Drop The Soap!

There are so few pleasures in life; after 50 there are fewer yet. So I relish the small things, like a long hot soapy shower with a bar of my special floral scented soap. I don't buy them for myself. They're too expensive. Some of those soaps can cost between $8 and $12 a bar! So I wait for a holiday when gifts are exchanged, and the first thing on my list is: scented soaps. When I get them, I hide them in my underwear drawer.

Before my shower, I unwrap the soft white bar of soap, press the tissue paper to my face and inhale the fragrant floral scent. I roll the smooth dry bar of soap around in my hands for a few seconds, cup my hands to my face and inhale deeply. Ahhhh.... I am already beginning to relax.

This soap is so rich, the lather foams up like whipped cream on my skin. I'm giddy with the lusty floral scent that mixes with the steamy water sending a beautiful freesia scent throughout the room, down the hall and into my bedroom. I smell my skin as I leave the shower. I smell like a walking flower.

When my husband comes to bed that night, he glances my way and raises his eyebrow. This silent communication for his romantic intentions is accepted with my smile, but something is amiss. Am I correct? Does he, too, smell like a flower?

"Come closer," I tell him. He smiles broadly, misinterpreting my urgent command.

"Did you use my scented soap?!" I ask, my nose sniffing his shoulder.

"I used the soap in the shower." He answers, dreamily, moving in closer.

"But was it my soap?" It is an accusation now, as it has already been confirmed by my superior olfactory senses.

He backs away a little, sensing the mood shift, "I used the only soap in the shower."

I leap out of bed to see how this could have happened. And there it was. My beautiful sensual floral scented soap sitting in the soap holder. How, I wonder, could a man who can't find the mayonnaise jar in the refrigerator, when it is sitting on the shelf in front of his nose, ever find my tiny round bar of scented soap that I hide behind two voluminous bottles of shampoo and conditioner??

Needless to say, the mood is lost as I begin a lecture on the price of that soap, my need to have my own feminine things - separate from the men in this family - and my inability to find him sexually appealing when he smells like a gentle flower. I doubt he will ever use my soap again, and I vow to be more vigilant, to check the soap holder every night and be sure to replace "their" soap when they run out.

But mishaps happen, and I'm not as sharp as I used to be. Otherwise I wouldn't be screaming through the bathroom door this morning as my son was taking his 45 minute shower. It stopped me dead in my tracks as I was making my bed: the steamy scent of my floral soap, swirling around my head.

I pounded on the bathroom door yelling, "Drop the soap!"

"I'll be done in a minute," he replied.

"Drop the soap!" I repeated as I banged on the door.

"What?" he answered through the thick flower scented steam.

"Drop the soap!" At this point I was almost in tears as I imagined my tiny round soap reduced to a sliver and then to just a few bubbles drifting down the drain.

"I can't hear you; wait 'till I get out," he answered.

I thought about setting off the smoke alarms, but he would ignore that too. There were too many times that I burned the toast and no one took them seriously anymore.

What can I do? Give up the fight? Go back to using that bland bar of Ivory soap? How do you go back to drinking water with dinner after you've sipped the Beaujolais? Shall I start carrying my soap back and forth to the shower, like students do in college dorms?

Maybe I should just calm down and accept the fact that these mishaps occur from time to time, pick your battles, as they say, and be grateful for other small victories- like the fact that they all leave the toilet seat down.

Rain

Are we sick of the rain yet? I, for one, like rainy days - when I can stay home and observe them. I don't relish slopping around in puddles or driving in the traffic jams that rain seems to produce. Staying in on a rainy day is one of my favorite pastimes. I'll make a pot of soup and some home made bread, catch up on some reading, work on my quilt and maybe even take a little nap at 3:30. You can't get away with doing any of those things on a beautiful sunny day - unless you fake being sick. And you certainly can't enjoy a rainy day if you have young children at home. For you, being stuck in the house in the rain is a nightmare.

Although, when I think back, I did have fun on rainy days when the kids were young. I would throw a large sheet over the dining room table and make a fort. Sometimes we would have picnics on a beach blanket in the living room or watch movies with popcorn. And then there were the dioramas and play dough. When they got a little older I would teach them how to make meatballs or pizza dough on rainy days, among other things. That was all before video games and computers came out. Nowadays, the young kids splinter off alone in their bedrooms on rainy days. That could be a good thing too.

The world is so hectic today and there is so much worry and tension about the economy and world affairs that I feel like a rainy day is the excuse we all need to calm down, stay indoors and be still for awhile.

Here are two haiku poems that will help you pause for a moment and contemplate the beauty of rain.

Rain went sweeping on
in the twilight, spilling moons
on every grass blade
by Sho-u

Ho, for the May rains
when frogs swim in my open door
for a visit!
by Sanpu

Enjoy the rain...it should be around for a few more days!

Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New

Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New
Previously published in the New York Times, Sunday, September 30, 1984

One evening, while visiting a chic new espresso café in Massapequa, I watched the waiter serve someone a plate of “peppers and eggs.” When the patron smiled approvingly after the first bite, I felt triumphant as I thought back to an event in my childhood, 30 years ago, in that very neighborhood.
When I carried a grease-stained paper bag to elementary school and unwrapped my “peppers and eggs” sandwich at the lunch table, I heard comments like: “What’s that gook you’re eating?” and “How come your mother never gives you normal food –like bologna, or peanut butter?”
Now, in this Italian café, “peppers and eggs” is the specialty of the house.
Back in 1950, we were the new – and only Italian – family on the block. Granted, our eating habits may have seemed a bit peculiar: When my friends were eating roast beef for dinner, I was twirling spaghetti with garlic and oil or eating an artichoke omelette. But they were even further bewildered by our Sunday afternoon dinners that lasted well into the night.
Every Sunday at 3 o’clock, the relatives arrived.
After a long drive out to “the Island” from Brooklyn, aunts, uncles and grandparents would emerge from their voluminous cars, pausing a moment to stretch and groan. They smoothed down their wrinkled coats, adjusted their hats and formed an orderly procession marching single file up the front walk, all of them delicately balancing little white cardboard pastry boxes in their right hands.
After dinner the entertainment began. My father gave the cue with a slow nonchalant stroll over to the piano; Uncle Vittorio coaxed him on (although he never needed much coaxing), and soon all the men were clearing their throats, standing in a semicircle around my father, who was planted firmly on the piano bench.
With arms outstretched, each man sang his favorite aria with such passion and fortissimo as if he were competing with the others for the title role in a Verdi opera. They supported each other with back slapping and cheers of “Bravo, John! Bravo, Vittorio!”
My mother ran through the house closing windows and doors, muttering something about keeping the neighborhood quiet. When the concert was over my father retraced my mother’s path around the house, reopening windows and doors and exclaiming, “It’s hot in here! Who closed the windows?”
On Monday morning my friends wondered what the racket was at my house the night before.
“How come you always have so much company on Sundays?” they asked.
“What company? That was just my family,” I answered.
I liked Sundays – that is, until I grew up. Then, as a teenager, Sundays meant I couldn’t go out with my friends, or do anything for that matter, since I had to be home for dinner by 3 o’clock. My social life sadly waned.
It wasn’t long before I hated Sundays. I didn’t like those arias; I couldn’t understand the Italian words. Uncle Vittorio always squeezed me too hard, and kissing all those relatives got on my nerves. I was sick of eating macaroni every Sunday. Pastries were too fattening for a 16-year-old trying to fit into a size five. And besides, the espresso tasted like mud.
I would retreat into my bedroom with the excuse of homework. But I couldn’t concentrate; the laughter and applause that accompanied the singing were much too loud.
As the years passed, Sunday dinners became very quiet. The older relatives died; some moved away, others lost touch. We started talking politics at the Sunday table, and I soon began to long for the music and laughter of “the old days.”
Then, while sitting in an espresso café one night, I recognized a familiar tune. It was Pavarotti singing Uncle Vittorio’s aria! Then he sang Uncle Sal’s, then Uncle Tony’s. I listened carefully for the first time and realized how beautiful those songs really were, and I longed for my uncles who sang them a little too loud and a little off key.
The next day I bought a music book of Italian songs and learned every one that I could recognize from “the old days.”
Now I’m the one being coaxed over to the piano to accompany my dad. He sings alone, since the others have gone, but he sings loud enough and strong enough to make up for the rest of them. In fact, he sounds so good that I won’t let my mother close the windows.

Welcome To My World

June 8, 2009



Welcome all who visit "my world".

I write this blog from a tiny room off my bedroom. I call this room: "my world," because it is my own space. It is a room of my own with all my favorite books, and things: paintings that my son has made, shells collected off the beaches of Long Island, a framed photo of me holding my first grandchild, an antique rocking chair, my journals, candles, hand cream, hidden candy.

Leading you into "my world" is a beautiful 3x5 Arabian hand made rug that my son brought back from his tour of duty a few years ago. When I step on it I feel as if I've passed through a portal into a magical place. There is an energy in this room. I'm always happy here and time does not exist.

I sip my coffee as I gaze out a window that faces a canal. In summer I can see only glimpses of water between spaces in a lush maple tree that provides total privacy from all the homes across the canal. I could sit here naked if I want to and no one would know! When I have the window opened, I feel as if I am sitting in a tree house.

To say I love being in this room is an understatement. At the end of the day, I yearn to walk through the door and sit at my desk. Sometimes I make an entry in my journal, sometimes I just sit here and look out the window until they find me and ask, "What time is dinner?"

Before bed, I'll sit in the rocking chair and read a short story from The Best American Short Stories edited by Salman Rushdie, or a few pages in Conversations with God, book 1 by Neale Donald Walsch.

It was my son, Peter, who had the idea that I start this blog. You can visit his site at http://www.pvanderberg.blogspot.com/ It was this same son who, several years ago, told me to make this little room into a writing room. "Get rid of all evidence of work," he told me, "and just use this room to write." Well, I still work in this room, but the work files are now hidden, so wherever my eyes land, I see only books of inspiration: books on screenwriting, copies of The Writer's Market, books by my favorite authors: Amy Tan, Anna Quindlen, inspirational books like Goddesses In Every Woman by Jean Shinoda Bolen, M.D., The Woman Warrior by Maxine Hong Kingston, The Collected Works of Guy de Maupassant, Italian Folktales by Italo Galvino and many more.

My other son, James, filled my walls with inspirational paintings. You can visit him at http://www.dekooningspleen.blogspot.com/ or at his website http://www.jamesvanderberg.com/ to see the type of paintings hanging on my walls.

And my youngest son, Paul, an illustration major at Pratt Institute has contributed a black and white illustration of me with my beautiful granddaughter, Sara. It, appropriately, rests against The Art of Happiness by His Holiness The Dalai Lama and a collection of poetry books.

Their contributions to "my world" are all around me, but, still, they know that they cannot enter without permission. If the door is closed they are not allowed to disturb me unless the house is on fire or my mother is on the phone.

It was my son, Peter, who came up with the idea of "Peppers & Arias" for this blogspot. Back in September, 1984, I had an essay published in the NY Times called, "Peppers and Arias, Old Times and New." The blog name is perfect for the type of writing that you will see on this blog. There will be opinion pieces, recipes, everyman slice of life, humor, poetry and personal rant.
"Who cares what I have to say?" I asked him.
"I do," he said.
Now, who amongst us has a child who cares about what we have to say? I figured I better take advantage of that and blog away.