Famous People

Who, out of anyone living or dead, would you most like to meet? Do you ever ponder that question? Just thinking about it makes me nervous. And the answers people give to that question astound me! I’ve heard Abraham Lincoln, Ghandi, and even God. What, precisely, would one say to God?

I have behaved like an idiot on the few occasions when I have been in the presence of a famous person. Case in point: There is a movie called Housesitter that was filmed in the bucolic village of Cohasset, MA in 1992, starring Steve Martin and Goldie Hawn. I happened to own a bookstore at the time, right in the center of the village where many scenes were shot. The cast also included Dana Delaney and the excellent Julie Harris, and was directed by Frank Oz. Very famous, talented people, but for reasons I didn’t bother to think through, it was Goldie who interested me the most. I became obsessed with getting her into my store.

Which doesn’t quite explain what I’m about to tell you about how I blew off Frank Oz and Julie Harris, or treated Dana Delaney like a zoo animal. And Frank Oz was just lovely to me. On the first day of filming, he came into the store to buy a book for his young daughter. He complimented me on my store and apologized for any inconvenience his movie might be causing me. He certainly didn’t have to do that, since a gentleman from Hollywood had been by the previous week to present me with a compensation check for loss of business. (Which, in itself was a joke, because I had no business.) I responded by pressing a Little Harbor Bookstore tee-shirt into his hand and implored him, "Please give this to Goldie and tell her we’re thrilled to have her in town!"

The next day, Julie Harris popped in. She had electric rollers in her hair, and was holding a black cast-iron skillet which she had just purchased at the hardware store across the street. "I’m so excited to find this! My Grandmother used to make cornbread in one of these," she said. I’m not sure how the conversation proceeded from there, but I got into an argument with Julie Harris about the book I was ringing up for her, called The Education of Little Tree. I only remember that the argument was about the authenticity of the book, we were both sure we were right, and no tee-shirts were gifted.

Later that day, Goldie’s "people" were in the store, and I practically fell all over them. (I’m not making this up. I wish I was.) I promised that we could deliver anything Ms. Hawn would like: A safe haven (I’ll clear the store!), a cool spot to rest, a rocking chair, a cold drink, a cup of tea, and a spotless bathroom located much closer than her trailer. They promised to tell her while backing away from me and out of the store.

Sometime later, Dana Delaney appeared on the porch of my store. She was in a scene which started with her leaving my store, and running into Goldie’s character on the street. But things kept going wrong, and she must have stood there waiting to shoot the scene for 30 minutes. During which time I and two of my employees stood not three feet away from her, separated by only our screen door, and stared at her. We may or may not have offered her water. I don’t recall.

On the last day of shooting, when I had all but given up hope, the door to the store opened and in walked Goldie and her 12 year-old daughter, Kate. Goldie’s assistant told me she would like to use the bathroom. I wordlessly showed them the way. Kate picked out a book, and an assistant paid with a check which was signed by Goldie. They left the store. I never said a word.

Even now, I have trouble explaining this. I think there is a broad disconnect between my fantasies and the real world, and that even as I campaigned so vigorously to bring about a meeting between myself and Goldie, I never truly believed it would happen. So when it did happen, I had no plan for what I would do or say. If I had, what should I have said to Goldie? I’ve loved you since Laugh In? You were terrific in Private Benjamin? BIG FAN!!!

All true. But not a reflection of how I feel about her - why it is that she interests me. What I should have said was, "Thank-you for being such a great female role model. I have a daughter, too. I’ve heard you were one of the first to form your own production company - that you don’t let the boys push you around. Yet in spite of being tough, you haven’t felt the need to sacrifice your adorable, giggly, sexy side. That’s what I want my daughter to see. She can be any kind of woman she wants to be, and still be respected, without sacrificing any part of herself. Go get ‘em, Goldie!"

But I didn’t say anything. After she left I just took the check that was signed by her and taped it to the wall in my office. I left it there for about a month, but every time I looked at it, it just reminded me of how I had behaved like a lunatic stalker. So, on my way out of the store one night, I pulled the check off the wall and stuck it in my night deposit bag. Business wasn’t that good.

Fear of Drowning

I guess you could call me a late bloomer, although I prefer to think of myself as someone unencumbered by traditional schedules. I didn’t get around to graduating from college until I was in my 40s. Last year, I started graduate school at age 56. Still, it surprised me the other day when, after a lifetime of shamefully explaining to people that I can’t swim, I discovered that I can!

And I owe it all to my Aqua Jogger. Mind you, learning to swim was not my intention. The Aqua Jogger is intended to be an exercise aide, and is not even recommended as a floatation device. I bought the thing so I could exercise in the pool, which I still do.

The surprise benefit was that I found myself wandering into the deep end of the pool (water over my head!) for the first time in my life. Prior to the Aqua Jogger, I was always stuck in the shallow end, staring wistfully at my friends and family splashing happily in the deep water. I would stand there watching eighteen month-old babies with water wings flapping and kicking over to the party where I was not allowed. So close, and yet so far.

I’ve been blaming my fear of water on my mother all my life. She was a raging aquaphobe. She never owned a bathing suit, and I never saw her in a pool or any other body of water deeper than a bathtub. But I’ve always known the "I learned this from my mother" excuse was a weak theory. My brother and sister both swim. Therefore, I must be a wuss - an opinion of myself reinforced by my brother-in-law, who finds the sight of me in the pool in my Aqua Jogger the funniest thing he’s ever seen. It’s like I’m Martin Short in his SNL synchronized swimming routine where he wears a life preserver.

But the big news is that last week, with my husband standing very close by with his arms outstretched for me to swim to him like the parent of a toddler, I did. Without my Aqua Jogger. I only swim 5 or 6 feet so far, and I don’t put my face in the water - nobody’s going to mistake me for Esther Williams. But I am swimming. And it makes me wonder what else I might be able to do that I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

Sweet Home Chicago

If I had to describe who I am to a stranger in three words, I would say, "I’m from Chicago." It is the city of my birth, where I grew up and lived the first 34 years of my life. It is what people know about me the minute I open my mouth. Mere photographs of the city can make my heart swell. And not just the beautiful parts. There is something so unique about the neighborhoods of Chicago that I instantly recognize my city in any film. I have to nudge my fellow-viewers and point it out with a level of pride, love and excitement I normally reserve for photos of my children. "That’s Chicago!"

I eagerly moved to Massachusetts 20 years ago. It was time for a change, to broaden my horizons and experience something different. The east coast! The only state that voted for McGovern! All those Kennedys! We lived in three different towns in those 20 years: Hingham on the south shore, Boston - so close to Symphony Hall that I could go home to use the bathroom if the line was too long, and Yarmouth on Cape Cod. All beautiful, all exciting, but last year when an opportunity presented itself to move back "home", I jumped at the chance.

In my absence, my "Sweet Home Chicago" became even more gorgeous and amazing than it was when I left. How can I compare it to Massachusetts? Every time I landed at Logan, I felt like my IQ got an automatic 5 point bump. And there was a reserved quality, almost an absence of wildness, that was so comforting to me at that stage of my life. Landing in Chicago is a different experience. There’s an immediate, madcap, in-your-face, bad as we wanna be quality that will always feel like home.

Politics and Sports

Well, it’s a big week-end. Presidential primaries on Saturday, and playoff games on Sunday. Most everyone you talk to can tell you who they support in all of those races, and passions run high.

My husband and I will root for The Patriots, because the Bears are out of it, and we lived in Massachusetts for 20 years. In the other contest, I’m supporting Green Bay because my daughter-in-law grew up there, and my dad liked them. Also, I think their uniforms are attractive. Last week-end, however, I supported The Colts because my husband is a Hoosier and their coach is a really nice guy. So sue me - I’m not a serious fan.

I am serous about the primaries, though, and it’s driving me crazy that my political support sounds about as well thought out as my sporting alliances. I like all three of the top democratic candidates, I really do. Obama promises to get us out of Iraq sooner, but Hillary is the health care maven, and Edwards is so nice and green. And really, they all talk a good game on those and other issues that I consider to be important. So it’s come down to a "beauty contest" for me, in politics as well as sports.

But even at that it’s tought to choose. Edwards seems so authentic and compassionate with his love for the poor and his son "in heaven" and all that. But Obama is a great speaker and smart as a whip, and wouldn’t it be a wonderful thing for our country to elect an African-American president?

In the final analysis, I’m a female with a daughter and two grand-daughters, Obama is young . He’ll be back. Hillary gets my vote.

Posture

I have had terrible posture since I was an adolescent. I can remember walking around the house when I was very young with a book on my head, and getting lots of attention from grown ups because I could do that. I was often praised for my beautiful posture.

And then I wasn’t. Photos from age eight or nine and beyond show a gradually slumping child. I could spill a lot of ink pondering the reasons why - poor self-esteem, lack of self-confidence, etc. - perhaps another time. Suffice to say that I’m 57 years old and I can’t stand to look at pictures of myself anymore.

I’ve been meaning to do something about my posture for years. I look at my rounded shoulders in the mirror and bark at myself, "Stand up straight!" I have a very low opinion of that woman who is staring back at me in the mirror. I hate her. It has recently occurred to me that this may have something to do with my poor follow-through on the posture project. Also, if I’m not looking in a mirror I just forget to stand up straight. After all, "slouch" has been my default position for 50 years.

So I’m trying a new approach. I have pasted post-its on the mirrors and walls throughout the house that say things like, "Proud" and "Tall" and even "Beautiful middle-aged woman." It’s only been a day now, but I think I’m starting to believe my own propaganda. And I’m sitting very straight in my chair as I type this.

The Cleaning Ladies

I’m very conflicted about the people who clean the workout room in the hotel where I go to exercise every day. It seems like whenever I go to work out, and I’ve gone at all different times of the day, there are two cleaning people there. They don’t seem to be any happier to see me than I am to see them. This is a small exercise room - maybe 20 machines, tops. We’re in each other’s way. I go to the treadmill farthest away from them and start my routine.

They never finish before I’m through, which is 40 minutes. No matter where they are I can see them because there are mirrors all over the place. They zig and zag all over the room with their spray bottles, absently wiping down the same exercise machines, and it’s obvious that they’re hiding out from their supervisor and killing time. The closer they get to my treadmill, the more irritated I get. When they start spraying the treadmills on either side of me, I want to put my towel over my head.

They’re using strong cleaning solution in a poorly ventilated room. It’s a health hazard. I’m breathing hard and taking in more air because I’m working out. I could be allergic. (I’m not, but I could be.) And from there, it’s just a short leap to, Yeah, that’s it! I’m going to tell them I’m allergic. Except they don’t speak English. No problem.

While walking 3.8 m.p.h., I begin an elaborate pantomime with the cleaning woman standing on the treadmill next to me. I wave to get her attention. She looks startled, suspicious, and a bit angry. Her bottle is alarmingly close to my face, finger poised on the trigger.

First I point to myself. Then I point to her spray bottle, and spray an imaginary bottle at my machine. Then I pretend sneeze. I look at her meaningfully. She stares at me, no longer startled but still suspicious. I assume she has understood me, and launch into my second "sentence." I point to myself. I point at my treadmill. I hold up one hand, five fingers spread wide. I point to my watch. I pantomime walking with my index and middle finger. I point to the door. I almost fall off my treadmill then, but manage to grab the handles and maintain 3.8.

The cleaning lady is now staring at me like you would look at a large, scary spider who is so near the ceiling, you don’t know how you’re going to kill him. Then she shrugs her shoulders and nods. For one brief moment I congratulate myself on my abilities as a communicator. I should work at the UN. She understands that I’m allergic to her cleaning solution, but if she waits just five minutes, I’ll be done and gone.

The next thing I know, the cleaning lady is leaning over her treadmill and spraying mine all over. Because I’ve reflexively closed my eyes, I am hanging onto the side handles for dear life. I can feel the spray covering my right side. When I sense that it’s safe, I open one eye and jab the red "STOP" button. The dashboard is slippery wet. I grab my IPOD and wobble towards the door. I am not sneezing. The cleaning lady waves.

So here’s where the argument in my head begins. Selfish Joan is outraged. She paid A Lot Of Money for the privilege of using that treadmill. And those people are just goofing off. They are making the whole experience more unpleasant than it is already, and giving her yet another excuse not to go at all. Why do they have to be there every day? She considers reporting them. Begrudgingly, SJ also acknowledges that she is also frustrated because her cover has been completely blown. She can hardly strengthen her case with allergies if she complains to management, since she is now literally dripping with cleaning solution, yet her eyes are clear and her nose is dry.

Benevolent Joan chimes in: Those poor cleaning ladies are probably supporting many people on their minimum wages, they have no skills for advancement and will be stuck in menial jobs for the rest of their lives. Whereas you, Selfish Joan, are going home to read a book for an hour before starting dinner which, face it, if you don’t feel like cooking, you don’t have to. You are so lucky...

Righteous Joan is beside herself. Luck has nothing to do with it! I was once a cleaning lady myself, when I was in college. My childhood was no cakewalk, you know...

And on and on they go. There are actually dozens of people squaring off in my mind at all times. Stick around. You’ll get to meet them all.