Aren’t you curious?

When I was a little kid—and I do mean little, I was around four—I wondered about life. I’d look up in the sky and think “where does it end?” I’d think and think and think about that until it drove me nuts. How could something just NEVER END????

I didn’t know about God. I wasn’t raised in a religious family, and we never discussed such existential matters. Life consisted of the practical matters of eating, sleeping, and watching TV.

So how did I catch this curiosity bug? Who knows? All I know is that as I grew a littler older I became “curiouser and curiouser” about who I was, what this life was about, and why I was here. I’m sure I heard about God somewhere along the way, and since the idea of a God seemed to have something to do with my incessant craving for answers about life, I joined the Congregational church when I was around 11 years old. I had no idea about religion, really, and knew nothing about the Bible, but they took me in anyway.

But I didn’t last long in church. There weren’t any answers there, as far as I was concerned. And I didn’t have anyone to talk to about my endless questions. The kids I went to school with, although most of them were from churchgoing families, had no curiosity whatsoever about why they existed and what life really meant. They either accepted or ignored the God they had been taught about in Sunday School, and that was it.

So I had to find my own way by searching esoteric books, delving into astrology and mysticism, spiritually-oriented self-help books, and much more, before I finally stumbled on Christian Science and found the answers that satisfied me.

Why was finding out about life so important to me? I don’t know, but I could never seem to understand why it wasn’t just as important to everybody else. I always wanted to ask them, don’t you want to know? Aren’t you curious?

Well, aren’t you?

Nudity vs. nudism

The other day a Facebook friend posted that she liked to hang out in her jammies, since she works at home. As I read her comment, I realized that I was sitting here in the nude because I was too lazy to get up and take a shower. But then I confessed to myself that I actually like sitting here in the nude. That day it was nice and warm, I live alone, and it’s kind of freeing not to have any clothes on.

Wow, I thought, maybe I’m a perfect candidate for a nudist colony! But as I thought about that, I realized that I’d be a total flop as a nudist. First of all, I’ve always been extremely self-conscious about being seen by others when I’m naked. And second of all, I feel that my clothes are more than something to keep me warm or make me look nice—they’re a protection.

Thinking about that reminded me of a time many years ago, when I was still a kid, and my mother suddenly decided she’d like to try doing her housework in the nude. We lived way out in the country, so there wasn’t any chance of anyone spying on her through a window, and it was a hot summer day. So she took off her clothes and grabbed the vacuum cleaner. I wasn’t paying much attention, because I was out in the yard playing, but when I came back in later on, she had her clothes back on. “What happened, Ma?” “Well,” she said, “I thought it would be fun, but I just felt too exposed—really kind of vulnerable.” I had pictures of her ramming her fanny into the wall or snapping her boobs with the vacuum cleaner cord. “I don’t think I’ll try that again,” she said.

In the sixties I ran into quite a few people who loved running around naked. We were all hippies, of course, and a bunch of us took off for Mexico, where my friends continued to stay in the raw as much as possible. But it just wasn’t for me. I went to a picnic with them once and tried to get with it by stripping to my skin, but I felt so uncomfortable I finally had to put my clothes back on. Then there was the day I went to visit my friend Dennis, and he opened the door buck naked. I gulped. He laughed. OK, I thought, this just isn’t my thing.

Nevertheless, I do like to hang out in my own private apartment with nothing on sometimes (when it’s hot). But you can bet if the doorbell rings I’ll be scrambling for my T-shirt and shorts before I answer it. Although I have to chuckle when I think what the reaction would be if I flung the door open in the altogether with a big smile and said, “Hi!”

This ‘n that…

Since my book, “Getting Down to Brass Tacks,” was published, I haven’t written here as often as I’d like to. Boy, promoting your own book takes lots of time!

As those of you know who keep up with me here, I have put both the paperback and Kindle versions of my book on sale at Amazon. However, the prices will go back to normal soon, probably by the end of this month, so if you want a discount copy, better hurry up!

Here’s the link:

http://goo.gl/tidOY

Also, if you’ve read or are planning on reading the Kindle/e-book version, there is a link to the photos that go with the book in the Appendix at the end. Here’s the link if you want to see them now!

http://www.flickr.com/photos/amy-pix/

My grandson Bobby (alias Mr. Bumpus) is included in the photos. He’s grown a lot since then! Here’s a pic of him at his first birthday party:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Clothes – my nemesis

Let’s just say I’ve never been a clothes horse.

I was thinking about this today when my friend Steve Graham posted on Facebook a very funny description of his fruitless search for an acceptable new pair of pants—oh, how I sympathize! It was hard enough finding decent, comfortable clothes when I lived in the USA, but here in Brazil it’s well-nigh impossible.

The women’s clothes here are either riddled with spandex (hate, hate) or covered with studs, embroidery, appliqués or a ton of other doodads (despise, despise). The women’s pants (including shorts and pjs) have waists that start just above the pubic bone (so uncomfortable) and are usually very form-fitting (aka pinchy tight).

tomara-que-caia

Even T-shirts aren’t exempt from decorations, printed mottoes in bad English, and necks so wide that one of your shoulders is always hanging out whether you want it to or not.

And then there are the underpants. I don’t even want to go there. I still order mine from the USA, I confess. The G-strings are bad enough, but even the so-called “regular panties” have no room for a normal butt, and are always getting stuck you-know-where.

My first act of revolt was to start buying clothes in the men’s and boy’s department. I actually did find a couple of decent pairs of pants (I don’t wear jeans—too stiff and hot) and some plain T-shirts. So now my wardrobe plays out like this:

Winter: slacks, long-sleeved T-shirts

Summer: men’s boxer shorts, short-sleeved T-shirts or tank tops

But I still long for a simple pair of cotton pants with a draw string or an elastic waist. I’ve been searching for them among the websites for medical scrubs, but most of them are at least 50% polyester. Sigh.

On the up side, though, Brazilians do have some funny names for clothes. Strapless tops or dresses are called “tomara que caia,” which means “I hope it falls down,” and men’s boxer shorts are “samba-canção”— an old-style of music, meaning that only geezers wear them.

samba canção

Funny thing is that I really enjoy looking at high-fashion clothes at the runway shows in São Paulo and Rio—but to me those aren’t actually clothes, they’re art. That’s different.

For my day-to-day wear, I want something super comfortable that’s almost like wearing nothing. Or maybe I should just wear nothing (when I’m inside, of course). Or maybe not. I remember one time my mother decided that she would do all her housework in the nude in the summertime. That lasted for exactly one day. She said it made her feel “too vulnerable.” So much for nudism. I’ll just suck it up and stick with my boxer shorts, plain pants and T-shirts.

My book is on sale!

The paperback version of my book is now on sale for $7.77 and the Kindle version for $2.99 on Amazon! This sale won’t last forever, so if you want a copy, now’s the time!

So far, “Getting Down to Brass Tacks” has 20 5-star reviews. Feel free to add your own review, and if you’re on Facebook or G+ or Twitter, and feel like sharing, I’d be very grateful. Here’s the link:

http://goo.gl/ZlLdd

“Did you really meet Marilyn Monroe?”

OK, so in the past few days several people have asked me if I really met Marilyn Monroe.

The answer is yes! I met her when I was a teenager back in Newtown, CT (yes, that Newtown) in the 1950s. The way it happened was funny, embarrassing, and a total surprise.

If you want more (tease, tease), I tell all about it in my book:

http://goo.gl/cTz1P

Now with twenty 5-star reviews!

 

 

 

 

Brazil, Rio, and music

OK, so what else do I love about Rio?

The first time I came here was in 1990. I was a journalist at the time, and my writing assignment was to cover Rio’s famous Carnival and do some interviews with Brazilian musicians.

Even though I had already lived in Brazil for two years back in the late 60s, at that time I was in Porto Alegre and Curitiba, two cities with a European style and influence. They were nice, but I didn’t really feel at home until I spent some time in Rio, where the influences are more African than European. Why is that? Mostly because of the music, samba in particular, and the people who play this music. I almost always found a feeling of real camaraderie and mutual respect among the musicians, rather than a strong sense of competition, and I liked that.

There was nothing I enjoyed more than hanging out in a bar or restaurant where people would sit around a long table, singing and playing. Everyone knew the words to the songs, and there was such a feeling of joy and community…like a family.

In the USA, music is generally thought of as a performance, where some people play and/or sing on a stage and others sit in the audience and listen. Although we have shows and concerts here, too, we also have spontaneous musical “happenings,” which I found to be rare when I lived in the states. Here, even birthday parties usually end up with everyone spontaneously breaking into song, and it’s not unusual for a mini-batucada (percussion) group to warm things up on a public bus.

Aside from these popular get-togethers, Brazil is famous for its groundbreaking musical geniuses—people like Dorival Caymmi, Tom Jobim, João Gilberto, Hermeto Pascoal and many, many others. I’ve always loved Brazilian music, and am happy to find myself here where I’m surrounded by it. Of course there’s junky music, too, but nothing will ever override the wonderful musical heritage created by these outstanding Brazilian composers and musicians.