Tag Archives: writing

Do I Need More Pippi in My Longstocking?

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Our only similarity is that we were both born with red hair. From the first time I met her, she was my idol. She is fiercely independent, unconventional, playful and unpredictable. Her pigtails fly in the wind, her grin widens and her freckled face flushes, as she races from one adventure to the next with her best friends: her horse, her monkey and the two children that live next door to her at her home, Villa Villekula. 

Pippi Longstocking- full name Pippilotta Delicatessa Windowshade Mackrelmint Longstocking- is the figment of the imagination of Swedish author Astrid Lindgren. Recuperating from an illness, Astrid’s daughter asked her mom for a story and named the main character Pippi. Initially rejected by publishers, the books have since been translated into 76 languages and made into television shows and movies. 

As a little girl reading the books, my eyes would widen, and my heart would race; how exciting to be so free! Little did I know that my personality had already evolved, as observed by JC*. She quickly realized that, rather than inheriting her easygoing nature, my tendencies for perfection and order were thanks to my dad. 

She knew she had her hands full but guided me along with such patience. By the time she received the call that I was in the nurse’s office by second period on my first day of junior high, she was resigned to the fact that I was a bit different from other children. Apparently, I did not see the humor in being handed one of the first computerized class schedules, having only a few minutes to arrive before the bell rang and being mistakenly assigned to the boy’s bathroom, rather than a classroom. 

In my efforts to be a bit more spontaneous, I have made some major strides: 

  • I visited a model home and did not rearrange anything. 
  • I polished my fingernails a completely different color than my toenails.
  • On a whim, I changed my grocery shopping day from Friday to Thursday.
  • I double snoozed my alarm.
  • I impulsively ate four Triscuits with lunch, rather than my usual three and did not worry about biting cracker number four precisely on its horizontal markings.   
  • I went on a trip without any pre-planning, waking up each day and deciding on my next adventure. Wait a minute; that was a friend of mine that did that, not me!

Oh, to be a bit eccentric! What fun it would be to make paper airplanes out of my to do lists with my avant-garde pals. Regrettably, I am only able to participate as a spectator, realizing that the only flow I can go with is if it has first been documented on an Excel spreadsheet. 

At first, I thought that living vicariously through others was unfortunate. Then I realized that family and friends are as fascinated with my quirks as I am with theirs. They loosen me up, I keep them on track and together, we walk through life one unique step at a time.

*JC:  My lovely mom and my best girlfriend. She received the name “JC” years ago – her initials – back when I hired her to be my interim secretary, and I did not feel comfortable saying “Any messages, Mommy?

Author’s Note:
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Made in Manhattan

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Every Monday morning, she would greet us, walking fast and out of breath, her soft, Gucci leather carry-on swinging from her shoulder, her long, perfect hair swaying back and forth, and her designer outfits perfectly accessorized. As she gracefully glided past us and flashed her “million-dollar” smile, we would all take a deep breath in unison and inhale her expensive perfume.

We were fresh out of high school, still carrying the baby fat that once made us cute, and now awkwardly settling in as college freshmen in New York City, hanging on to the promise that one day we would be career women.

It was rumored that she would fly in on her older boyfriend’s jet each Monday. She was an ex-Ford model (are you ever really an ex-Ford model?) who was hired to mold us into confident, well-dressed women of the world. I wondered if she realized what a challenge she had in front of her.

We were given an appointment time, and one by one, we would meet with her for a private consultation. We all nervously sat in the waiting room when the door burst open and Callie, a beautiful blonde student from Texas, dramatically announced to us that it was suggested she trade in her white mink coat, knee socks, and plaid skirts for a whole new business wardrobe. In her Southern drawl, she said she had to call her Daddy immediately to tell him that an allowance increase was necessary.

It was my turn. My stomach churned as I shut the door, smiled faintly, and sat across from her. She greeted me and started right in, suggesting makeup products that were soon to be introduced (what other insider information were former Ford models privy to?) and what styles and colors to wear. She showed me how to pull my long hair back into a bun and suggested I buy a braid that matched my hair color and wrap it around the bun for a more polished look. She stifled a laugh when she tactfully suggested some exercises for me to do, and I naively replied, “Do them now?” Yes, I was her style-starved puppet and would have dropped down and “given her 50” in a heartbeat.

One by one, we were all transfixed by her and happily settled into our new existences, leaving telltale signs all around us. To the dismay of the posh deli owner down the street, we bid farewell to his famous roast beef sandwiches for lunch and instead feasted on her favorite brand of yogurt. We all ate with demitasse spoons and cocktail forks (hers were sterling silver), her secret for eating more slowly. We stayed up late to re-polish our nails, so we were perfectly color coordinated the next day. We took extra time to dress and apply our makeup. We learned how to walk and carry ourselves properly. We were invited to attend social functions to practice the art of small talk and learn how to be a good listener. We were taught the social graces and the importance of manners.

It turned out that finishing school instruction was just as important as our formal education. When do you get the opportunity to stand there and be constructively critiqued from head to toe? Just as in the military, it was a form of breaking us down and rebuilding us from the bottom up, to make us the best we could be.

I still think about her. I wonder if she knew just how important she was to the lives of the young women she helped form. She taught us that if you look the part, you are the part. She transformed us from insecure, “plain Janes” to confident, chic women. She was an important role model in my life, and all these years later, after I carefully dress and check my nail polish, I raise my cocktail fork to her and say a silent “thank you” from the bottom of my style-conscious heart.

Author’s Note:
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Write or Wrong?

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Go ahead; pick a day, any day going back to 1968 and I will tell you what was going on in my life. I’m a keeper of significantly insignificant information. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been systematizing my life with pen and paper. 

Some of my favorite keepsakes are my calendars. Starting with the free Hallmark giveaways and advancing to a Filofax, I’d take great pleasure in jotting down as much as could fit into those little squares. 

Then, there were the outfit lists. In junior high and high school, I would write down what I wore each day on a monthly form I had designed. Besides keeping me fashion forward, this may have also had something to do with helping me with my confidence level. 

Rereading some old journals recently brought back some wonderful, almost forgotten memories. What surprised me the most was the detail in which I wrote. 

As the New York salesperson for a housewares company, I prided myself on my notebook. Written in a code that my Dad had taught me where each number was assigned a letter, I had all the pertinent information about every account at my fingertips. In those pre-computer days, this was the equivalent of carrying around a file cabinet; invaluable. 

There I stood feeling confident, my notebook tucked under my arm, fully prepared and ready to meet with the Bloomingdales buyers in our company showroom during show week. Not known for their kind, approachable personalities, the entourage strutted in, dressed to kill in black, hiding behind their designer sunglasses. Even my boss, known for his jesting, quietly whispered a greeting, almost bowing in reverence to them. 

Yet to make eye contact, they settled in, calculators in hand in order to determine the 15% additional markup they would add to the retail price of each item (from that day forward, I never shopped at Bloomingdales again). Just as I was about to begin my presentation, I felt a tug on my precious notebook. 

It was Arnold Adler, the company’s leading salesperson. Famous in housewares industry circles, Arnold’s career had started 50 years ago as he rode trains across the country, selling his wares. I was fortunate that Arnold would take the time to mentor me whenever we would see each other, but on this day, all Arnold did was take the notebook from me and whisper “You really don’t need this.” There was no time to panic; any second I could lose the interest of my aloof audience. I continued on, obtained the order and never let them see me sweat.

I have Arnold to thank for reminding me that, while my writing might guide me through life, it should not become a crutch. Maybe my focus on organizing myself was just a way for my Type A personality to be slowly introduced to the A B C’s of writing, something that I enjoy to this day.

Times have changed and unfortunately, the month at a glance calendar on my iPhone, though ever so handy, leaves me no room for details, but I carry on. Still, nothing lights up my life like an excuse to prepare an Excel spreadsheet. Some might argue that these little projects of mine are time wasters, but to me they are quiet reminders, chronicling my life into little blocks of minutiae that only its creator could love. 

Oh, and if you’ve ever been invited to my home, all the way back to 1983, I can tell you what was on the menu.

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Write to Make It Right

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Which pen should I write with today? It always takes me a while to decide. I review my collection of pens carefully, rolling each in my hand and deciding which has the best fit. Thin or thick point? Blue or black ink? I’m finally happy with my choices, so I dive right in, opening my notebook and feverishly writing. My thoughts are spilling forth so quickly that I can just about keep up. Once finished, I proof read it over and over, agonizing over the proper grammar and just the right words to use. And, when it’s perfect, I read it out loud twice. Then, I rip it up into tiny little pieces and throw it away.

In ancient Egypt and Mesopotamia, the need to maintain history and culture, disseminate knowledge, form legal systems and correspond were all motivations for writing. My motivation is much simpler; I use it as an emotional outlet. Pouring my heart out onto those pages is the healthiest way I have found to release me from feelings that might haunt me if I let them.

As a teenager, I thought of myself as quite cunning. I had devised a way to keep a diary that was 100 percent secure from ever being read. I would use this practice as an extension of positive thinking by writing a letter to a friend and telling them of my good fortune, detailing what it was that I wanted to happen. My anger, jealousy or sadness would be directed to its source with every element itemized and accounted for. Every decision I contemplated was documented on a folded sheet of paper noting pros and cons at its top.

As time went on, the subjects became more complex, but the ritual remained the same. The pen preferences make the process something special. The actual writing forces me to gather my thoughts and disciplines me to be precise and thorough. The ceremonial feel of reading the words out loud and then physically ripping up the paper always gives me a sense of power, of being in control over the situation (whether I really am or not).