Between God and Me

Although I acquired a snazzy new outfit, I didn’t go to church this Easter morning.  I recognize it’s no different from any other Sunday, really, but when a holiday rolls around I do like to put in an appearance –whether I have a new outfit or not.

But not today.

You see, God and I aren’t on the best of terms at the moment.

Now, before you raise an eyebrow, call the prayer chain, or (if you happen to be my dear mother) collapse into a fit of vapors, let me explain a couple of things.  First of all, my definition of God may differ from yours, and I appreciate you for respecting it.  In spite of what I do and say, I take my spiritual beliefs seriously.  Secondly, because my views on The Almighty are hard to explain, I shall refer to those views as ‘God’ or ‘He’.  Finally, I’d venture to guess that many of us have questioned our beliefs at some point in our lives.  If you haven’t, you’re either lying or are a much better person than I.

I have an awful lot of questions at the moment.  I know I’ve been a nag with regard to them, and for asking certain favors of God these past few weeks.  He, evidently, has had enough of my henpecking, and appears to be giving me the cold shoulder.  That’s fine, Big Guy – I'm feeling pretty tough right now, and am fairly confident that I can handle whatever you wish to sling in my direction.

It’s hard, though, to keep up my defenses and play along with His macho head-games.  As I scrawl out this little musing, baby ducks gather at my feet.  I’m outside, by the way, not in my office.  That would be weird, huh?  An occasional gecko sneaks in, but never a duck.  Gosh, could you imagine? I wouldn’t mind the ducks, but the mess and the smell would simply drive me over the edge.

But I digress.

Try as I might to withhold the fabulousness that is me (wink, wink or gag, gag depending on your opinion of me), God keeps sending tiny reminders that we’ll keep moving forward, somehow.  Sure, scars will run mighty deep, but we’ll make it – eventually, although changed.

I’ve had the chorus of an old Lyle Lovett song playing in my head today.  It’s called God Will.

 

God does

But I don’t

God will

But I won’t

And that’s the difference

Between God and me.

 

I think God gets the fact that although we’re ‘created in His image’ we’re certainly not wired as such.  I believe He’s okay with that and I think He’s okay if we don’t want to hold hands and sing songs of praise at this particular point in our lives.

He and I are at least back on speaking terms, with fewer insults hurled than in recent conversations.  We can actually have a chat without one of us getting snippy and storming out of the room.   It’s still a little shaky, but perhaps sooner rather than later we can sit around and swap stories like we used to.

And what stories they shall be, I’m sure.

 

Bad Times, Bad Manners

 

(The following, I know, is not my most well-written attempt.  You may be asking, "Is any of this blog particularly well-written, Beth?  Do you really need the disclaimer?"  To which I reply, "Up yours, Smart Guy."  It's written out of love, of which I know a little, and snarkiness, of which I know alot.  If you can relate and find a chuckle or two, then I know it's a success.  If not, perhaps you should take a good, hard look at yourself and find another blogger to bother.  I got bigger fish to fry than you, Chief)

 

No loss is ever easy, but the loss my family and I experienced last month really hit below the belt.

But I don't want to talk about it.

What I do want to talk about, boys and girls, is the ‘what to do and say' vs. the 'what not to do and say’ when someone passes.   Before I begin, however, I must preface it by acknowledging that there are an awful lot of classy people out there who’ve helped us out tremendously during this time.  Words cannot express how much your deeds, words, prayers, and good energy mean to us.  We are lucky – still incredibly sad, but lucky in that we have your support and friendship.

I don’t think anyone really knows, exactly, what to do during a loss.  Sure, there exist certain things that need to be figured out fairly quickly, and we were extremely fortunate to have someone who spearheaded it all on our behalf.  Many people simply want to reach out and do something.  Food preparation is always a nice gesture, as is dropping off paper goods.  Light housekeeping, laundry, walking the dogs, and such – much appreciated.  Knowing when to be there, and knowing when to make yourself scarce– that’s important, too.  Donating time or money to a worthy cause in memory of someone – perfect.  All those little things make a huge difference.

So with that being said, let’s take a peek at the ‘oh no you didn’t’ side of things (because it's me, after all, and my blog, and we're not going anywhere until I call out certain behaviors):

Inane Chatter – I’ve never been a big fan, and I wholeheartedly believe the world would be a much better place if everyone would just shut up for at least a little while.  When dealing with something tremendously heavy, the last thing we want to hear about is Ethel’s rosebushes.

Drawing Comparisons – I lost my father nine years ago; you, perhaps, have lost yours as well.  That’s common ground.  The phrase, “I know how you feel” applies.  “I know how you feel” does not apply in every situation, particularly in a situation that is quite out of the ordinary. Comparing one loss to another is unbelievably self-centered, I think.  Misery doesn’t love company – at least mine doesn’t.

Complaints– No one thrives upon another's gripes.  You’re mad at your brother – big deal.  Your toilet leaks – so what.  You’ve got the blues in the night – who doesn’t?   Figure out how to deal with it without dumping it on someone else and move on.

Don’t Judge and Don’t Hassle – about anything a grieving person is doing or not doing.  I mean, if they start taking hard-core, illegal drugs, you might say something, but if they’re skipping a meal or smoking a cigarette, that’s really none of your concern.

Don’t Expect to Be Fed – This actually happened when my dad passed.  He had barely been taken to the funeral home when someone showed up ‘out of concern’ and then asked my mother why no one from the community had brought any food.  Pal, if you’re hankering for a casserole, go home and make it yourself.

Don’t Post Sad/Bad News on Social Media Sites – We know what happened, so we don’t need a link to remind us of it.  I actually took a pre-emptive strike and contacted people who needed to know, and kindly asked them to relay to others that any messages for us should be sent privately.  Why the pre-emptive strike?  Because I can name at least four people who would have posted something on Facebook had word not gotten out that such an act would be considered highly unfavorable, to put it mildly.

Don’t Complain About Your Kids – Hug them tightly.

Small Acts of Kindness Go A Long Way – I haven’t paid for a drink in a month, and I am much obliged to friends and club owners for that.

Don’t Wear Your House Shoes to a Funeral – another winner from my dad’s passing.

Don't Say the Following:

He/she is in a better place (perhaps true if they’re aged and ill, but still…)

I told him not to buy that damn boat (particularly if the boat had nothing to do with his demise)

We became close…very, very close…as close as any man or woman can be (someone actually stated this at a memorial service for a friend of mine – gossip ensued)

She led a secret life (evidently, judging from what the jackass above just said)

I could go on, but I won’t.  Again, though, let me reiterate that generous and thoughtful people live and love in this world, and I appreciate them.  And when you get down to it, that’s what really matters – people.  Not money, not possessions, not jobs, not those day-to-day tiny inconveniences.  In the grand scheme of things should be a phrase that’s positioned first and foremost in our minds. 

Think, too, about the legacy you want to leave.  Do you want to be remembered as someone who enjoyed life, who brought along a certain amount of vibrancy everywhere you went?  Someone who was an absolute joy to be around?

Or do you want to be the house-shoe- wearing, complaining- about-your-kid, no-casserole-having- numbnut?

Think about it.

 

Ps… If this particular little musing resonated with you on any level, kindly make a donation to The Monarch School (http://www.monarchschool.org/) in memory of Stephanie Kirkpatrick, who always giggled when Aunt Beth used the term 'numbnut'.

 

On a Roll

“The problem, Mrs. A, is that your children, to put it bluntly, are lazy.”

I blurted this out recently, stunning a mother and her two children into silence (a major coup, as they are incredible chatterboxes -loud, boorish windbags, quite frankly).

“And disrespectful,” I added, even though that really wasn’t the topic at hand.  I had a captive audience, so I figured I might as well go for it.

For those of you who don’t know, I spend a few hours a week tutoring children.  I’ve worked with Mrs. A’s children (a girl, aged 17 and a boy, aged 10) for a couple of years now.  They’re a nice enough family, although my time with them proves to be a bit much on occassion.  I don’t mind the tutoring aspect of it (when it actually occurs), but dealing with these children and their ingrained sense of entitlement wearies me, to say the least.  Plus, they consider themselves cute and funny.  They’re not.

The conversation began when Mrs. A informed me in a rather harsh tone that her daughter’s grades have been slipping over the last few months.  The girl is quite capable of understanding and applying advanced concepts, but knowing her as well as I do, I could easily figure out what’s been going on.  She’s simply an unmotivated teen who spends a great deal of time lamenting about the stupidity of school and teachers.

I’d left my ‘nice way of putting things’ hat at home, and ended up unleashing like I’ve never unleashed before when dealing with parents and their children.  Once upon a time, Mrs. Newman proceeded with caution in these scenarios, but that Mrs. Newman, like Elvis, has left the building.  I no longer have the energy to put up with foolishness and have taken the ‘call it as I see it’ practice to a new level.  You want me to give them homework, Mrs. A?  Sure thing, although we’ve tried it before and they didn’t do it, remember?  At this, the boy burst into tears and ran to the bathroom.  He’s pulled this stunt before:  when he’s tired, when he’s hungry, when he doesn’t have a pencil, so I paid his little outburst no notice.  I felt this ‘just us gals’ moment with Mrs. A and her daughter was meant to be.

‘My dear,’ I began, looking the daughter straight in the eye, ‘there is absolutely no reason for your grades to slip.  You’re not working as you should in school.  You have no respect for education.’

‘THAT’S RIGHT!’  yelled Mrs. A, who suddenly realized that I might actually know what I’m talking about.  I believe her original intent was to blame me for her kid’s poor grades.

‘And, ‘I continued, ‘if you complain as much in class as you do during our sessions together, of course your teacher will think you’re not up for the job.”  At this, the daughter began to cry, but at least had the decency to sit there and listen.

‘YES!’ proclaimed the mother, ‘SHE HAS A TERRIBLE ATTITUDE!! BOTH OF MY KIDS HAVE ROTTEN ATTITUDES.  I DON’T KNOW WHERE THEY GET IT!!!’

‘Quite frankly, Mrs. A, I feel as if my coming here is a waste of my time and your money.  Which reminds me-’

“Oh, yes,’ said Mrs. A in a much calmer tone, ‘I still owe you for the month.’

‘Actually, you owe me for last month as well.’

‘Um....I didn’t make it to the ATM.’ Big-eyed and flustered, she spoke in a soft voice now, one that I’d never heard her use before.  Mrs. A likes to yell, in case you haven’t figured that out, and she’ll yell at anyone:  me, her children, her husband, her in-laws, the neighbors, stray cats, and poor, unsuspecting UPS delivery men.

‘That’s okay.  I’ll take a check this time.’  I smiled, and even though I desperately wanted to go home, I’d be darned if I'd leave without some sort of compensation.  She obliged and grabbed her purse.  Awkward silence enveloped the room as she wrote the check.  Normally, I’d say something in order to break the tension, but since I was the cause of the tension, I figured I’d just let it ride.   

‘If I may be so bold as to mention this, you must know, too,  that  both of your children are easily distracted and will find any excuse to not focus on their work.’  I could have shared many examples had she asked for one, but the one I had in mind concerned her mother-in-law, who bangs pots and pans around in the kitchen during our tutoring sessions, preparing meals for her grandchildren that go uneaten because they only want the fake fast food from around the corner.  Based on the smell coming from the kitchen, I can’t say that I blame them.  I wanted to tell her, too, that her house was too dark and stuffy, and her bathroom sink could do with a good scrubbing.  ‘I go home every Monday night reeking of cumin and frustration,’ I wanted to say, but I didn’t, for fear of sounding impolite.

As she handed me the check, she asked if I had any additional days during the week in order to work with her children.  ‘You’re honest with them.  They listen to you.  They don’t listen to me,’ she said.   These kids don’t listen to anyone, but I couldn't help but feel touched by the sentiment just the same.

 ‘I can fit them in on Wednesday afternoon,’ I told her.

‘Oh, no, that won’t work.  How about Sunday?’

‘I (pretend to) go to church on Sunday,’ I replied, ‘but if something else opens up later in the week, I’ll let you know.

We hugged, the three of us, and I as left I could hear the boy still boo-hooing in the bathroom. Quite a show, indeed! I don’t feel as if boys shouldn’t cry, but I sincerely believe they should get a handle on it at some point, or at least learn to sob silently behind closed doors.  That’s my method and it’s served me well for years.

As I drove home that night, I thought about Mrs. A. She’s loud.  She’s gruff.  I do like her, though.  Given her disposition, she’s probably not accustomed to people being completely honest with her.  I’m happy I gave it to her straight, and I think she respects me for it.  Most people simply want the truth.  I’m not one of those people, but that shouldn’t stop me from telling it from time to time.

 

 

Valentine’s Day and Other Random Ramblings

Here we find ourselves, Sweeties, just two days away from Valentine’s Day – a made-up holiday that shines a stupendously stunning spotlight on love and let-down. 

I’m all for expressions of amore, but let’s face facts:  Valentine’s Day can be a major stress factor in a relationship.  Years ago, during one of my many professional ventures, a colleague spent Cupid’s day fuming because her husband did not send flowers to the office.   A downright downer during any given minute, this gal’s downer-ness exploded to massive proportions by the end of this particular Valentine’s workday.  I went out of my way to drop by her cubicle, my own flowers in hand, to express my genuine (i.e. half-hearted borderline snarky) sympathies before leaving.

They later divorced.  I’m not certain if her flowerlessness contributed to the demise of their marriage, but I’m sure it didn’t help matters. She made the mountains- out- of- mole-hills concept into an art form, and I felt both sorry and relieved for her husband when I heard of their split.

And don’t get me started on those awful jewelry commercials inundating us at the moment, sending the message that no woman is completely happy unless she’s got some sort of reduced-price diamond hanging off her person.  This sort of nonsense only adds to the ‘special princess for a day’ concept that women buy into figuratively and men buy into literally. 

Ridiculous.  Give me something I can use.

Like a pink ukulele.

That’s right.  When Mr. Newman asked what I wanted for this pretend (and might I add pretentious) celebration, I gave him my standard answer:  nothing.  He’s persistent, though, so I finally gave in and told him to get me a pink ukulele.  I’d love to improve upon my already (non-existent) musical leanings, and I’m confident that a P.U. will assist me in doing so.  And P.U. is what the masses will cry when I take my act to various open-mic nights throughout the greater Houston area.

Speaking of musical geniuses, did you catch that fabulous Beatles tribute the other night?    My only ‘wouldn’t it be cool if... .’ thought centered on a Sir Paul, Ringo, Dhani Harrison, and Julian (not Sean) Lennon jam session.  I was thrilled, however, when Dhani took the stage with Jeff Lynn and Joe Walsh, and equally elated when Sean stayed in his seat and kept his yap shut.

Speaking of keeping one’s yap shut, I’m finding it more difficult to do these days.  I lovingly informed a fifteen-year-old girl last night that the reason I would not join her in her second bag of microwavable popcorn is because it’s full of chemicals and if she wanted to dig herself an early grave, go for it.  ‘Chew with your mouth closed, please, and get back to your book,’ I added.

Speaking of books, I’ve always been against the banning and burning of them, but have changed my tune upon reading Shirley Jones’ memoirs last week.  Poorly written, poorly edited, and chock-full of TMI (and not the good kind), I’m tempted to ask for my money back, but I can’t because I checked it out of the library, so I’m tempted to simply turn in my library card.

Speaking of Temptations, I ain’t too proud to beg:  please, might we all settle down this Valentine’s Day and stop pressuring our beloved into wasting money on pointless tokens of love?  I’ve a very dear friend who used to tell her children that they could have anything they wanted as long as it wasn’t advertised on television.  An ingenious notion, in my humble opinion.

You don’t see any pink ukulele advertised, now do you?

All you need is love.

If, however, you’re forced to reveal your deepest desires this Valentine’s Day, take a good hard look at yourself.  What do you really want?  What speaks to you?  Remember, it’s not a competition, even though the media has made it such.  Just because Jane Seymour says you need necklace doesn’t necessarily mean that you do.  Just because those broads in the office next door get the standard candy and flowers doesn’t mean you should.  Get creative.  C’mon, get happy.

Speaking of happy, I do hope you have lovely Valentine’s Day.  I really mean it.

 

 

(Coming up on Elegant Musings:  Will Mrs. Newman receive the pink ukulele from Mr. Newman?  If not, will she actually make a withdrawal from her ‘Facelift Fund’ and get it herself?  Will the popcorn munching teen’s mom pay up for the two-months of tutorials Beth has so generously offered like clock-work each and every week?  Tune in next time….)

 

Snow Day

It’s currently 35 degrees in my little corner of Southeast Texas.  The greater-Houston area has all but shut down as we brace ourselves for ice-meggedon, or whatever the heck meteorologists call it these days.

Growing up in the Texas Panhandle, we simply referred to it as ‘winter’.

I don’t want to come down too harshly on the place I now call home, for I understand that if you’ve never experienced cold, icy weather you really don’t know how to behave…or drive…or dress….I liken it to obnoxious, disrespectful children.  Sure, your initial response is to take them to task, but you soon realize it’s not their fault – they simply don’t know any better.  Then you can smile smugly and place full blame (and the gossip that’s surely to follow) on the real source of the problem – their parents.

But I digress.

As a child, the anticipation of snow and the inevitable ‘snow day’ brought about such excitement and hope to my young world.  Snow days, of course, meant no school, and no school meant a day in which to focus on what really mattered:  books, Barbies, and at 2pm, the day’s episode of Guiding Light.

The night before a potential snow day, I’d pray harder and faster than I’d ever prayed before.  The Baptists taught me to ‘ask and it is given’, and I took it to heart.  They also taught me intolerance and harsh judgment, which goes to show that sometimes it’s all just one big crap shoot.

But again, I digress.

Early in the morning of a possible snow day, my mother would tune into our local radio station, KDHN –Your Little Home for Big Country Music.  We’d wait…and wait…praying that the farm reports would soon end, and that God and the school superintendant had reached an agreement that we could all get on board with.

 

Sometimes they did, and sometimes they didn’t.  The Rolling Stones taught me that ‘you can’t always get what you want.’  This lesson somehow always pleased a great number of Baptists, even though they preached against rock and roll.

Once again, digressing.

As an adult, a snow day means (at least for me) a day of limited ‘work from home’ activities, cleaning house, laundry, and any other task I can find to keep me busy.  I like being busy, and I like getting dressed even though I know I’m not leaving the house (honestly, what is our society’s fascination with staying in pajamas all day?)

A dear friend born and raised in New York City scoffs at Houston’s anxiety that comes along with below-freezing temperatures.  In spirit, I’m with him, but I’m not without empathy.  If you’ve never experienced it, you don’t know what to do, which was evident this morning when I spotted my neighbor wearing a winter coat and shorts.  The whole city is downright confused.

 

I look upon these days not with the excitement I had as a child, but with an understanding that perhaps the universe is telling us all to slow down a little bit.  The world will keep turning if we don’t have to show up anywhere.  We’ll all be okay if we force ourselves indoors every once in a while

By 9am my ‘work from home’ had been completed.  The house is clean, and the last load of laundry turns quietly in the drier.

I have books to read, Barbie clothes to make for the two fabulous nieces, and although it’s no longer on the air, I can still find episodes of Guiding Light on YouTube.

Perhaps I haven’t lost that child-like excitement I once had.

 

 

 

 

Goods and Services

I was hanging dill leaves over my front door this morning thinking about a recent conversation I’d had with an acquaintance -a nice, successful go-getter type of gal in my community whom I admire.  She asked why I didn’t have my picture on my business cards.  I explained that while I still dabble in a bit of consulting, I’ve landed a gig with a wonderful educational institute and the cards they provide me with are the standard fare they provide for all of their employees.  My name and contact information is on each one, but everything else comes straight from ‘the man’.

Oddly enough, she wasn’t the first person to ask me that question, so I feel the need to fully address the situation.

I began my consulting practice about five years ago with the intention of helping people learn how to dress and how to behave.  It eventually took on a ‘mentoring’ aspect, which I enjoyed.  Had it caught on completely, I might still be out there promoting it full-force.  It didn't, but no worries - the new gig keeps me blissfully busy.  I still have a handful of regular clients, so I’m just not inclined to bust my behind trying to get ‘me’ out there.  Those regular clients, by the way, came my way through word of mouth.  All the snazzy marketing materials, all the local meet and greats, the TV and magazine appearances and such amounted to nothing as far as the ‘bottom line’ was concerned.  In a perfect world, I wouldn’t have to eat and buy shoes, but as you well know, we do not live in a perfect world.

 

Anyway, back to the business card question.  In the super-early stages of my sole proprietorship, I did include my picture on marketing materials.  I then proceeded to get emails from a creepy (and married) individual who had no interest in my professional services.  I don’t consider myself a ravishing beauty, so it just goes to show that there are a lot of sad, desperate jerks out there.  Since I don’t like sad, desperate jerks, I removed my photo from said marketing materials.  He finally left me alone after the phrases ‘restraining order’, ‘your wife’, and ‘tire iron’ were thrust his way.

Promotion.  It should be a simple concept, but it’s not. 

Sure, business owners and those who provide various services must do it and do it well.  Self-promotion is an entirely different thing, and I discovered that the lines blurred for an awful lot of so-called professionals out there. 

Creepy Email Guy made me gun shy.  Combine that with the fact that I’m a pretty private person so you can therefore understand why certain types of promotion didn’t work in my favor.  In our age of technology, advertising should be easy, but it’s not.  I think we’ve got too much information at our finger-tips, and too many folks out there promoting things that may not necessarily be real. Our culture has become one big illusion in which everyone’s a celebrity (even if it is in their own minds).

 

“Look at me!  Look at me!”

No offense, but I’m tired of looking at you, quite frankly, and I’m okay with the fact that you’re probably tired of looking at me (I hope Creepy Email Guy is, anyway).  I’m incredibly happy doing what I do these days, and I’m content to limit my social media exchanges to things that amuse me that will hopefully amuse others.  Sometimes I even try to pass along information that might educate, but I no longer feel as if I have to do it every hour on the hour.

I’d much rather pursue other interests, like hanging dill above my front door.  You may wonder about such an activity, but as I mentioned earlier, I like to keep certain things private.

 

 

Our Way of Life

Cheers, Sweeties, and Happy New Year to you all!  As the insanity of the holiday season winds down, many of us may find ourselves taking time for quiet reflection.  Perhaps we’re making resolutions, setting goals, and listing intentions that will make every self-help guru out there proud – and wealthy.  Let’s face it, we’ve so many ‘coaches’, ‘spiritual leaders’, and ‘success trainers’ out there that determining what’s best for us can be downright daunting. We’ve spent unspeakable amounts of money on books, courses, and seminars, and I wonder just how effective the deluge of self-help information out there actually is.   I’ve been guilty of the ‘you can do it!’ overload, so much so that when I go back and reread some of these musings I fall ill.  It’s not that I don’t buy it anymore – I do – but we’re so overrun these days with it that I’m officially over trying to contribute to it. 

Yet that does not mean I’m not seeking ways in which to improve myself.  As a matter of fact, I’ve discovered the one helpful guide that truly resonates with me. 

Joan Crawford’s My Way of Life.

 

I ask that you put aside any preconceived Mommie Dearest notions.  There are too many accounts out there contradicting the allegations made by Miss Crawford’s eldest daughter, Christina.  I won’t go into all the details here, for you’re quite capable of conducting your own research.  Although the film Mommie Dearest remains one of my campy guilty pleasures, I don’t believe for one minute she abused her children.  (Side note:  it is my sincerest hope that someday I, too, shall be in a position in which I must chop down rose bushes with an ax while wearing a full-length gown in the dead of night). 

Old Hollywood is a hobby of mine, and my studies over the years reveal that Miss Crawford was strict, disciplined, and extremely dedicated to success.  I admire those traits.  She was beautiful and stylish, which are always additional pluses in my book.  After reading My Way of Life and Googling Joan Crawford until I gave myself a headache, we might go so far to say that she was certifiably insane – another admirable trait, in my opinion.

I received this book from my sister, who so gets me and, well, my way of life.  Out-of-print for years, I’m sure she had to jump through myriad hoops in order to get her lovely hands on it.  I spent the whole of my Christmas vacation devouring it, and am compelled to share with you, gentle reader, a few of the highlights and advice Miss Crawford offers in order to ‘maintain your best, intelligent, enterprising, seductive self at all times’.

At the time of the book’s publication, Miss Crawford’s film career had all but vanished.  Aside from a few scant appearances on television, her primary role in 1971 was that of Goodwill Ambassador for Pepsi Cola. Her late husband, Alfred Steele, was president and CEO of the soft-drink company, and following his death, Miss Crawford took it upon herself to remain a vital voice within Pepsi.  She regales My Way of Life readers with stories of being busy…very busy…so much so that each and every day was a whirlwind of phone calls, meetings, appearances, and travel.  Yet in spite of her terribly full calendar, she still managed to look and feel fantastic.  How did she do it?  Read on….

 

Life in General

I’ve persuaded myself that I hate things that are bad for me-fattening foods, late nights, loud and aggressive people top the list.  I’m with you, Joan, and my intention for 2014 is to avoid all of the above.

We all have our problems, but I don’t inflict mine on my friends. Preach it, Sister.

I abhor dropper-inners.  Even my own children wouldn’t think of dropping in without calling to see if I’m busy.  I don’t like dropper-inners, either, and I’ll take it a step further by telling you that I don’t like phone messages or texts simply stating call me.  Give me a reason to do so, and I just might (I think I may have out-Crawford Joan on this one).

Marriage

Miss Crawford walked down the aisle four times, so obviously we should look to her as an expert on the subject.  She spoke lovingly of each of her husbands in the book, and that’s a good example for all of us to follow during any sort of break up.  Why waste energy playing the blame game? 

She advises us gals to take an active interest in our husbands’ careers.  I do that, but after having been called everything from Yoko Ono to Lucy Ricardo, I’ve backed off…..a little.  I say follow JC’s lead, but understand your audience.  Mr. Newman is no Douglas Fairbanks, Jr., and vice-versa.

Entertaining

 

You may say to yourself, I’m not Joan Crawford.  I can’t afford trainloads of caviar.  I don’t think I need to elablorate on this, but I will tell you that it was a favorite line bandied about the Newman House during our holiday hosting preparations.  It replaced our usual Do you want our guests to ring in the New Year constipated? line.

Home Décor

Be prepared to spend a sinful amount of money and go through an awful lot of trial and error until your home is absolutely perfect and a true, tasteful reflection of you.  Miss Crawford muses about early decorating mistakes before hiring a team of professionals, and shared a story about a wall-paper so busy that ‘Judy Garland fainted and had to be carried out of the house’.  As an amateur Judy Garland historian, I think I can safely say it wasn’t the wall paper that caused Judy to pass out.

Traveling

Most of Miss Crawford’s travels required no less than fifteen suitcases.  By the time you have your German maid, Mamacita, place tissue paper in each sleeve, the old ‘roll it’ method simply won’t work here.  Factor in your matching hats, gloves, and shoes, and it should be no surprise when your house-man, Mr. Grant, must make numerous suitcase-laden trips to a waiting limousine parked out front by the tennis court.

 

Looking the Part

 

Miss Crawford’s secret for beautiful skin and hair can be summed up in one word:  mayonnaise.  But not just any old mayonnaise – one she made herself to insure that no harsh chemicals were used.  I like it!  In order to maintain one’s figure, she recommends several While Doing Something Else Exercises:  knee bends while scraping carrots, arm flexes while on the phone, etc.  Good tips, but the one I like the most proves tricky to do while you’re doing something else.  It requires you to sit on the floor and walk your buttocks across it.  I tried it, and definitely felt the burn in my core region.  I was also pleasantly surprised to discover a nice sheen on my tile floors afterward, so, yes, I suppose this counts as a two-for-one deal.

A Touch of Magic

The final, all-too-brief chapter discusses what I think should be the most important aspect of anyone’s way of life:

Charm isn’t something you can turn on like a tap with a pretty little-girl simper.  Charm is an ease with people – all kinds of people.  It’s wanting to be a giver.  Responding, communicating, having a genuine interest in people.  Try to make it a part of your way of life.

I shall, Miss Crawford, and thank you.