormous world filled with all kinds of people. When we find individuals who “get” us, and we in turn “get” them, we are given the greatest gift possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, November 19, 2023

Picture This

In an effort to clean house before our semi-annual visitors (a.k.a. Lauren and family) descend upon us for Thanksgiving and some extra time to boot 😊, I’ve spent the last couple of weeks going through a treasure trove of items I had put away when my mom passed in 2015.

One of the bags, which contained her photo albums, has provided hours of history, entertainment, and emotion. The earliest pictures, in which she is a young adult, were in stark contrast to my memories of her on the last Thanksgiving we shared with our whole family, when she was in her late 90s.   

She had agreed to make the trek to my house, which thrilled me. I was so excited she wanted to join David’s and my family and would happily be together with all her children – my siblings and spouses and kids – who were also coming. This was before the pandemic when our gatherings were well over 30-35 people. I told her I’d have warm apple cider waiting and that I’d make her favorite sweet potato casserole and this Ambrosia dessert she liked that my former mother-in-law used to bring for family get togethers.

When my sister and sister-in-law brought Mom over, I eagerly went to the door to greet her, but then we all quickly realized that since she was unable to walk, we’d have to carry her inside, while sitting in her wheelchair. Luckily my mom had always been a good sport and didn’t give up when challenges were presented, so the physically strong women and men at my house were able to bring her inside. This unpleasant feat – I would assume – for her was well worth it to me, at least when I was able to take my seat next to hers at our dining room table.

I wish I had a snapshot of us sitting side by side that night, because I would have framed it so that I could often be reminded of how happy I felt. Photos have a funny way of transporting us from wherever we are at the moment to another place and time that we may not have gone to otherwise.  

This was definitely the case when I sat down with my mom’s albums. The first one I pulled out was one where she looked to be in her 20s and was hanging out with her girlfriends and boyfriends. She’s having fun in the snow, lounging on the beach, swimming in the lake or ocean, playing baseball and having a grand old time. She was much more active than I ever was!

I was delighted to see the joy she was experiencing with her girlfriends, two of whom were her BFFs until they passed some years before she did. In mostly every photo taken of her as a young woman, her beautiful smile is front and center.   

Next, I started to see multiple shots of my dad and the two of them looking quite cozy, so I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be seeing more boyfriends. Just a few pages in, I began to see all the offspring: Children #1-#4 (yours truly) with Child #3 – Sherrie – reminding me most of our mom, as she was doing all kinds of athletic things too, like climbing up the trees and on the monkey bars and so on.   

Weeks after sifting through the photos, several thoughts keep replaying: 1 – My mom was an individual, not JUST my mom; 2 – I feel honored to have gotten a front row seat into her life when she was so young and vital; 3 – Seeing relatives and friends my mom held near and dear to her heart has been a pleasure; and 4 - Important photos need to be printed out if they are going to live on and keep the past alive.

Sunday, October 1, 2023

Girlfriends

Two close friends of mine decided to move from North Jersey to South Jersey around the same time last year, knowing few others in the area.

I was so impressed with their sense of adventure, as I viewed it, and their determination to work toward a fulfilling next chapter of their lives...plus I was excited, since I’d be able to see them more.     

I started to wonder how I’d fare if I were to move and would need to make new buddies. It would be hard – I know this about myself – given how spoiled I’ve been making friends organically just from going about my everyday business. But making attempts intentionally to expand my circle of go-to women? I could see this being a daunting task.   

Talking with these lovely ladies, I was aware of some of their efforts to socialize, both fruitful and disappointing. One told me she developed an instant rapport with her new dental hygienist when they discovered some similarities, all while getting her teeth cleaned (she’s an incredible multi-tasker)! The other had joined a couple of “Meet Up” groups and these gatherings produced a variety of characters including, most importantly, a potential good pal or two.

It occurred to me a few months ago that these two have a lot in common and that maybe, just maybe, they’d really like each other too. Although I wondered if I should just mind my own business (b-o-r-i-n-g), I decided against that and asked them if they would be interested in meeting each other. I was thrilled when they responded positively, and we set up a brunch date.

The three of us had a pleasant morning and, as we said our goodbyes, they so kindly thanked me for sharing my friends with each other. This, I noted, was yet another notch under commonalities: they appreciated this opportunity to make a curated acquaintance and, as an added bonus, break bread with yours truly ðŸ˜Š.

Not many years ago, I’d never have thought to do this. I made a lot of assumptions back then that I now know are incorrect: 1 – In middle age, people have outgrown the need or desire for companionship; 2 – “Fixing up” is for romantic – not platonic – relationships; and 3 – There may not be enough time left to create a long history with someone new – so why bother?

Getting to know such warm, compassionate, and fun women in recent years has been a true gift. I have had no expectations of making friends – as I mentioned above – and in this space of just enjoying the moment and not looking for more, casual connections have continued to build.

I’ve also experienced two new friendships from the loss of dear friends who passed away. One very sweet woman said something along these lines to me when our precious friend was sick last winter: “You are great friends with Karen; I am great friends with Karen, so I think this might mean you and I could be great friends with each other” – and that is what happened.

Girlfriends – old and new, and all those in-between – truly are the best!

Monday, September 11, 2023

Virginia's Story

This week’s blog post is different from all my others because I didn’t write it. Virginia Gutierrez did. She is my sister Sherrie's wife of 7+ years. I met her the day I married David, almost 20 years ago.

Below is an excerpt of Virginia’s memoir, which is included in a collection of pieces curated by artist and activist Susan DiPronio, titled “Out Loud.”

In all the years I’ve known and adored Virginia – she is a very warm, compassionate, fun and loving presence – the stories shared here were heard by my siblings and me for the first time this past weekend.


Malflora Cowgirl

I had issues with gender as a kid. I had a lot of conflicting moments because my mother would buy me dolls and dresses, but I did not like them. I would insist that she buy me cowboy gear, boots and pants.

When I played with the boys and the girls in the neighborhood, I wanted to be the cowboy and wear the guns. When we would play “House” with everyone, I wanted to be the dad or the doctor, but the girls were assigned mother and nurse. Finally, I said “No, we should take turns being the dad. I want to be the dad and the husband.” They told me “No, because you are a girl,” but I told them, “This is our story, and I can be.”

They started rotating me as the husband, which meant I would kiss the wife. I got to kiss my neighbor Jeanette, when I was 6 years old...my first little kiss. It was so cool that I got to switch my gender role. I had so many thoughts: This feels so good; This is what I want. This is who I am; I am not the little frilly girl with the frilly dress, and I do not play with little dolls and bake cookies and pretend that we have babies and feed the little babies. No, I do not want to do that. I liked the boys as friends, and I wanted to play sports with them and ride bikes and stuff like that, but I did not want a boy to hold my hand or to kiss me. No, I wanted to hold the hand of a little girl.

When I was 15, I had my first girlfriend, Sally. From 1965-1970, the two of us went to El Paso High School. Sally was the pitcher of my softball team, the star of the team. I felt good because I loved the star, and the star loved me. I played shortstop and third base. We also played basketball, volleyball, and track. We were both in the band; she played the French horn, and I played the clarinet. We were always together. I loved this time of my life. 

Some of my classmates didn’t like Sally and me together. They would say, “Oh, you are one of those!” or “You’re a sports person and you don’t like boys, do you?” I would say, “I like them for friends, but I do not want to have a boyfriend.” I knew I was different; I knew that they knew and that some didn’t like it, but I didn’t care.

I can recall the first time I heard the word “lesbian.” I was 19 years old. I heard it in Spanish from my Aunt Mary. Looking back, it’s crazy that my family didn’t figure out I was a lesbian till then. That’s when Aunt Mary, my cousin Barbara, my sister Alicia and my mother all went to my boss, Dr. Disch, at the El Paso Health Department Dental Clinic, where I was working. I had just finished high school. Sally didn’t want to go to college, and she didn’t want me to go either. She had decided we’d go to a 6-week vocational program to be dental assistants. We then worked together, planned to get an apartment and hoped we would live happily ever after.

On this one particular day, I went into work and was shocked to see my mother, aunt, cousin and sister in my boss’ office at the clinic. Dr. Disch said to me, “Virginia, your family wants me to help them because they say you’ve come under the influence of some undesirable women, and they don’t want you to follow that path; they don’t want you to be like that. They want me to help get you away from these people.”

He said he was going to give me a medical leave of absence and I’d go to a psychiatric hospital where I would get treated and get this “gay” thing – they didn’t call it “gayness” or say the word homosexual either – out of me so that I wouldn’t have these feelings or desires anymore.

I stood up and said, “No, I am not going to a psychiatric hospital.” I told him he could fire me if he wanted to, but I wasn’t going. My mother was crying and didn’t say a word. Both my aunt and my sister insisted that I go, but I stood my ground. That night, home with my family, my sister told me that they didn’t want me hanging out with these women again and that I had to go to the hospital and be cured. Again, I said “No.” I called my friend Edith and she drove over and picked me up. I went to stay at her house for a few weeks.

When I came back home, I started packing my clothes in a suitcase. “You have to do what we say,” Aunt Mary said to me and, once again, I said "No." I’ll never forget what happened next. My sister, aunt, and cousin tried to grab me and cut my hair. I had long hair down to my waist. Aunt Mary said to me, “En nuestra cultural las lesbianas tienen cabello como los hombres.” Translated into English, that means: “In our culture, the only ones who have short hair like men are lesbians.” She said if I wanted to be a malflora, then I have to have short hair. That was the first time I had heard the words “lesbiana” and “malflora.”  In Spanish, “malflora” means lesbian, slang for “a bad flower.”

I remember freaking out, breaking away and walking out the door with whatever suitcase I had, and I went back to Edith’s house. It was 1973. I moved into an apartment building on Main Street in El Paso for lesbians and shared an apartment with four others. My life had changed so suddenly. I went from living with my family to being forced out and then living with others like me. While it was great to live with lesbians, it was a very traumatic time for me, as I felt betrayed by my family. I didn’t speak to them for years. After 40 years, my sister Alicia asked me to forgive her. I never resolved things with Aunt Mary, who is dead now. I should have, but never went to therapy.

Many years ago, I referred to myself as a “Dyke”; I called myself a sports dyke when I was young, because I played sports. The use of “femme” and “butch” were used within our community. The femmes dressed more feminine, and the dykes were butchy, dressing like men. I was always in-between; I liked dressing in different ways and didn’t fit into either category. I remember people wanting to date me and would ask, “Are you a femme or are you a butch?” I replied “I don’t know. I’m neither. I’m both.”

In the ‘90s and through the 2000s, I used "Gay" to refer to myself; before that, it was used for male homosexuals. Since then, I’ve identified as “Queer,” which was once a derogatory term, even in our own community. Now it is considered a perfect term for the spectrum of sexuality.

Today it is fine for someone to find out on their own where they fall on the spectrum, and it’s ok that it changes. It is up to the individual to dictate whatever they want to be, and it’s fluid. It’s not like it was when I was young, when you had to fall into certain categories and be labeled.

Virginia L. Gutierrez, Esquire

Sunday, August 27, 2023

A Day at the Beach

With a little encouragement from my “beach coach” and a lot of talking to myself, I was able to spend a couple delightful days at the beach this summer, just like old times.  

After being traumatized by skin cancer on my face five years ago, I had been unable to get past my fear of the sun. It had, so sadly, become my arch enemy, with the message from my dermatologist to be extra vigilant echoing in my head until I decided no sun for me, maybe ever again. I had basically told myself to be grateful for all my beach-related memories of the past...and move on.  

This summer, however, I felt the powerful allure of the beach – or, as my mom would have said – I could hear it calling my name. I wanted so badly to join my friends who invited me for the day, so I made the decision that instead of saying “No” this time around, I would quickly say “Yes” and would NOT back out.   

Still, however, I was wracked with concern that I was being irresponsible while also realizing that people with skin cancer can still go to the beach...and enjoy themselves too. All this Should I? or Shouldn’t I? was making me nuts, yet what I really wanted deep down was to overcome my fear, figure out how to feel safe, and go.   

It was an odd position to be in, having to psyche myself up for something that I really wanted to do. While I’ve had to rev up for plenty of things I didn’t want to do – like hang out with someone who I didn’t care for, clean the bathroom, or weed in the garden – I can’t recall when I last had to push myself to do something that I really, really wanted to do.  

It’s not like I was talking about skydiving or something universally recognized as being risky. All I’d be doing was parking my behind on the chair for a few hours.

Enter my beach coach. She too has had facial skin cancer, and we’ve discussed many times the sad quandary that the forbidden love of the beach has presented. This summer with her desire to spend time playing in the sand with her grandkids, she was able to move past her uneasiness. She got out there with a full set of armor – a hat, umbrella, and everything else needed to protect herself – and with a mindset that she was going to 1 – savor the experience and 2 – NOT think about skin cancer.  

Ironically, I was texting with her the morning I was getting ready for my first beach date. She sensed my trepidation and gave me an inspirational pep talk, telling me to push my worries off to the side and Have A Blast!

I did just that.  I covered my body from head to toe, not even wearing a bathing suit but rather light beach-type clothing. I donned a wide-brimmed hat with a little tie underneath that came in quite handy with the wind. I reapplied sunscreen on the exposed areas multiple times. I basically looked like my mom the last time she was on the beach with my kids and me, when she was in her late 80s some 20 years ago, although I do think she wore a bathing suit, because my daughter still remembers walking in on her when she was putting it on.

The amazingly blue landscape of the Atlantic Ocean as it met the sky took my breath away; being up close and personal with it was thrilling. I had forgotten how amazing it was to behold the seas glistening beneath the sun and to hear the loud roars of the waves as they crashed into the shore. Great conversation filled the time, and I even got a snooze or two in. There is absolutely nothing like sleeping on the beach.

Worrisome thoughts did float around my brain from time to time, but I continued to push them away, telling myself that I can be careful and have fun at the same time...and that life isn’t going to be very interesting or rewarding if I get in the habit of saying NO more than YES.