I had a great lady, Carol Weinberg, who I featured in my shop section because, well, she brought spray tanning into my home. Literally into my home. She showed up with her blow up tent, we went downstairs, and in 10 minutes it looked like I time warped and went from Saddle River to Ibiza. I love having a year round “glow.” For one thing, tanning makes your legs look thinner, which I’ll take any time of year, and the tan thigh and your thigh high boots don’t look like chicken cutlet against licorice. Covering a few varicosities didn’t hurt either.
But, Carol’s schedule got so hectic it became tough to keep up with regular bronzing sessions. I don’t want to look like that mom who 'over tanned' ... and although we share the same state, we don’t share the same thoughts on parenting or when tan looks like the side of a FRYE boot. So, in order to kick it up a step from natural winter, I found a new friend, JERGENS NATURAL GLOW MOISTURIZER (JNGM).
Now, nothing comes between me and my True Blue Moisturizer, except three or four days of JNGM. I look evenly tan without looking like a Cheeto. One thing I will tell you is to buy up a shade. I’m white girl and I purchase MEDIUM TO TAN skin tones, rather TAN to FAIR skin tones.
I am happy to say, my “sunny” disposition and white body still crave my summer sun, but we don’t look like we are.
So, a Gold Star to this Jergens Gem … give it an even rub on your need-a glow body, and I promise you will be in love with a new in-between moisturizer.
The night before last, my mother came to me in a dream. Usually she comes to me when she’s mad or upset, so in the 22 years she’s been gone, she only came to me twice … but one of them was two nights ago, and last night Jean Nidetch came to me, too. Now I know why.
If you know me at all, you know that as much as I am a “foodie”, I am also a “watchie”, and portion control is my greatest weapon against hip enlargement. But last night’s dinner, I mean come on Sunny Anderson, ravioli for the crust of a cheeseburger casserole? Swiss cheese and American … with heavy cream and beef? Holy shit. Yup, welcome to hog heaven, and boy was it good.
Now, I’m pretty quick on the draw when it comes to a weeknight meal. I did find this recipe a bit time consuming because it was step-heavy, but can I assure you, after you slobber all over it when it comes out of the oven, you will be happy you slaved a little. I had two casserole dissenters … but I consider this a worthy hit time wise and taste bud wise. I also loved the little pickle juice side salad.
Side salad … lol
Here’s the link!
Give it a sauté … I bet you will love it more than your Aunt Helen’s tuna casserole.
There was a recent incident in my daughter’s middle school class involving outside school use of the internet which took on a life of its own, resulting in unfavorable side effects for those involved. Now, I am not a prude by any stretch, and my addiction to my phone and my laptop is probably equivalent to that of any thirteen year old. So, I understand it’s captivating powers, similar to Linda Blair in the Exorcist. But, parents, there is a way around it’s superpowers, I think, and again, only my experience and my voice, where there is a balance between weapon and an encyclopedia.
The handful of times I have been interviewed about mom paraphernalia, the internet, and the phone always come up. Like, come one, you have eight kids, what’s your take. For what it’s worth, here’s my thought on phone and electronics usage for Generation Z.
1. Alaska has the highest gun ownership rate at 61.7 %. Sweet little unassuming, quiet, salmon capital, Alaska. Like do you even know anyone from Alaska (my uncle Elio moved there to be a logger)? Right…you probably don’t. But the ones who do live there seem to like guns, all different types. Be careful of the quiet ones. Seems peaceful enough, though, the Aurora Borealis and all. Consider the fact that if Alaska had no rules, no strictures on who could purchase a gun without proper education and documentation, Alaska would be a glacier of dead bodies with its only inhabitants a bunch of mackerel and penguins cooling it on a glacier. I liken this to cell phones, (I am using cell phones as the catch-all for pads, computers, etc), without teaching them how to use it. Before any kid puts this proverbial pistol in their tiny little baby hands, show them what it’s about, and what YOU expect. It’s really that simple. Let them know big brother is watching, and some impromptu target practice might be in order. Be very, very clear of the mishaps that can occur, the devastation created by its mishandling, and even the most minor written infraction can and will be held against them by you, a friend, a college or future employer or even the police.
Yes, scare the living shit out of your little bundle of joy and remind them that sending anything written, or screen shot is INDELLIBLE and IMMORTAL, and if not aimed or handled correctly can cause irreversible damage both for the sender and the receiver.
2. I think we would all like to keep our kids in a Habitrail.
A little food, water, come out to play, TLC, exercise … it’s all good, and it’s all under our control, and babyface is well protected, never to be bothered or assimilated in the outside world. Guess what … GAME SHOW BUZZER … not realistic. Each generation has their “thing,” and as time marches onward, communication and electronics are no longer a luxury, but a necessity, and are the smoke signal pow wows of today’s teen and pre-teen. When Devin and Brynn were in middle school, Al and I discussed phones. We both agreed that no child would be given a phone until their time had come, which to us meant eighth grade. At that point, they would have cemented time with their family, learned about pitfalls and apps that could do them in, and not be so easily seduced by this inanimate contraption that could lead them into the Garden of Eden, and away from your parental grip.
However, as the years moved on and the phone became a necessity rather than a luxury, it was clear to us that Valentina, next in line for Maxwell Smart’s shoe, needed a phone not only for all her theatrical pick-ups and drop-offs, but for socialization as well. If we did not allow her a phone, we were ostracizing her from her cohorts who communicated by text, Instagram, Snap Chat, etc. We allowed her to use her phone for a certain amount of hours each day to communicate with other pre-teen chatter boxes, and we set limits, but we did not forbid. It’s hard for a child to assimilate and be socially accepted and normal if they aren’t communicating the way the rest of the tribe is. To my dismay, this electronic disseminator was as much a part of their lives as my rotary phone and Sony Walkman.
BTW, YOU ARE NOT GOD, A PHONECIAN SCRIBE OR J. EDGAR HOOVER
3. I have chatted with so many parents who pride themselves on knowing “everything” their little angel is doing on the computer or the phone, tablet or whatever the purveyor of information may be. Really? Well, I’ve been at this gig 22 years, and I just found out a few things my third grader can do with his Xbox that raised my recently shaped eyebrows. I’d love to see how these parents pull this rabbit out of a hat and manage to eat and shower every day.
Face it, it’s almost impossible to know everything they know, every app, every download every everything. Unfortunately, they have one up on us here, and no matter how much you think you know, you really don’t. I consider my kids pretty well behaved and savvy, and every once in a while, when I witness those Jack Be Nimble fingers tattering across the keyboard or banging on the phone like a baby chick running for its feed, I realize I can never keep up. If they wanted to do something dastardly they probably could.
Don’t beat yourself up but be aware of what’s out there. Unless you take phones away at night, you probably have no clue about the cyber party going on in an upstairs bedroom. Lord knows, unlike me, my kids are night owls, and the silent guest that sleeps with your kids is very influential. Your choice here is to limit activity, (or have none at all) based on the keyboard banger. Trust your judgement, and intuition and as indicated above, have clear cut conversations about what goes on in screenshot land. And, btw, lol, learn some lingo and throw it into a text with your kid. Subliminally, they will get the message that you are cool enough to send an emoji, and probably know what you are doing.
OMG! WE’RE ENGAGED!!
4. Sounds excitedly romantic! However, in this case an idle mind is the devil’s workshop and a kid who has no time, will probably use his internet time wisely or not at all. Keep your kid engaged with a passion or pastime and nurture it. A child who has something to commit to and be responsible for in his/her off-school hours is less likely to turn to the phone or pad for companionship. A bored kid will seek adventures and play dates without any physical contact. Help your offspring to choose an activity that is healthy and exciting for them. They will be less likely to hibernate and get lost in space.
5. Every parent sets boundaries (or not) according to what they feel is paramount in their family’s life. Although I do not agree with a child younger than middle school having a phone, each parent has reasons beyond any of my business or yours as to when their kid is bestowed this privilege.
I won’t judge. But a universal rule at any stage is communication, discussion and consistent checking in. Empower your child with the knowledge and fear of how to use their device and it’s destructive abilities coupled with its productive mechanisms so they may gravitate towards the positive usage of their new appendage.
DON’T BE A VICTIM
6. A good lesson to teach your kid is if they see something, say something. The minute something starts going awry on the internet, and they have a modicum of involvement just from being an innocent bystander or an unwanted participant in a group chat, or an admitted player, they need to tell you with no judgement. Stop the tears and take action. Dismiss yourself immediately and seek parental refuge. Don’t be cyber bullied by cowards or seduced by a stranger. Let your kid know it’s ok to tell you what’s going on if they feel something isn’t right and together you will plot accordingly based on the degree of rogue involved. The teen set is especially notorious for not realizing they have taken something too far. They think everything is just hilarious.
In the end, it’s about you, your child, and the choices you make about how to handle this powerful stranger. Be smart. Learn as much as you can and educate your child to the max. You can’t be everywhere, see everything, hear everything read every text or unearth every history or link. I always say the best gift I can give my children is judgement. I certainly don’t know it all out there, but I will be as aware as I possibly can and teach them the same. And never say, “not my kid.”
MORTALITY DISCLAIMER: Before you read what's ahead please know that I do not put any more “weight” or degree of sadness on anyone’s loss over another. I steered clear of mentioning children because to me, as great as my losses have been in my life, those who have suffered THAT particular loss need their own forum. From what I understand from those who have walked that path, comfort comes in waves that never really reach the shore, and I respect that, and pray to God every day to watch over my blessings, and those families who have treaded in unimaginable waters.
Every January and February, this eerie, peaceless, Tower of Terror drop feeling comes over me. To say it’s just winter doldrums is a little dramatic. It’s a spin-off of the feelings I had when my parents died … eight years apart, but the time of year mirrored each other. It’s been 22 years since my mother passed, and 15 since my dad died. Each is the equivalent of one of my births, first Devin (1995) and Valentina (2002), each born around the time of my parents’ deaths, cementing in my soul that God gives you joy even when there is grief. He gave me two new babies at a time when I needed them. But, the wounds are still healing.
A good friend recently found herself in the once unthinkable position of caring for aging, ailing father whose health and time are extremely compromised. I’ve been there, twice, and lost both parents by the time I was 35. And, not to be callous to those who lost parents at a much younger juncture, like my brilliant childhood friend who is now a star pediatrician, who lost her mother, my mother’s best friend, when he was 17.
I find myself wallowing in anger for the last twenty-two years since I lost my mother. That extended into my father’s death, and I’ve been admittedly hateful at those now and in the years before who have parents. I really have no use for aging parent stories, having lost my mother at 61, and my father, oddly enough did slightly better even with Marlboro lungs at 76. I really could care less to hear, see, or know anything about how your parents interact with your kids, how they pick them up at school, buy them Christmas gifts and attend basketball games and concerts. I had none of that. My father was able for a short while, but even then, he was dead in the box by the time my oldest was six.
I tried to be compassionate and understanding towards those who did enjoy the hugs and love of their parents even as adults, and I asked God to show mercy on me and give me the gusto and fervor I needed to be understanding and smile at the grandparent and kid stories, or, the restraint not to proverbially punch the shit out of someone when they complained about their parent because they had too many ailments or didn’t know when to shut up.
But, this past week, God came to me and tapped me on the shoulder, twice. I realized that my job was outlined 22 years ago, and that was to help others get through grief. Grief is not only born through death, it is born though watching a loved one fail and dissolve into something unimaginable. My experience would be cultivated over 20 plus years of being pissed off at the world, but here is what I learned:
I thought I had unearthed the greatest gift given to female bodies. No, it wasn’t cryolipolysis, or Botox, fillers, or even varicosity zapping, Summer’s Eve wash or the new ULTRA tampons from Tampax. It was indeed, the True Blue line from Bath and Body Works. Unlike any other line of body wash and body lotion, True Blue is a far cry from the latte consistency of Jergens, Eucerin and that milky crap that feels and looks like half and half for your body. This stuff is magically emollient, and your skin becomes baby soft, like a newborn in seconds, and can stay that way for days.
The wife of the magical duo of softness is True Blue Shower wash…just as silky smooth, just as rich, and in a matching tube. Please keep this in mind.
I actually used this stuff on my newborn babies and it kept their skin as thick and impenetrable as a Wendy’s Frosty. So, when my little beanie, my Gianmarco came home, I slathered him in lotion gold after every bath.
One day I noticed on my tiny gift from God, a very gentle, non-invasive type of peeling. It seemed surface only and no chafing or bleeding, just a gentle shedding, like a rattlesnake. Newborns don’t communicate too well except for a few grunts and sleeping shudders, so I guessed he was ok. He seemed ok, but what the hell was this? Of course, I googled new born skin irritations, cooties, peeling, sloughing, etc. I needed to keep his skin hydrated so I kept putting on the lotion. I was on my way to the pediatrician with my quandary, when I realized.
I had a new babysitter, a very, very sweet girl who came to help me for the weekend when I was home with the baby. I went to change him on the changing table after a bath, and to my horror, on the table was indeed TRUE BLUE in it’s beautiful neon blue tube, but it was the SHOWER WASH!!!! OH MY GOD!!!!! Our sweet mother’s helper was dousing our newborn’s skin in shower wash and not rinsing! But, I take blame. In my post-partum noctambulation, which could have occurred at any hour, really, I put a tube of shower cream on his table instead of the lotion. Well, we rinsed him over and over, and eventually he stopped excorticating. It took a few days, but he returned to normal.
So, Bath and Body Works, my bad, totally, but can we hear it for a True Blue face lift for sleep deprived mommies?
If you knew my father, his Leo persona was quite in contrast with his underlying simplicity. After my mom passed away, I would invite him for dinner.
Me: Dad, what do you want to eat.
Dad: I’m happy with a him sandwich…and a martini.
There was always a martini on every menu with him, but his entrée desires were so simple: pasta, pasta, pasta, and sometimes a steak. He was not a huge eater, and I think his culinary desires branched back to his immigrant roots, which bordered on extreme simplicity.
So, since my holiday cooking break is over, I started out slowly this week. I made a slow cooker, (we are having an affair again, lol) tangy pot roast, and this side, one of my father’s favorites:
PEAS and PANCETTA (or ham) with ONIONS.
1 bag frozen, defrosted sweet peas
1 c. chopped Pancetta (or ham can work, too).
1 c. chopped onions
Sautee the pancetta until crisp in olive oil. Not too much olive oil since the pancetta has its own fat to clog your arteries.
Then add the onions and cook until they are soft.
Throw in the peas and cook until they are heated through.
That is IT!!!!! His favorite side dish. I miss him. When I made this…I could smell his cologne. I think he came for dinner.
I’m not really sure Ann Moses knew what was about to become of her young adult life just from making orange juice at the orange juice stand at Disneyland in the mid 60’s. She loved her job there, and was steadfast and true to the happy, happy that makes Disney the happiest place on earth. She didn’t think she could want for more. The closest she came to touching a celebrity was when Uncle Walt himself appeared out of nowhere at her juice stand and called her by name, asking for some freshly squeezed juice. It was after that encounter with Uncle Walt that Ann started dreaming, just like Uncle Walt did in Michigan many moons ago. Ann wanted to write, and that she did.
I am totally dating myself, but one of my “fave” things, most awaited treasures was Tiger Beat Magazine. My kids can stalk anybody they want, probably see what their vomit looks like and find out who their aunt’s aunt’s daughter-in-law is just by perusing Instagram or Facebook. My generation…not so lucky. We had to wait for the font of teenybopper knowledge, Tiger Beat, to pound the newsstands so we could drool over the Bay City Rollers and Leif Garret once a month. And groovy, we might even find out what Donny Osmond’s favorite color was. Oh, and ouch, the centerfold, stapled right in the bulls eye middle of the rag mag beheld
hunkity hunks like Shaun Cassidy or Parker Stevenson. But, it was my undying love for David Cassidy, that led me to Ann, former writer and Editor at Tiger Beat. Ann’s piece on CNN, “I Watched Fame Take its Toll on Young David Cassidy” was short but poignant, making me seek her out for an interview. As I told her, I found her fascinating, and sacrosanct, just as a second relic.
“I hadn’t been on an airplane until 1966,” giggles Ann. That’s when she first started writing for Tiger Beat, after a string of smaller stories starting with a piece she did by wriggling her way backstage at a Dave Clark Five concert at Melodyland, a theater across the street from her beloved Disneyland where she was a volunteer usher. After a series of fortuitous and local stories, she met Derek Taylor, former press manager for the Beatles in the U.K., turned press manager in the U.S. for the Beach Boys, Byrds, Paul Revere and the Raiders and all of the bands on Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars rock tours. He wrote a monthly column for Tiger Beat. Derek introduced Ann to Charles Laufer, publisher of the Beat, and the rest was history.
Her first published TB story was a piece on Herman’s Hermits. She then covered everyone from James Brown to Desi Arnaz Jr., the Monkees, Eric Clapton, the King himself, Elvis, and the list goes on. I said, “But, my God…you were so young.” and I was so jealous just listening to the stories. I asked Ann if she realized what a dream job she had. “I absolutely was aware of things at the time and how special they were.” She remembers, “I used to go to baby showers and the women would say, ‘we wished we had your job.’ I didn’t want a baby right then and they envied me, and all the amazing things I was getting to do.” She then casually told me those “things” were like riding a dirt bike in Hawaii with Desi Arnaz…sans Patti Duke who appeared on the scene about four years later.
As fascinated as I was with all the bubblegum and cheesecake, I wanted to hear what life was like when Ann was presented with the cream on top of the egg cream, on top of the root beer float, on top of the strawberry shortcake… covering the Partridge Family. Full access was granted only to Tiger Beat, on their set when she wanted. I couldn’t breathe…I said, “How did you go home at night without stealing one of David’s socks or an empty soda can or yanking out one of his chest hairs?” She admitted the Cassidy kid wasn’t her guy. “I loved the Monkees and Davy Jones.” Such sacrilege, but I was so enamored by Ann’s sweet and bubbly, yet informative demeanor, I didn’t care. I needed to hear more.
I wanted to know first hand how such an Adonis as David Cassidy, this untouchable sculpture, could have fallen out of grace with life and ended up completely washed up, and now dead, at 67. Ann admitted although she and David hit a rough patch during the time she was on the Partridge set (Jack Cassidy sold his kid out for a few dirt bikes for David’s step-brothers and got David back to chatty status), David was always a nice guy to her. “I think the way he lived his life and the way he faced his demons was the handwriting on the wall,” she recollects. “He never found love that lasted…it was an overwhelming experience, and it set the pace for what his life was going to be like.” She said that David idolized his absentee father, and when he was an impressionable teenager his mother, B-list actress Evelyn Ward, transplanted him in Hollywood, “only to see his dad once in a while. His Dad was busy having babies with Shirley Jones.” She added, “He was on his own through high school with no supervision or guidance.”
As David became an adult, his issues exacerbated after he tried to be a serious performer and the Partridges flew the coop. He was in a constant search for normalcy and support, and “roots”, as Ann philosophizes. I pondered that emotionally raw observation for two days. She was right. Roots.
Drugs. I wanted to know why so many rockers needed to get high, and eventually destroyed themselves. She says most of the 60’s rockers were imbibing in what today would seem like ‘innocent’ drug use, like marijuana. (Hip Mom finds nothing innocent about any drugs, but looking back at the 60’s and 70’s, it was like drinking soda.) Some were starting with LSD, but the early “Acid Rock” groups came around after Ann left the magazine in 1972.
“It was the best job I ever had.” admits Ann. “I loved putting the magazine together. I’m picky. The most pleasure I got was putting together what helps the magazine sell better. I got into marketing.” She then became the editor of the juicy publication, Tiger Beat.
Today, Ann says her TB days are neck and neck with raising her two boys. In 1983 after her son Matthew came into her and her husband’s life, she never turned back. She stayed home to raise her family and says that choice changed her life, and was one of the best she ever made.
So, what does a retired Tiger Beat editor do with all the drooly gossip, photos, some hunk’s favorite sandwich bread, and other inane “stuff” she accumulated? She writes a book, and what a book, what stories, what photos. “MEOW!.MY GROOVY LIFE WITH TIGER BEAT’S TEEN IDOLS” is Ann’s most recent contribution to the world of teen idolatry. You 50 somethings, there is no centerfold here, but the snippets, stories and pics are just right on…I can’t get enough. All the vignettes and tales that bring these celebs right back down to earth are outasite!
Ann, you are MY idol. Thanks for bringing a little “humanness” into your stories on the big, the brave, and the ugly, and everyone we ever idolized. I know you said you loved Davy Jones, and best bud is Bobby Sherman, but if it wasn’t for David, I wouldn’t have found you.
Stay tuned for a Hip Mom Contest Giveaway of a signed copy of Ann’s book. It’s gonna be real hip and DYNAMITE! C’Mon get happy and
Doesn’t it sound just super gross? Remember I come from a long line of cooks and survivors who did not let an animal die in vain. We use all the parts … every single one. In reality, that’s what post Thanksgiving turkey soup is … turkey carcass soup.
I cook a feast on Thanksgiving. It’s quite the catharsis, and rewarding. I also lose about five lbs. every holiday because I get full picking.So, it’s really a symbiotic relationship, the bird and me. When Thanksgiving Monday comes and we are back to the grind before Christmas, I keep it simple, and really, it gets no simpler than shoving a turkey rib cage into some flavored water and letting it boil for a few hours. Let the stove do all the work. What you will need:
Saute all the veggies with some olive oil and kosher salt. (Except the bay leaves). When they are tender, throw in your turkey body. (IF there is meat on the bones, leave it alone. Fill the pot up about ¾ of the way with cold water. Throw in the bay leaves, bouillon, season with some salt and pepper and stir.
Turn the pot on simmer.
Stir every hour or so, and let cook for a minimum of three hours. You will know you have accomplished this herculean task of making soup when your house smells like, well, turkey soup.
You may have to turn it off earlier than dinnertime, and reheat it. That is fine.
When you are ready to reheat, or eat, get another pot, and dump everything in the soup pot into a large strainer positioned on the extra pot. Now the fun begins. Pull the meat off the bones and throw it back into the broth, and search for any bones and ditch them. Throw all the veggies and the meat back in the broth. Throw away the bay leaves.
Cook your tortellini separately. If you cook them in the broth, the pasta absorbs all the liquid and you have very swollen tortellini and no broth.
I put them aside to be eaten when you eat the soup.
Decorate with a little Parmigiano and there’s dinner. EASY, EASY EASY.
They say you never forget your first love. My only problem is that I knew my first love totally existed, but there is no way in hell he knew I existed. Like really, no way. He was seventeen years my senior and when I fell in love with him, I was ten and he was twenty-seven. But, I was determined to make it work. I had many long term family goals with him, and it would all come to fruition, even if only in my own mind.
I was dreamy-eyed, not even a teeny-bopper, yet, but I will never, ever forget how I felt every time I saw him, and made up stories in my head about how he would fall in love with me, even at such a young age. We would break all May-December age barriers and he could care less if I didn’t even have my twelve year molars or a drivers’ license. He would just fall madly in love with me and wait until we could get married when I turned eighteen. Then we would just stay starry-eyed and have lots of babies, and I would be the envy of every teen girl turned soccer mom. That’s how it would work. My only problem lie in the logistics of making this all happen: how could I meet David Cassidy and make him fall in love with me? In my pre-pubescent mind, we had a house, a family, I was a big deal on the Hollywood wives circuit, and he adored me and nobody else. Nice try…
Well, here I am forty years later, and guess what, it never happened. And even worse, he’s gone. Just gone. hocking to find out that David Cassidy was just that, a mere mortal. He had organs that succumbed to years of torture and abuse? He was not built like Steve Austin? He was whatttttt? A human, created from other humans with chromosomes and pitfalls? This was impossible! A teenage nightmare! Yet, at 67 years of age, the fantasmagoric, pretend, fantasy boyfriend of every girl in my age group, and possibly even twenty years older, left none of us with a chance at fulfilling the same celebrity-commoner relationship enjoyed by Katie Holmes and Tom Cruise, and today, Meghan Markle and Prince Harry. David left this world on November 21, 2017, only to return in a Partridge Family rerun or a downloaded album on I-Tunes. It actually left me with a void and a heartbreak I wasn’t prepared for, or maybe a scar that my childhood died along with him, or the cockamamie fantasy of ever being Mrs. Cassidy was really a goner.
I guess the fact that I am married with eight children really wouldn’t have been an obstacle. I would have somehow worked around it, even if David and I just became friends. (Wink wink). We would love him and bring him into our family, since I think that’s what he may have needed most, and the lack of it drove him to a life of sloppy and fearless debauchery long after Keith Partridge cut his hair and hung up his hip huggers.
My husband obviously had no fear that David and I would become star crossed lovers. He’s the one who bought me tickets to David’s concert here in NJ a few years ago at the NJPAC. I was the youngest female in the room, and I swore the women in the audience were going to start taking off their bras and panties when David began to croon “I Think I Love You.” Of course he would spot me in the audience and it would be all over for the rest of them…but that didn’t happen. My husband felt the need to assuage my desire for David by taking me to hear him sing after he found a love letter I had written him that he needed oxygen to recover from after reading because he could not control his laughter. I didn’t find it very funny. I thought the letter, professing my undying love and desire for him written in crayon on that triple spaced penmanship paper they give you in Catholic school was rather tempting and seductive.
I decided a long time ago that both of David’s wives were not pretty enough and undeserving. First Kay Lenz and then Sue Shifrin whom he was married to for 25 years just until 2016. I guess maybe they weren’t really ugly, it’s just that he was so beautiful I couldn’t figure out the attraction. It was all out of jealousy, really. He never met me. Lol
I didn’t realize until the last few years, what an unfortunate train wreck David had become. I’m not sure his life of addiction was born from something in his unfulfilled home life, or genetic. I remember seeing his mugshot from a DUI he was nailed for in Saratoga, NY, and I was horrified, yet mesmerized at the same time. What happened to Keith? Where was his hair, that perfect smile, that perfect skin? Keith was long, long gone, and it seemed David could not adjust, many years later to the not-so-teenage idol any more, and just crumbled into the private sector. I was sad. Very sad. I still loved him, but the image was daunting.
As stories poured in after his death at an untimely 67, even the posthumous accounts of his shattered life could not dissuade me from the fantasy I carried for forty years. As a matter of fact, it made him even more human and I felt he really yearned for “normal,” for “real,” for a home-cooked meal or a meatball on Sunday. Something he probably never had.
I read a piece about him where he was pulled over for a DUI and the cop who stopped him was named “Tom Jones.” Well, guess what an open door that was. Apparently David looked up at him and said “What’s new pussy cat?” Shows some bravado and a sense of humor. The timeliness of the one liner may not have been the most judicious, but I am still laughing about what a great line it was.
So, as I look back on the unrequited love I shared with David, I know that one of the reasons I loved music so much and broke into singing was because I couldn’t get enough of him. He wasn’t a great singer, a great actor or a great dancer, but there was enough of something that launched him into superstardom and into the fantasy of every teenage, drooling, swooning girl in the 70s. Even though so many years passed and David pretty much wrote his own destiny, there is a piece of my heart he will always have that will never belong to anybody else. I joked with my friend who was my rival for David’s fantasy wife, that had he met me now, I could have fixed him. And, now, 50 to a 67-year-old guy would be “hot.” LOL
Farewell to my first true love. May you now find what you were lacking in your life, and thank you for giving a little kid a dream that would never materialize, but one so beautiful, it would last a lifetime.
Please read my coming soon interview with Ann Moses, who I am so excited to connect with. For those of you who remember Tiger Beat (I do!), Ann was an editor there and had exclusive coverage of David and the Partridges. We will be giving away a copy of her book, “MEOW, MY GROOVY LIFE WITH TIGER BEAT’s TEEN IDOLS.” Don’t touch that dial.
My mother used to laugh at the New York Times cooking section on Sundays. She was a well accomplished cook, and her roots came from eating tripe and veal brain from my grandmother’s kitchen. The reason she ate tripe and brain was obvious: immigrants wasted no part of the animal. The Italian mantra: if we have it, we cook it, whatever the F it is. So, when she saw the recipe of the week was stuff like Spaghetti Carbonara or Fu-Fu Polenta, she would always rebuke the culinary selection with comments like, “Really, we ate this stuff because we were poor, and now it’s on the front page of the food section?” Hey, everything old is new again, even in the kitchen.
She had an issue with Carbonara because it was something that she could throw together when she didn’t know what to throw together that night.
It’s so painfully simple; pasta, eggs, cheese, bacon; that it’s frustrating what a culinary delicacy it has become. “Carbonara,” in it’s simplicity means relating to coal, or in this case, the burnt bacon more than likely. Some say it’s origins go back to the prostitutes who beckoned the soldiers during WWII ... oh no, wait, that’s another recipe ... alla Puttanesca. But they say the soldiers had few rations that they took bacon and eggs and threw them on the pasta.
The key to authentic carbonara is you need to cook the bacon or pancetta (even better) till it’s sizzling, burn your hand off hot, and mix it with a mixture of raw egg and Parmigiano cheese. The hot oil from the bacon will cook the egg, and the whole thing takes like twenty minutes, including boiling the water.
However, Americans, unlike the Italians, will bathe in fat and grease, so nothing better than adding cream to your grease for good measure. Giada does give in to the American way here, but I will admit, it was fat-cell amazing.
Click here for the link.