Viennese

My daughters introduced me to the Night at The Museum movies this past weekend with a result of my wanting two things badly afterwards…

1. To learn and put knowledge to work for me.

2. To have my hair cut the same as Amy-Adams-as-Amelia-Earhart.

It shouldn’t surprise you that Amelia Earhart is my childhood hero if you remember that I grew up in and will forever call Dayton, Ohio home.  The Wright Brothers’ legacy of flight surrounded me at every turn.  And my spring and summers were spent laying in the grass in the field across the street from my urban home watching planes fly into and out of Wright Patterson Air Force Base at all hours of the day.  Flight seemed a natural aspiration.

And as a girl in the late 1970s, the inability of girls to do so many things, so openly discouraged and demeaned because of gender status, well, Amelia was a natural choice.

I learned everything about her and strove to live up to her legacy of curiosity, courage and challenge.   But it was ultimately another woman pilot—Jackie Cochran—who gave me the example that encouraged me to be who I am today.

Gentle Penguin, I’m sad to admit it started because I just couldn’t be as shy and demure as Amelia had been.  Jackie lived life out loud, which so much better suited my natural inclination.  And as you know, I learned quickly that being a tomboy just wasn’t effective for me either.  I wasn’t one of the guys.  I was their little sister.

Jackie, may not have been the little sister, but she never shied away from making it clear she was female…and feminine.  One of my favorite pictures of her is taken after finishing some record-setting flight putting on lipstick before she emerged from her cockpit.  In fact, she actually owned and operated her own cosmetic business very successfully too, which today still makes her my favorite hero.

I never understood why she wasn’t lauded as loudly as Amelia.  But I had her in my heart and that was all that mattered to me.

I reached out to both women after the movie.  And briefly revisited the idea of flight as a hobby.  I sat with the idea for awhile as I tried to go to sleep and, quite frankly, I couldn’t figure out which hobby to give up to make room for it.  And so I slept dreaming of the feeling of flight that wasn’t quite flight, but exhilarating and full of motion nonetheless.

All day I carried that feeling with me wondering what it had been.  I know this feeling intimately.  I just couldn’t place where I’d felt it before.

By the end of the day, the yearning to identify had lessened and I was resigned to just letting it be just a dream.  I fulfilled my obligations to work, to family, to home and hearth, to the dog and then changed my shoes and stepped out onto the dance floor.

The music started slowly as Keith offered me his hand.  I extended mine and waited for him to pull me into him. I found my dance frame, settling my left shoulder-blade into his right hand and placing my other hand securely on his bicep.  A slow rotation to wind up and then 1-2-3, 1-2-3, 1-2-3, we were off.

There it was.  The Viennese Waltz.  In all its majesty and movement, I was literally flying across the floor letting the music pull me along, using the momentum of the near-constant spinning motion to sweep me up into its lift and off the floor.  A neat cross body lead led me straight toward the mirror where I could see myself clearly.

That’s when I realized, my hair is already cut like Amy-Adams-as-Amelia-Earhart.  And so, all that’s left is a burning desire to learn and put knowledge to work for me…after I finish the dance.

Karen and Cass

Jack Sprat could eat no fat.  His wife could eat no lean…I can’t stop singing sad songs, where do I go from here?

Sometimes when I’ve had a stressful day, I eat double stuffed oreos, drink wine and sing along with the women I’ve come to regard as my support group.

Today was a stressful day.  So I searched for my favorite comfort song, which  led me to Olivia Newton John, which led me to Karen Carpenter.

I love Karen Carpenter’s voice most of all.  It’s my favorite singing voice of all time.  Always has been.  It’s like having an older sister or a guardian angel nearby.   

“To set things right when the world’s upside down.  Let me be the one you run to.  Let me be the one you come to when you need someone to turn to.”

And as always, I wondered…”what happened to her?”  How could a woman who had the most beautiful voice in the world, was loved by continents of people, not to mention her family, who was bright and beautiful, how could SHE think she couldn’t be loved unless she was as thin as skin on bones?

“You’ve got to love me for what I am for simply being me.  Don’t love me for what you intend or hope that I will be.”

My heart still goes out to her.  I know what it feels like to feel fat and unattractive, to want to be loved for who you are absolutely.  But it seems so crazy for her to think that about herself.  I’m sure she wouldn’t understand why I think so…but perhaps it’s just as crazy for me to think these things.

Suddenly, I find myself ear to voice with Cass Elliot.  Gorgeous.  Another of my absolute, all-time favorites.  And the epitome of the opposite end of the spectrum when it comes to tragedy.  She joked alot about being overweight, even told her friends she didn’t want to be seen in public with them because it would only make it clear how big she truly was.

“Different is hard.  Different is lonely.  Different is trouble.  Different is heartache.  Different is pain.  But I’d rather be different then be the same.”

Again, I know what it’s like to feel self-conscious and worry about comparisons, but how silly of such a vivacious personality, a voice like a goddess, a true superstar.  It makes me wonder.

I’ve studied the power of beauty, the science of beauty, the history of beauty.  I’ve studied the science of weight disorders and weight loss, the psychology of it, the factors.  I’ve worked out, run, walked, dieted, starved myself, made myself throw up, hated food, used food as a crutch, ate the same food every day for months on end until I couldn’t stand it anymore.  And guess what, I’m within 30 pounds of where I’ve been my entire adult life.

“We go on hurting each other.  Making each other cry, hurting each other.  Without ever knowing why.”

Would it shock you to know that despite the fact I’m still overweight my doctor says I’m in fabulous health, fabulous shape?  It’s true.

But I’m not thin.

I have no intention of ever returning to the world of dieting or filling my time with activities I hate or eating only one food till the end of time just to be thin.  Nor do I plan to lead a sedentary life.  But I’m never going to be thin.

So when will it be okay for all of us…women, especially…to understand how gorgeous and worthwhile and wonderful we are…just as we are.  Like Karen and Cass.  Regardless of our shape.  Or our age.  Or our hair or skin or eye color.  Or weight.

“On the day that you were born the angels got together and decided to create a dream come true.  So they sprinkled moondust in your hair and golden starlight in your eyes of blue.”

I just want to live and live well, to sing and dance and be happy and enjoy every moment I’m here.

“It’s not hard to see that it isn’t half of what it’s going to turn out to be cause it’s getting better, growing stronger, warmer and wilder.  Getting better everyday.”

By the way, they both died of heart attacks.  I find that ironic as I sit here missing them…and their gorgeous voices.

“Don’t worry if it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear.  Just sing.  Sing a song.”

End state or state in waiting?

As is always true in my life, one message of note becomes many messages of note. I like to think it’s because the Fates and Muses want to make sure I’m paying attention.  But sometimes it just pisses me off, quite frankly.

Lately I’ve been inundated with messages about being single.  Haven’t I addressed this already?  Truthfully, I’ve been happily single for quite a while now.  True, I have my crushes and my flirtations every now and again, but at the end of the day, I look forward to cooking in the kitchen with my daughters, sharing a meal with them and laughing, walking the dog in the darkness and then sinking into solitude and silence for several hours.

I’ve hired a handyman who works miracles with my electricity and woodworking and horse-hair plaster and garden gates when I need him too.  And with Theo around, I no longer worry about strange noises at night—he ALWAYS checks them out for me.

But still I hear messages whispered around me, articles in magazines, news programs and even health tips about how important it is to be married…or at least in a committed relationship.

Then my daughter went away on a retreat.  ”What did you learn Kate?”

“Oh, they talked to us about girl stuff, I guess.”

“Like what?”

“Like being married.   And being single.”

“What did they tell you about being married?”

“All sorts of things about compromise and communication and how important it is for your health and well-being.”

“What did they tell you about being single?”

“Well…that you wouldn’t have someone around to tell you what to do…until you found someone, I guess.”

Now, I ask you Gentle Penguin…REALLY?

I can tell you for certain, my clients tell me what to do.  My daughters tell me what to do.  My parents tell me what to do.  Heck, Theo the dog tells me what to do sometimes.  Doesn’t mean I do what they tell me to.  But this doesn’t define my singleness any more than it defines someone being in a relationship.

What defines my singleness and sets me apart from people in relationships, quite honestly, is my one-ness.  ”Solo a Mia,” my Italian friends call me still (“just me”).  ”Einzigen,” is my nickname in Germany (“single one”).  ”Darlin’ ina n-aonar,” per Shrek (“darling alone”).

Of course, to be clear, I’m not sitting alone moping or pining for anyone.  Nor am I trolling the bars or the internet dating sites.  I don’t toss pennies in wishing wells hoping for the one I love to find me (to find me) today (or tomorrow).  I spend my time quite happily hiking, and writing, and painting, and dancing, and singing, and cooking, and gardening, and hanging laundry on the line, and taking photos, and reading, and living.

Why does this mean I’m not whole?  Why do people assume this means I’m waiting for one more?  Why can’t I be enough?  As one.

Does being single mean you must always be in a state of looking, waiting, anticipating?  Can’t being single mean you’ve found someTHING to which you’ve dedicated yourself and on which you’re focused?  Can’t being single mean living without the burden of always trying to find someONE?

Can’t being single be an end state?  Or must it always be a state in waiting?

Dance as sport

I promised I wouldn’t waste any more time trying to love running, but instead dedicate my exercise to something I love.  Dancing.  And because I sometimes have difficulty keeping my resolves and motivation, I decided to explore dance from a new angle.

Mainly a competitive one.

Those of you who know me in person know I love a good competition.  It’s not that I’m overly competitive in the sense of I have to win, but I want to know I gave it everything I’ve got and be proud of where I end up.  I knew I would never win a 5k before I ever signed up, but I wasn’t going to let the 80-year-old speedwalking women beat me after I’d been training for months!

Likewise, I don’t have any illusions I’m going to win my first competition, but I’ve been dancing for seven years now, and I want to know—I mean REALLY know whether I’m a good dancer or not.  Sure my teachers and the studio staff tell me I’m good, but they make a living on my choosing to return to the studio.  And I have a tendency to distrust the opinions of people with money involved.  (Just like I doubt the true intentions of the bartenders with whom I love a good flirt because I tip above the 10-13 percent that has become the average tip for service…I have thoughts on that too though…)

So I’ve agreed to sign up for my very first ever official competition.

Yes, I’ve danced exhibitions and performances a plenty, but this means I’m going to get a score, and be judged by people I’ve never met before on how well I dance compared to other dancers in my age category–well, those competing in Waltz, Foxtrot, Tango, Viennese Waltz, Rumba, Samba, East Coast Swing, Hustle, Cha Cha, and Mambo.

I have about a month left to prepare, but it’s caught me off guard lately to notice a remarkable shift in my dancing.  True, I’ve buckled down and really put some serious energy and time into it, but while I’m stretching and sweating and learning technique and routines, I’ve suddenly noticed I have no fear of the mirror.  I have no worries about what to do with my arms (except once when I almost clocked Justin—whose real name is Keith, a regular reader of my blog, one of the best people I know, who said it is quite alright to use his real name—with my elbow in a rapid turning sequence). I’m laughing a ton, flirting with the other students and even secretly hoping others are watching.

My feet match up when I step in Waltz and cross at the appropriate moments when we Viennese without my having to consciously make that happen.  My head turns out toward my elbow and down my extended leg when in Tango I corte without assistance from my mind.  And my butt pops out nicely in Betty Boop fashion when doing the travelling box step in Samba without my worrying about who’s behind me (last night I even hoped one gent WAS watching!)

Dance has become less of a study and more of a movement.

FINALLY!!!

And it’s infiltrated my life.  I come home and put on Ballet videos so I can stretch.  I feel taller and when I stand in line, no longer worrying about my posture, I can feel my feet firmly rooting into the ground as my frame aligns almost easily over my hips…ribs knitted, pelvis tipped, back straight, shoulders down and back, head pulled high.

It’s done interesting things for my stature too, in ways more than appearance.  At the end of a lesson in Viennese Waltz, my arms ached so badly for days, I considered typing on my keyboard with a pencil in my mouth. At the end of a Samba lesson, I discovered there were muscles on the sides of my hips (whew! I thought that was all fat and cushion) and boy were they hot and cranky for about a week.  At the end of a Rumba lesson, I finally understood what it meant to roll through your entire foot and how that helps slow down and distinguish the motions though my calf muscles are still not speaking to me.

I’ve even started turning my garage into a little dance studio so I have more room to practice turns and my routines.

And can I just divert for one minute to say I don’t think I want to buy my clothes anywhere but the dance store any more.  Dancewear is the most comfortable, moveable, flattering stuff I’ve ever draped over my body!

Only when Keith tells me about bowing do I begin to get nervous.  Why?  Because then I’m finished dancing and just waiting for judgement.

Okay, it doesn’t hurt that the competition is in NYC, that we’re travelling together as a large group, seeing Wicked on Broadway and having hair and makeup done professionally by a man who does so for some of the best dancers in the world, not to mention being in NYC with a great group of people with whom I’ve shared so much personal space on the dance floor here in Dayton.

But at the end of February, when I stand on that stage with unknown number of other couples and my name is announced, I intend to be just as serious and fierce and warriorlike as ever…just in a fun and flirtatious way.

In the kitchen

My daughters and I have spent so much time in the kitchen of late.  I wonder why we never did this before.

Tonight we’re making knefflies.  It’s a German food like a cross between a spaetzle and a dumpling and drowned in butter…not margarine…butter.  Butter!

I first fell in love with knefflies as a child when my mom made them for me from a recipe from her mom who fed them to her as a child.  ”It’s a German food,” I’d always been told.  And while I’ve never seen them in Germany (yet), I’m game to keep going back to try.

Tonight, I’m teaching my youngest—Meg—how to make this noodly side dish.

We put the thick-cut, organic pork chops from the farm up the road into a simmering stock (they had been browned the night before).  Then we filled the large pot with water and began the boiling process.

Out came the flour and the measuring cups and eggs and salt…and butter.  REAL butter made by a grass-fed cow farm within 20 miles of my house.  I’ve never thought I could eat just butter (though Meg assures me she’s thought of it lots and is convinced she absolutely could), I contemplate it now.

Mixing ensued.  Then came the kneading.  Oh, I love kneading!  It’s why I make homemade bread every weekend.  Well, that and I truly take great delight in seeing the dough come to life as it rises, gets punched down, then rises again.

Life seems somehow better, simpler, clearer when your sleeves are rolled up  and your fingers are covered in bits of flour and water and egg pushing a lump of dough around on a lightly floured counter.  Once the ingredients were mixed together into a ball of smooth elasticity, we head for the boiling pot of salted water.

Pinch by pinch the dough goes into the water, sinking to the bottom of the pot.  Oblong pinches, round pinches, long pinches, fat pinches, the more character the knefffly has, the better!  Our fingers are getting stickier and stickier.  The dough, a little more pliable and gooey as we pinch more and more morsels into the bubbling pot.

Slowly they start rising and gathering on top where the water and steam meet.  A foam is forming around them, the bubbling is so fierce. Are there knefflies hiding in that foam? For certain!

We wait until the pot is full of floating mounds of dough before scooping them with the metal colander into a glass pot where a full stick of butter waits to transform into a liquid cream that thus transforms the steaming lumps of part-noodle-part-dumpling dough into delectable morsels of heavenly goodness.

I’d sneak a bite, but my tongue is already burnt from testing the pork gravy and my hands are far too messy from the dough.  Still, I contemplate it while my oldest daughter hands me a glass of white wine saying “you can wipe off the glass easy enough.”

Meg is stirring the second round to make sure they don’t stick to the bottom, or each other.  ”Do we have to eat the pork and green beans?  Can’t we just eat knefflies?” she asks hopefully.  She’s not a fan of most green vegetables, unfortunately, but GOSH! they smell divine!  They smell like summer and grass and freshness all wrapped up in one.  I test those instead of the knefflies.

Meg shakes her head at me ruefully and asks if she should begin setting the table.   My daughters often fight about who’s going to set the table.  I admit, I like to do so myself.  There’s just something wonderful about eyeing the food—shape, texture, color and ethnic origin and matching it with our collection of mismatched fine china to determine which plates would best display the food.  It’s an art form all in its own right.

The same with glasses based on whatever they’re drinking.  I admit, Gentle Penguin, it was a little odd to watch them drink milk from stemmed water tumblers once, but tonight they opt for glass steins from various German festivals filled to the brim with our homemade iced tea.

Only the napkins remain a battle.

Cloth only!  ”There’s no use wasting paper on napkins when cloth napkins are far more functional, protective and useful…not to mention ecologically and economically sound,” I say exasperated.

Paper napkins!  ”Who cares about ‘-ically’ stuff,’” shouts my youngest with a wild and dramatic flourish of her hands.  ”Paper napkins clean up spills and are healthier,”

I doubt that, but we settle on cloth napkins easily as they size up the argument and acquiesce.

It’s time to settle in for a heaping portion of knefflies in melted butter.  And pork with pork gravy (a little lumpy as I realize too late you can’t stir in the flour mixture with a wooden spoon).

I don’t know if it’s the food—certainly it was heavenly!—But the easy laughter, the dim lights of the candles, the design of fine china, glasses, food textures and colors and the smells mixed with news of what matters to my daughters, what they think about, what they’re up to and what they have on their minds make the experience the perfect way to wrap up my day.  I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.