Thursday, February 11, 2016

                    by Sandra Moulin (aka Fifi, la folle, George Sand, Emma Bardac, Kay Swift)

If you follow my fun blog
oh my gosh, gee, hot dog!
then you’ll want to fast peruse
info about my concert news

My website is the place to go
it will put you in the know
just type the address here below
that’s how you’ll find me, where to go.

I hope you’ll come to hear me play
narrate, educate, night or day
depending on the program’s story
it’s always fun and never gorey.

You’ll learn and laugh and say to folks
“You must hear her, Holy Smokes!”
She spins a scandalous tale so fine
You’ll be high without fine wine.

I’m so proud to invite you all
to share with me my tales so tall
mark your calendar far ahead
and keep it close beside your bed.

If you live too far away
send for discs to hear me play
they are cheap, just $5 plus shipping
golfers can listen while they are chipping.

Dramatic Musilogues - I now have three
drama and music  in costume to see
Chopin, Debussy, Gershwin too
I hope that I will hear from you.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

                                                 I NEVER LEARNED TO SHARE

     After 22 years of sharing a bed with Mr. Wonderful, you would think I would have a method to get at least 6 hours of sleep. Nope, not me. Still struggling to get the 4.5. If I ever slept through the night without shushing, kicking, pushing or slapping him, it would be an effen miracle. Somewhere in my years of staff development, there was a message to educators that went something like this:  If you keep doing the same thing repeatedly, and it isn’t working, do it in a different way. Hello. If you aren’t sleeping well for 22 years, maybe you should consider an alternative. The ones I have considered are either abusive or illegal, so I keep tossing and turning in percale.

     When we travel, we now must share a bathroom. Now this is pure hell. No husband and wife should ever share a bathroom. If this doesn’t breed contempt, nothing will. Which side of the tiny counter should his DOPP Kit reside? Should he be allowed to turn her off her curling iron without permission? Should her hair follicles have to be wiped out of the sink before he shaves so they don’t appear as part of his mustache? Should she be upset if he accidentally uses her Retinae thinking it was shaving cream? Oh, my. Who knew there would be all this fodder for frenetic fits?

     Then there’s the funny questions that arise at the hotel:

He:  Should I go up and do the laundry?
She: I think you owe it to yourself.

He: Do you want to go to the Mall this afternoon?
She: No, I would prefer to go to the baseball museum. wtf.

He:  Do you have any money left?
She:  No.

     Then there’s the driving. Mr. Wonderful’s sports car is more precious than his first-born, so sharing the driving is not usually an option unless he is asleep at the wheel. This is the only time, I offer, as I know that if I swerve .03%, he’ll rag at me. If it starts to rain, we have to pull under a viaduct so “Marcel” won’t get wet. Funny, when it’s raining, he doesn’t worry about me getting wet. 

     Ah, sharing. Do you share? If so, who taught you that? Pat and Chet got a D in sharing. I guess it must be their fault.


Monday, February 8, 2016

I have a 96-year-old step-mom who says she doesn't know why she is still alive. Sometimes she gets so depressed, she just wants to call it a day. I can certainly understand that at her age, all of her friends have gone, her health is failing, she is dependent on others, and she can't do any of the things that made her happy and gave her purpose. She asks me frequently, "Why am I still on this earth?" 
How does one answer this question? 

This past week, I have lost a wonderful colleague who touched the lives of so many of his students and teacher friends. We lost a neighbor down the street suddenly. She had flu-like symptoms and simply closed her eyes. We have another friend who has fought for years one cancer and then another. She clings to her life. 

When I look at the question, "Why am I still on this earth?" I ask myself why people who want to live are taken away, and those whose lives are coming to an end are permitted to linger. This is not my question to answer, and, Heaven knows, I couldn't. I do believe, however, that as long as we are on this earth, our main purpose is to reach beyond ourselves and touch the lives of others in some way--even if it's only ONE single life. As we become numb to horrific disasters that take hundreds of lives at a time, we sometimes forget the value of just one. If that life was your son or daughter's; if it was your mother or father's, your best friend's, that one life would have an incredible impact on you, and the impact on you would be felt by everyone who knows you.

One single life is valuable. Part of my purpose is to provide a laugh for my 96--year-old step-mom when I talk to her on the phone once a week. It's a reminder to me that time is fragile and fleeting. When I get ready to hang up the phone, and we've both been laughing from the gut over something inane that I've said that starts her giggling, I am reminded that touching just one life resonates with me, and I need to put more people on the list to call.

If only one person reads my blog, and in some small way, I bring a smile to that person's face, a question that needs asking to that person's mind, a statement that comforts that one reader, then my blog is a success.  Who can you call today? Who needs a giggle in your circle? It only takes a few minutes.

Sunday, February 7, 2016

                                  700 YAY!

     Today marks the 700th blog I have written, and I am celebrating here in Sarasota, Florida, our favorite Florida town. When I began blogging two and a half years ago, I didn’t even know what a blog was. Thank you to my loyal followers, even though I don’t know who you are (with only with a couple of exceptions). I had hoped to have a “comment” button where readers could share their thoughts and opinions, but this site didn’t allow it, so I just assume you all love every word I write. 

     Someone asked me what I blog about. I said, “Whatever I feel like. Sometimes it’s a personal slice-of-life and other times, it’s a heart-felt essay about something I believe deeply or want to share.”  Blogging is often a creative outlet for wannabe-writers who have unique gifts but don’t have the tenacity to write a book or pen a poem. For me, it’s a false sense of feeling heard, and I live in my own little comment-less world assuming some agent will discover me at 90 and put me on the front of Time Magazine. 

     Today, I celebrate 2.5 years/700 entries and know for sure I have at least 6 more months left in me to enlighten or humor you all:)



Saturday, February 6, 2016

     It’s 2:08 a.m. Mr. Wonderful wants to talk. Are you effen’ kiddin’ me? Talk? Hello, it’s night time, big boy. The night before, we had about 20 minutes sleep, as we spent the night on an air mattress that creaked every time he breathed. When he snored, I rolled over to the edge and risked causing major damage to my body. Fortunately, for him, I never actually fell off the bed, but it was touch and go there for a while. On the way to our next venue (wonderful Michigan friends who live in a lovely community near Naples), we stopped in a church parking lot to take a nap. We hid under a large tree in our tiny sports car, Marcel, and prayed that the paunchy pontiff would not come out and try to baptize us. Whew. A good 20 minutes did not make up for the eight hours I lost, however. 

      So, when the topic of equity in the house came up at 2:18 a.m., I rolled over on my cellulite, opened one eye and said, “are you effen kiddin’ me?”

     It’s 8:40 a.m., and I think it’s time for my nap. Oh, before I forget, here’s a list of all the new things I have encountered since we left  7 days ago:

  1. 9 small alligators within reaching distance
  2. one large air mattress out to get me
  3. a delicious Caesar with fab dressing (from a bag)
  4. a night with no white noise (nightmare)
  5. a transvestite parading down the street in South Beach
  6. handing over our sports car to a random Cuban who took it somewhere to park for the night for a mere $40.
  7. a $120 meal that was worth about $3.94.
  8. a friend who said, “You know, it’s not all about you.” I said, “It isn’t?”
  9. emerald water
  10. Taylor Swift loves “the cricket.”

Friday, February 5, 2016

Here he is, Mr. Wonderful, in the flesh:

1.  Staring out at the massive Everglades after our 7.5 bike ride to the tower (another 7.5 back)
He stumbled on a few aligators on the way.

2. Aligator #1

3. Funny Face:)

4.  Biker Boy

5.  Who is that masked man?

Thursday, February 4, 2016

     We wanted to go to a restaurant that we could look back on and always have it remind us of this beautiful, quirky place, South Beach, Florida. Mr. Wonderful chose Joe’s Stone Crab House.I didn’t like the sounds of it, but it’s supposedly an institution here. Well, that’s exactly what it looked like. Our table was in a cozy corner of what felt like a used car showroom or maybe a prison cafeteria. The lights were blinding, the noise deafening, and the food mediocre at best. I tried to stay cheerful, diving into the forbidden deep dish apple pie a la mode (which I never ever allow myself), but that didn’t numb the shock of the $120 bill (sans alcohol). We could have eaten a modest meal on the cozy garden terrace at the front of the building, but Mr. Wonderful was too hungry. His comment on his meal choice:  “no taste.” Lovely. I was doing fine, until he allowed me to get pissy about paying so much for the meal. Then to add insult to injury, the man said he could not process my credit card as I hadn’t signed it. I said, “Well, I’m sorry, but I left my wallet at the hotel, so I don’t know what to tell you.” He came back with four different pens so I could sign my slippery card and pay him the exorbitant fee for crap. Oh, my.

     Once out into the beautiful balmy evening, I was even more furious that the cost for crap was not leaving a memorable experience in my mind. I tried to be mature and chalk it up to bad decision-making, but that wasn’t working for me. We got back to the hotel at 8:15 p.m. after passing by several romantic-looking restaurants with soft guitars strumming in the background. Now I was really annoyed. 

     Mr. Wonderful had just the ticket:  “Let’s go to CVS and buy you that lipstick you need.” Now that was the cure all right. We walked down several blocks (in my highest stilettos), past street people, transvestites, loud tourists and run-down stores to land in an enormous CVS. I headed right to my lipstick and paid $8.99 for it (it’s $4.99 at Target). That really cheered me up. Actually, it distracted my mind which is what I need to do when I’m being a brat.

     We got back to the hotel, blistered feet and mouth now in a half-pout. The Bernie Madoff movie was on, so the mind distracting continued until I fell into a deep slumber at 9:47 p.m.

     The good news is that Mr. Wonderful was so desperate to make up for the evening, he agreed to give up his umpteenth jaunt to the Everglades to do a vigorous beach walk with the Queen here on the island. Yay, brat.