Heidi Mastrogiovanni's Blog, page 3

Sharing the Wealth

Today I am delighted to share a post from fellow author Ronald E. Yates. I love his work, and this piece is one of my favorites.

“Scoop:” A Classic Satire About Foreign Correspondents

Read it here »

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Blossoming And Badassery: My Visit With Wonderful August McLaughlin On Girl Boner Radio

I had SUCH a blast being a guest on August McLaughlin’s fabulous Girl Boner podcast! I was especially honored that my guest spot was during her wonderful Beauty of a Woman BlogFest VI! Please enjoy my conversation with August on the “Starting Anew, Honoring Fantasies” episode.

Check out the podcast and the Beauty of a Woman Blogfest wrapup here .

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Feeling Agelessly Comfortable In My Skin

This post is part of the Beauty of a Woman BlogFest VI! To read more entries, and potentially win a fun prize, visit the fest page between today and 11pm PST March 11th.

I have a milestone birthday this year. You know, one with a zero at the end of the number. And that is making me think of my mother. On her 85th birthday, I called her to wish her a happy day. My mother had a very heavy German accent, and she started just about every sentence…be it a declaration or a question…with the monosyllable, “Oh.”

“Mom! Eighty-five!” I said. “That’s amazing!”

“Oh. But I don’t feel eighty-five.”

That statement has stayed with me ever since I first heard it. My mother felt like herself. The number didn’t matter. She was who she was, always. I loved that about her. And I love having inherited that joyous view of life from her.

And as I approach the beginning of a new decade (okay, okay, enough being coy…I’m going to be 60 in October…there I said it!), I feel better than I have ever felt, and I feel more like myself than I have ever felt. And this wonderful Beauty of a Woman Blogfest has inspired me to reflect on a few reasons why that is the case.

Three things immediately came to mind. I had rhinoplasty thirty-five years ago. I had a large Sicilian nose that came from my father’s side of the family. It was the same nose my dad had. That nose looked great on his face. It didn’t fit my face. I was very, very, very self-conscious about it.

A few years after graduating from college, I was going through a bit of a rough period, personally and professionally. And I got the idea in my head that having my nose fixed would make me feel better. My parents were very concerned about me at that point, so they agreed to get me the operation, hoping that it would help lift my spirits.

A wonderful plastic surgeon in New York City, where I lived at the time, was recommended to us. He was such a nice man. He looked at the stark black and white pre-op photograph of my profile, and took a pencil to shade out the big bump and the tip of my nose, which turned downward. The change in the look of the photograph was simple but profound.

“I’m just fixing a mistake that nature made,” the doctor said.

“You’re making me look like me,” I remember saying through a voice that was joyously teary.

I had twilight drugs during the operation. I remember waking up in the middle of it and hearing a grinding sound up and down my nose.

“Yikes,” I remember thinking. “Best to pass out again, pronto.”

After the swelling went down in a few weeks, the results were simple and profound. I felt like myself.

A few years after that, I happened to bump into someone from college on the 86th Street crosstown bus. I hadn’t seen him since graduating, so after catching up, I proudly said, “Notice anything different about me?” He didn’t. My nose job was very subtle from face-on. It was really more in profile that the changes could be seen. He admired my new profile, and then he said, “Gosh, your nose never bothered me.”

Which is a lovely comment. And of course I had to answer, “That’s lovely. And it’s kind of not the point…”

Because my nose really bothered me. I had it changed for myself, and for myself only. I have now had this nose much longer than I had the other one. I really like it. It feels like me.

Another thing I did many years ago that has stayed with me for decades happened a few years before I had my nose job. I had never exercised in college. I walked across campus, but I never went to the gym. It never occurred to me to work out.

When I was in New York, a glib comment by a then-boyfriend that I looked like I was putting on weight got me to go to a gym near my apartment to join. I was so pissed at him for making such a snippy reference to my figure, that I wanted to “show him.”

I’m not quite sure what I meant by “show him.” What I am sure of is that this was a major turning point for me. It happened almost forty years ago. I have worked out regularly since then. It is one of the most consistent things in my life. Because I absolutely love it. I love going to the gym. I love hiking. I love taking long walks. I love keeping moving. It makes me feel joyous and energized and relaxed and it helps me sleep better.

And, finally, the best thing for me about getting older is that I am living my values now more than I ever have before. A very dear friend of mine once said something that I absolutely loved… She commented that if anyone wanted to know who I am, all they would have to do is read my Facebook posts.

I’m rather passionate on Facebook…

I’m passionate about animal rescue and animal welfare. I’m passionate about volunteer work. I’m passionate about being a proud liberal feminist Democrat. I’m passionate about the glory of storytelling. I’m passionate about the Oxford comma. I’m passionate about love and kindness and generosity and my wonderful husband and friends and family. I’m passionate about our three rescued senior dogs, Chester and Maggie and Squeaks. I am passionate about gratitude.

I am now in a place in my life where I have the emotional and financial and physical resources to do what I want, when I want. I am grateful for that beyond the ability of words to describe. When I look in the mirror now, I have the same experience I imagine my mother had when she looked in the mirror, up to her 88th and last birthday. I see myself, agelessly comfortable in my skin.

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Book Launch Party!

In case you weren’t able to join me at Book Soup for the Lala Pettibone’s Act Two launch party, I have a video of the event! Please enjoy!

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Four Pounds of Fabulous!

I’m going to wax… I’m not sure what the right word is…

Religious? Spiritual? Philosophical? Metaphysical? Wacky?

I was raised Catholic (yeah, like my Italian family name didn’t give that away…), but I haven’t practiced any organized religion for decades. I think I’m most accurately described as an agnostic. I really, really, really hope there is some loving and benevolent force guiding the universe, but I often fear that there isn’t. Because, for the life of me, I can’t figure out how, if there is a benevolent force, the Holocaust could happen and how Syria, as just one current example, could be such a place of relentless cruelty.

But…and I hope this doesn’t sound glib because it doesn’t feel glib to me…the addition of a new member to our family four years ago gave me an unexpected sense of the possibility of the divine.

Okay, enough pondering of unanswerable questions and the nature of faith for now…

When Tom’s father passed away suddenly, he left behind two dogs, a Labrador and a Chihuahua. It was decided fairly quickly that Tom’s oldest brother and his family would adopt Tess, the Labrador, and Tom and I would adopt Squeaks, the Chihuahua.

Because that’s what responsible, caring people do. Having a pet is a lifetime commitment. Not just your lifetime, their lifetime, too.

Yes, I’m getting on my soapbox.

I volunteer for the cause of animal welfare. I’m a member of a small animal rescue group here in Los Angeles. We are constantly getting phone messages and e-mails from people who are conveying that a family member died and if we don’t take in their dogs/cats, they’re going to bring them to the pound, where — as we know all too well — the poor animals will most likely be euthanized.

Don’t get me started…

A lifetime commitment. Not just yours…theirs…

Tom drove to Fresno to work with his brothers to get their father’s house and other belongings in order, while I stayed home with our senior darlings, Chester and Maggie, the ones you met before in this blog. Tom would be bringing Squeaks back with him.

Squeaks is also a senior. Our three kids are about the same age, fourteen or so now. I was nervous about disrupting our calm and happy equilibrium with Chester and Maggie by bringing another dog into the house. What if they didn’t get along? What if teeth were bared? What if there was growling and fighting?

I really like to avoid conflict. I know that’s not the best quality for a writer to have. I remember being in a creative writing class and hearing the teacher say that all stories, comedies included, must have some conflict, and I thought, “Crap, now you tell me…”

Tom and I decided that we would let the kids meet each other outside, because we had heard or read somewhere that it’s good to introduce dogs to each other on neutral territory. So when Tom pulled into our driveway, I put leashes on Chester and Maggie and we walked out our front door together.

Tom opened the driver’s side door of his car and got out…

Carrying the tiniest dog I had ever seen…

Seriously, I have had cats three and four times bigger than the little guy who got out of the car with Tom.

Tom put Squeaks on the ground. Chester and Maggie approached him. Sniffing ensued, per the rules of canine communication. I was very, very, very nervous that they wouldn’t accept each other. I gave Chester’s and Maggie’s leashes to Tom to hold because he is considerably more relaxed than I am, and I had read that dogs can sense their guardian’s tension through the leash. Or something like that.

So there was Tom and there were the three dogs right next to each other and I was terrified that I would be hearing sounds of dreaded conflict and I would have to start screaming for Tom to separate them before they killed each other. Which is very helpful in a crisis. Someone yelling like a lunatic while not actually doing anything to fix the problem. Yeah.

More sniffing. Some staring. No noise. No problems. Nothing negative.

Welcome to our family, Squeaks.

I honestly can’t begin to convey how proud I am of Chester and Maggie. They are such generous and loving souls. There wasn’t a moment of jealousy from them. It was as though they said to Squeaks, sure, come live with us. Be our brother. There’s enough love to go around.

I love all dogs and indeed all animals, but I don’t know that Chihuahuas would necessarily have been on my Top Ten list of favorite breeds before I met Squeaks.

Well, now that we’ve had Squeaks for four years, I am Chihuahua crazy. Along with being Beagle and Dachshund and Greyhound and Bulldog and Cocker Spaniel and Pug crazy. To name just a few.

Let me pause to say that, of course, “Rescue” is my favorite breed…

Squeaks is a total, clichéd love bug. He is a snuggle bunny. And he is the undisputed leader of the pack here. This was established very early. Maggie has a rather unfortunate habit of bolting down her food and then, if we don’t stop her, barreling over to Chester’s food and pushing him out of the way so she can finish whatever is left in his bowl. Chester, being supremely easygoing, just gives her a perplexed look when she does that and walks away to let her eat his food in peace.

Maggie tried that with Squeaks the first night he was here. She finished her food and headed toward Squeaks. We weren’t paying enough attention, and she got to his food bowl before we could stop her.

Squeaks had his head down and was happily chewing his food. Maggie came over and was about to push him out of the way. Squeaks didn’t bother to raise his head. He just growled. Calmly, at a low, distinct volume.

Maggie stopped in her tracks. She stared at Squeaks. Then she turned around and wandered off. She hasn’t gone anywhere near his bowl while he’s eating ever since.

Chester and Maggie and Squeaks absolutely adore each other. We have two large doggie beds for them in the living room. It is very unusual for them not to squeeze into one of the beds together while the other one remains entirely empty.

Squeaks, by the way, also goes by the names Squeaky Boy, Squeakserdoo, and Sir Squeaks-A-Lot.

Children love Squeaks. He’s like a living toy to them. When we’re out walking with our trio, people marvel at how tiny he is.

Which brings me back to my original point…

Squeaks weighs around four pounds. He clocks in at considerably less mass than my head (I do have a freakishly large head…). And contained in those four pounds of matter — such a tiny amount — there is every emotion possible.

The world must be so large and imposing to him, but Squeaks faces it with love and trust. He is dear and sweet and kind and funny and ebullient, and his emotions and his worldview are, to me, no less meaningful than the emotions I treasure in the people I love and admire.

And, to me, there is something mystical and divine in that…

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A Blog Post Wherein I Get Over Myself

I should start off with the admission that this post will probably be shorter than my previous ones, largely because I can only bear so much self-inflicted shame before I have to shut off my computer, pour a huge glass of wine, and retreat to the shelter of my couch to watch a marathon of “Law and Order: SVU,” which is always on some cable channel or other and if that’s not proof that we live in a benevolent universe, then I don’t know what is…

Okay, so I have to own up to something of which I am not proud…

Let me tell you a little story…about me…being insufferable.

The scene of my epic breakdown of grace and decorum was one of the meetings of the fabulous book club to which I belong.

It’s called the Roaring Laughter Ladies Book Club. The women in it are among the most wonderful people in my world and in the world. Kind, smart, caring, hilarious, delightful, loyal…you get the idea; you can pretty much fill in any laudatory adjective here and it will apply to them. This is not hyperbole. They rock.

And I was being insufferable in their company…

So this post is, in addition to being a confession, an apology to my lovely friends, who deserve much better than they got from me on that terrible day.

Please imagine that the voice saying these words is using a tone that is smug, sneering, and singsong… In short, all the things you don’t want a voice you are hearing to be.

Needless to say, this is me, gassing on and on at the book club meeting…

 

“I just hate when people use the word ‘read’ as a noun. I hear it all the time. It was a good read. What is that all about? It’s a verb! To read! I hate when people make verbs into nouns! Why does our beautiful language have to change? That’s called evolving? I call it DE-volving!”

 

And then I sat back with a self-righteous, tight little smile, and continued to chug the delicious wine/champagne/vodka (I think it was champagne for me on that particular day) that we always have at our gatherings.

There were a few moments of silence, during which my dear friends were, I suspect and fear, thinking “Jeez, is she a pill, or what?”

And then there was a response, and please forgive me, because I don’t remember who said this… Whichever Roaring Laughter Lady said it, please jump right in and claim your due applause in the Comments section of this post.

“But that happens with ‘walk’ all the time…”

And I froze as soon as I heard that sentence being completed.

Because I immediately realized that I had nothing to say in return…

No possible response…

Because one of the things I love most in the world is walking. I just love taking a walk. It’s one of the great pleasures of my life. I love the joy and relaxation and re-energizing that the word “walk” conveys. As a verb. And as a noun. And I have used it both ways. For decades. Without giving it a second thought.

And so I would just like to apologize for being such a pill. I’m duly humbled and truly sorry.

I sincerely hope this post has been a good read for you. And, I swear, I didn’t even wince while I typed that…

But I still think that saying/writing/thinking “try and [do something]” instead of “try to [do something]” is clumsy and lazy and just plain wrong, and always will be…

But…

I think I may be forced to realize that I will be reading and hearing “try and” far more than I will be reading and hearing “try to” and maybe I’m fighting a losing battle here and maybe I should just get over myself with that one, too…

I think I even saw “try and” in The New Yorker, a.k.a. my standard reference on all things bright and gorgeous about our fabulous language, but I’m not 100% sure…

Maybe our beautiful language has evolved to the point where “try and” is not only correct, it’s more correct…

Maybe…

I’ll try to keep you posted on my evolving thoughts about that subject…

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