5 Books of Poetry I'm Loving Right Now

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

I don't read lots of books quickly. I hate to admit that. I should read more – and faster. I really should. But when I do read, I read books over and over and over and I really ingest them. I try to let them inhabit me. Here are a few I've read over and over the past few weeks. Please do read them, buy them, support their authors and review them, too, if you wish. 

Zoe Dzunko's Selfless (TAR Chapbook Series / Atlas Review)

I'd read Dzunko's poetry before in an issue of Pith, so when I got my hands on Selfless, I had expected that same bodily rush – explosive and uncomfortable, like a reader-cheerleader who is on the sidelines of darkness. There is a lot of body – and bodylessness and body trauma – in this book. I think her voice is strong as fuck, even in those moments when weakness is drawn up and offered as matter-of-factly as-anything: "The time you fucked / my face it felt like a feather." All of the book's power just grows and grows, and there are some dozens and dozens of crushing lines throughout – too many for me to quote here. Go read it.

I have somewhere to be
in the future – it is a shape I drew
in the dirt, ten backyards ago.

•

No violets
to shrink into — I am laying a body

out for the bees, but they never land
when you want them this much.

---

Jay Besemer's Chelate (Brooklyn Arts Press)

Chelate is killing me. I want to understand the poet, soothe the poet, make a space for the poet in my heart and take in some of his pain. Besemer writes of gender transition in such a cutting, confrontational, active way, and you can feel it. 

The writer explores the undoing and re-creation of body, and while some of that is very painful, to me this book is made of strength, autonomy and reconciliation. This is an engine of a book – every single piece leads you further and further into this form-bending holy land of self.

The book also makes excellent use of colons (something you'll notice first), which are hard to use successfully when the poet isn't sure of why they are using them. They seem obvious here, though – they are pushing this massive engine of change and becoming forward; they are the symbol of change. Obsessed. 

erasing one file : that's not what we're doing here /
: erasure is not the right word : recognition is the/
analogous process : my today & my tomorrow/
recognize yesterday but do not attempt to obscure/
it
 

---

Locally Made Panties by Arielle Greenberg (Ricochet Editions)

So this book is sitting on my counter one day – I'd ripped open the packing and left it there to be read later. I'm always rushing. And then later that night I come home, and see the cover staring up at me – this 1970s babe pulling her undies up tight around her body. It's raunchy – for sure – but really, it's just powerful. Because the body is always so shamed. God forbid you see a little camel toe! God forbid a woman show her body in a way that we are taught to objectify and sexualize? I like that this book says, "Hi. This vagina and this proud lady showing her vag is totally on this book cover. So take that." Also, the back cover boasts blurbs by Cheryl Strayed and Kate Durbin, a fully little pairing that I'm intrigued by. (I love Kate Durbin). 

This whole thing is about being a woman, a mother, a consumer, a human, a writer, an observer – all while having a body, and having clothes, and watching other bodies and others' behaviors. It is about what our clothes really mean and what we really mean when we talk about clothing. 

At first, being that I'm such a bratty little Wednesday Addams about everything, I wasn't sure where this would fit for me. I was (admittedly) thrown off by the idea of poetry encountering clothing or fashion. But it was so much more than that, and I was wrong for making that snap decision. 

This book is an interesting, honest recollection (or diary) of being alive and being a woman. She deftly deals with issues of shopping guilt, poet outfits, her body, ethical clothes, weight gain and shopping with friends who tell you that you look good but are fibbing. All the things we can all relate to. 

And then there is a poet who has worn the same
Adorable 1940s print day dresses and cat's eye
glasses every day, every time I've seen her, for the
decade that I've known her. It is her Look.

I often think about how I would like to have a Look.

•

If I lose forty pounds altogether it will be a fucking
miracle and that would be my Goal Weight, my weight
of all weights, and I would think that everything I put
on looked fabulous on me.

A Goal Weight is really a completely ridiculous
construct.

---

Fire in the Sky by E. Kristin Anderson (Grey Book Press)

I actually loved this book so much I blurbed it, and so with that I present you my blurb:

These clever erasure poems strain the blood of Lana Del Rey (a pure blend of sex, kitsch & American Dream) into something Del Rey herself would likely read while dozing, or smoking, on an Italian shore. The work here speaks to poetry's most addictive power: aesthetic overdose in the form of language. There's so much to indulge in here, so much to consume, like a woman drunk on the lure of a bad, bad man. I got the impression that the writer is a real Lana Del Rey fan, the kind that sees past LDR's obvious tropes and vice-riddled repetitions - and sees, instead, the heart of who we are as people; in love , on fire, sad, lost and obsessive. That's really what this is about, not a regurgitation. I found myself wanting to pull the words out and arrange them before me, all covered in sea salt and flower petals and lipstick.

Don’t make the girl dark. No butterflies. Bats come sing
drinkin’ like memory, sad mountain paradise. But life? 
Want that vitamin crazy hard, radio queens and rain.

You raised chasers; I want the close cry. 
Lick them like a national party, know my every worth. 
I’ll die now, in my party bikini, honey true, the shameless way.

---

Anaïs Duplan's Take This Stallion (Brooklyn Arts Press)

This book is a force. I mean, a force.

It's bold, brazen, experimental in form and loud in language. But for all of that – it's attacking quality – it remains soft and vulnerable. It is hooves and also fur, and they are synced in constant movement.

I am so in love with the way Duplan writes her interior world. She says things in a way that makes you think she's telling a secret to a best friend. But also that she will write it on a wall in the public park because who cares what you think? 

The language is precise; her line-breaks are thoughtful and exact, and her dedication to exploring form feels natural; it doesn't feel like a poet-checklist of "and now I tried this," which, let's be honest, is a thing.

This book – I read it twice. Each time I thought I am so glad this exists. I love Anaïs Duplan's work, and I think everyone should read it. 

I become my mother and father. I don
their postures, I posture, "Where-"
have they gone and how I stop them
from devouring me." 

•

You and I are filthy but it is
our filth. Look how quick the clouds
when you expect bad news. Here is
a telegram I have never received:
Please. Hold out hope. The best
is nowhere in sight. 

The Handshake by Becca Shaw Glaser

BY BECCA SHAW GLASER

Up close, he wasn’t as cute. He was older and plumper, and anyway, it all just felt so weird. When I first saw his profile earlier in the day I thought, Ooh, he seems like someone who wants a relationship. I was absolutely specifically not looking for a hookup, but as soon as we started typing, it became clear that’s what he was up for. His place turned out to be a bank converted to a condo by the Dean of Architecture. Everything was huge and austere, almost entirely white, with cathedral ceilings. Perfect, I thought.

Oct 5, 6:41pm
How do you feel
driving to meet a stranger,
naked under your skirt
knowing that you may be
seduced and taken and
fucked.

Conveniently he’d forgotten that I’d told him I would be arriving hungry and could he please feed me. After I reminded him he tossed canned clams and hasty pasta together, smashing garlic cloves with the side of a silver chef’s knife. I hung awkwardly by the granite island.

He had wanted me to wear heels but I didn’t own any. Boots? Yeah, I had tall black boots. He’d asked me to wear something that showed cleavage, and no panties, so I did. While I waited on the hard-backed chair, legs firmly closed, he plied white wine. I said No thanks. I knew I was supposed to uncross my legs so he could get a glimpse, but I didn’t even want to take off my long black coat, keeping it tightly buttoned.

Oct 5, 6:41pm
Wet with anticipation?

When the food was ready we sat at one end of the stark maple table. Half-chewed worms poured from our mouths as we discussed the economy of desire, the poststructuralist concept of sexual exchange—really it’s a handshake, we agreed, a Marxist solidarity. He said In those days they used to think women so lusty the husbands made them wear metal plates when they were away to stop them from fucking half the village. And I hate it now—for men it’s like supposed to be a conquest and the woman’s supposed to be pushing away, keeping her number low. I was impressed by his awareness of gender and sexuality, but I still felt so timid that even sitting next to him on the couch felt scary. Our voices were tinny, floating around under the white cathedral ceilings and getting lost.

When he took off his clothes in the bedroom he was glazed in ginger fir, pale skin flecked with large pink freckles, each candied with a hair, long strands piercing out of his pubis, and I realized I was repulsed. How unfair and fucked up of me, I thought, to be so political in my preferences. He devoured my vulva, he was good at it, it’s a skill, I shut off the top of my head. Looked out the enormous arched window. Can anyone see?

Oct 5, 6:43pm
Nervous. Also,
I’m kind of lost.

He told me his favorite was to be with female CEOS, older women who were used to being in charge, he loved when they became submissive with him, let themselves go. And he loved being the odd-male out with a male-female couple. He liked going to truck rest-stops and having his dick sucked by another dude, most straight-identifying, of course, or sucking other guys’ dicks through those glory holes. I loved hearing the stories. I loved thinking there are younger guys out there who get off on giving older women pleasure, because, I’m getting older. I wished for a world where I could feel safe being so sexually adventurous, not terrified of rape, disease, or being considered a slut.

Oct 5, 6:44pm
Oh. We don’t
have to do this,
you know.

He stuck his fist partly in, and I was opening on his cool white sheets under his white down comforter against his vanilla-stained Ikea headboard in his white marble flat but I didn’t want to suck his small pink dick or even kiss his lips which I felt bad about and thankfully he didn’t pressure me at all but I think it was pretty obvious and then when it was clear I couldn’t or wouldn’t cum, Want to watch me? he slid his hand over his penis moving silently until white spurted out. I tried to at least touch him a bit while he was touching himself but the truth is I didn’t really want to.

After the shirt got tucked back into the jeans, after the zipper on the black dress was zipped up again, my still-wet vulva bristling between my thighs, my curly hair tangled, my breasts pulsing with the sensation of stranger-touch, after I shut the door to his white world firmly with a thud behind me, the first thing I wanted to do was see my lover, the lover who can’t be in a real relationship, the lover who gave me permission to try to find one. Not even in my car yet, I dialed, and surprisingly he picked up, said Sure, come over—and it was almost like coming home, to his soft gorgeous body, the body I’m bonded to, he was stretched out on his tiny bed, books and clothes chaotically strewn everywhere, small piles of trash that for some reason he sweeps into a corner and then leaves for weeks, he was watching Baron Munchausen, being uncharacteristically silly. He knew where I’d been. It didn’t bother him. In fact he liked the look of the dress, too, the way it clung to my breasts, pushing them together. I dropped my black shoulder bag and pressed my mouth to his.

---

Becca Shaw Glaser is the co-editor and author of “Mindful Occupation: Rising Up Without Burning Out.” Her writing has also appeared in Mad in America, Black Clock, H.O.W., Two Serious Ladies, Birdfeast, The Laurel Review, Quaint, and Lemon Hound, among other publications. 

Falling by Lorna Gibb

BY LORNA GIBB

Off the strip, a door opens and the ring, k-ching, jingle and tinny tinkling melodies sound a cacophony from the casino inside.  There’s a glimpse of blank eyes staring at spinning fruit but scant evidence of the vacillating hope behind them. The door shuts again. On the tarmac a girl stands, then sits, then slumps.  She wears shorts in blue, has track marks up her legs and arms.  Her dyed red hair is cut close to the scalp and looks patchy.  It’s warm but not hot, the ground is a pleasant temperature to sit on, not like it will be in a month or two when it will burn.
There’s no one about. It’s a dead time. 

For a moment the windowless artificiality that merges all hours into one unending minute of waiting seems to have followed her outdoors from the casino.  The car park is half full but no one arrives or leaves and to her, the quietness seems louder than the noise of slot machines and expectation.  He’s still inside, her own hostage to fortune, following the turn of a card in the thick fug of nicotine smell and stale spilled beer. Her eyes close, she falls right over to one side, her head hits the ground and she passes into a dream of some drug’s making.

She sees a tree. It is a gnarled, contorted thing that reaches high above and its branches block out all but the smallest hints of sky.  The fruit on this tree is odd, shaped in a way that is mindful of a human heart from some angles, but like a small bird, a sparrow or a finch perhaps, from others.  It seems to her that there is no recurring season, no single passage of time when all the fruit is young or mature, or ready to fall, so from each branch hang several fruits all at different stages of their development, and at random intervals, one or more tumbles down.  Yet they fall only briefly because it is at that point they become most like the birds they recall, and instead of hurtling down, after the briefest of seconds, they take wing and go upwards again, to whatever lies above the branches that obscure the view.

But in one of those slight fractions of a second between falling and flight, she dreams of a hand reaching out and catching one of the tiny embryonic things, not quite beating heart, not quite winged creature, and holding it there. It flutters in the gentlest of holds, trembles as it begins its transformation, for change it does.

The fingers of the hand cradle the strange being until it grows into a reflection of a child, perhaps of Claire herself, she thinks in the dream.  But then, when it can be contained no more, it falls, keeps on falling down to a garden, in another place. She catches a sudden movement, a glint from the skin of a snake in a clearing that has suddenly materialised in the thick foliage.  Claire is watching the snake when all her dreaming stops.
 
One Week Ago
 
She comes round from a state that is part stupor, part unconsciousness, to vomit.  Sees a foot crush a cigarette butt just in front of her.

The man in a silver mustang pulls up, gets out, comes over, says ‘Hello Claire.’ She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and manages a smile.  He takes her hand pulls her up.  Claire leans towards him.  ‘Brush your teeth first,’ he says.  They get in the car, drive off.

Back on the strip, he tells her his luck has held all day.  She tries to tell him of a strange dream she has had, a recurring dream about fruit and snakes. ‘Like the bible,’ he says, ‘wonder if it means I’ll be lucky again tomorrow.’ Her thoughts are filled with portents of foreboding that seem incompatible with his constant quest for omens of good fortune, but she says nothing, does not want to darken the mood that is now so light, but could so easily and quickly change to heavy black silence and her fearful watchfulness.

The noise inside the hotel casino is deafening.  Bright pink walls and neon flamingos, but it’s a brief stop and he collects something while she waits in the car, then they go west to the Tropicana. It’s white and cool inside, and somehow quieter than the other hotels, without the cigarette smell that permeates every stool and curtain and green baize table top along the strip.  This time she goes in too, he listlessly loses some money on slot machines as he passes, she begs him to put ten dollars in the machine with the pictures of kittens and he scores twenty back.  He pats her affectionately on the rump, ‘Need to see about getting you a kitten one of these days.’

But in truth she doesn’t want one, prefers these cute, saccharine photos, thinks that the smell of cat urine and faeces in her tiny room on days when the air condition is playing up would make her sick.  But she says nothing. He stops at the high stakes Black Jack table and already she is beginning to worry.  If he loses, he’ll lose a lot and she knows what that means. He does his usual ritual, a half muttered prayer to some entity that he somehow thinks watches over him, keeps him safe, brings him luck.  This time, because he’s in a good mood, she asks him, ‘Carver, what’s that thing you say every time?’

‘Mum used to say I had a Guardian angel watching over me, told me not to worry when times were hard and I was a kid.  I used to be irritated, but now I reckon there’s no harm in it. If someone’s listening, great, if they’re not, it’s not hurting anyone. Just hedging my bets, staying on the good side of the angels.’

 ‘It’s cute’. She means it too, likes this way he accepts the possibility of outside agent, she believes in something too, though she’s not sure what.  The RC church on Cathedral Way is called Guardian Angels. It’s cool and comforting and once, a few weeks back, when she was coming down they let her sleep the night there.  When half the congregation left mass the next day before Holy Communion the priest ended the service by saying, only those of you that stayed will have a chance to win tonight.  And she smiled, at this, the most appropriate and local of blessings.

Carver holds his cards close, doesn’t let her see what he has, and loses, once, twice, five, six times in quick succession. She touches his arm gently and he shrugs her off, ‘Don’t, I need to concentrate,’ he says and she hears the low note of warning in his voice.

The women’s restroom smells of coconut and she perches a leg on the toilet seat in the white cubicle and reaches down to pull out her tampon.  It’s soaked through with bright red blood, she drops it in the pan and pushes another in. It’s been the same for more than a month now, the cramps, the bleeds, sometimes vivid like this other times dark dried red, a period that comes more days each month than it should. While she washes her hands she looks in the mirror and checks her too pale face, the bruised under eyes, covers them with powder.  But as she leaves, goes back into the steady din of slots, her head spins and she holds the door to balance herself. 
 
One Month Ago
 
On the strip, Claire kicks and turns perfectly but then the sudden spasm in her abdomen catches her off balance as she goes into a stretch pose.  The audience gasp when she falls, a collective intake of breath, this isn’t a subtle mistake, easily missed.  Molly steps in front, picks up her routine so the other dancers who are meant to be echoing Claire’s steps a beat behind can take their places.  Claire recovers but not as quickly as she should, she gets to face level with the sparkling waist band of Molly’s g-string, then with the clear tape fastenings for the angel wings.  Head up, and step, pause, step, pause, extend.

Two interminable minutes to the end of the number.  Claire has taken Molly’s place in the line so at least she’s not the centre of it all, but still she thinks the audience are watching to see if she messes up again, wonders if they’re thinking she’s not good enough to be there.  Most days, these days, she doesn’t think so either.

Afterwards she thanks Molly and means it but Harry comes up immediately.  Like her he’s Scottish, like her he swears a lot, something the Americans still haven’t got used to.
‘So what the fuck was that about?’

‘I got a cramp.’

‘Then take a fucking aspirin. Fuck knows where we’d be if we had a line up break every time one of your girls was on the rag.  That’s the third time. One more and you’re back to the chorus.’

Once he’s gone, Molly says, ‘Long period, Claire, better get checked out.’

‘I know, I know.’  But thinks, ‘Butt out’, and of Harry, ‘trumped up public schoolboy prick.’

At the back of the hotel, Carver, dressed in a linen suit, hands her a small packet of powder.
‘Where the fuck were you yesterday?’  Claire pays him.

‘Detained.  Literally. Bit impatient aren’t we?’

‘I’m fine.  Just made a bit of a mistake.  Stuff helps the cramps.’

‘That’s what they all say.  Friday then.  Must say I like those stage outfits of yours a lot better than that granny shit you’re wearing.  Nice titties, shouldn’t hide them away.’

Claire doesn’t answer, just tucks her little packet in a pocket concealed by folds of cotton fabric.
 
Six Months Ago
 
Claire is asked to dance the lead and she doesn’t know whether to be pleased or terrified.  Pleased she can write home to her family and say, hey, I’ve made it out here.  After all those years of being the stupid girl, the one who wasn’t too good at reading or doing sums, the too tall, skinny girl who couldn’t get a snog, now look at me.

Terrified because she only overcomes her paralysing stage fright in the competitive camaraderie of the troupe.  Molly on one side, Kate on the other, and she gets by, knowing they’re in it together.

It would be impossible to refuse anyway.  The girls she takes comfort from are already bitching.  They say Harry is British, so is she, that’s why she’s got the lead so quickly, she’s probably fucking him.  She isn’t.  But if she turns it down, they’ll say it’s posturing.  The lead dancer is the girl they love to hate.

‘You’re a fantastic dancer,’ Harry says, ‘just remember to get yourself out there a bit more.’
She tells her boyfriend, Nick, one of those is he/isn’t he yet relationships because they’ve only been out three times.  They’re at lunch in a Mexican place off the strip and next to a topless bar where the food is authentic and the waitresses look like they work shifts with the club next door.

He positively glows. ‘Wow babe, that’s going to be so cool.  I’ll be there, in the front row.’
Claire ventures, ‘I’m scared.’

‘What’s scary? You look so great they won’t notice if you’re out of step.’

‘I just am.  Always have been.  It’s easier when you’re in a troupe.’

‘You could always take something, just a little, to get the edge off that first night.’
 
Nick’s flat is just round the corner from the one she shares with Molly and Kate. After lunch, he invites her back, settles her on the sofa and kneels by the glass table. He takes out a square pack wrapped in cellophane from the pocket of his 501s. It’s no bigger than a fifty pence piece.  The stuff inside reminds Claire of her baby sister’s talcum powder.  He doesn’t line it up with a card like they do in films, instead he dampens his finger and makes a squiggle that looks like a snake then follows the shape expertly as he snorts.

 ‘My party piece,’ he says to her.  ‘’You probably just want a straight line.’

He taps the pack on the surface and some more cocaine appears.  With his American Express, he makes it into two tiny lines and hands Claire a straw.  ‘Sniff quickly’ he says.  But he’s too late with the advice and she sneezes.  It smells funny, like a mix of cat pee and chlorine, chemical and organic.  He laughs, and nods as she takes the second line much more quickly. ‘Like a pro,’ he says.

It tingles, makes her head feel like someone’s thrown on a switch in a good way, and soon it gets even better.  Nick looks amazing, she realises that now, and his accent makes him sound like a movie star.  He’s so at ease with his body but then she catches the reflection of her own legs in the mirror above the fireplace, stretched over the arm of the couch and thinks, God, I really do look good. It isn’t all costumes and lights; I’m a beautiful woman.

Nick leans over and they kiss, his hands move to her breasts and for the first time she lets him undress her.  The intensity of her desire is newly felt and she responds, pulling his shirt off, unbuttoning his jeans, losing her inhibitions, the ones that would normally make her hesitant, worried that her body, so popular on stage, won’t hold up to the proximity of a lover.  They leave the blinds pulled up and the blinking lights of early evening on the Fremont Street experience, look like stars, are wondrous to behold.  She uses those words, ‘wondrous to behold’ and he laughs, full heartedly and she is delighted in that too, her ability to entertain with words, to be funny.  He sucks her nipples, says, ‘I’ll think of this next time I see them up there on the stage’.

She thinks of being on stage and of the barely there costumes that made her nervous at first, but most nights now just seem uncomfortable,  the too tight G-string that works its way up her bum, the rash she gets from the rough finish of the sequinned fabrics. Now she pictures herself looking like the neon lights outside, all glitter, illuminating the stage, the whole city, with her radiance.  When she orgasms, it is sudden and unexpected and she shouts out her joyousness.  He is delighted and when he ejaculates into her, calls out too, her name over and over, ‘Oh Claire, oh Claire,’ and then ‘my very own showgirl.’

The walls of the flat are brick painted white but Claire thinks they are snow, so cool they seem against her sex sweat.  She licks the walls and their taste is better than the white chocolate soufflé she craves but can’t eat because her body is a temple. She says this out loud too, ‘My body is a temple.’  And again he laughs, says, ‘I’m going to start going to church regularly’. 
‘I want to go out. Now. Look at how it is down there,’ Claire opens the window on the carnival of Fremont Street.  She grabs his shirt and her own jeans and he dresses too.  Four blocks have been covered in a canopy of lights.  It is a carnival of fancy dress and loud rock music, all of Vegas but amplified, magnified, with blaring music in a constantly changing, plasma covered tent.

The sky is neon and from it Claire hears screaming. Looking up she sees people hurtling from the heights of the covered over street to the ground where Elvis look alikes, cowboys, clowns and girls who are mostly too short to be show girls wear spangled bikinis and feathers and mingle with the day trippers and holidaymakers.

‘Let’s fly,’ Nick says, and she tells him she already is flying, but he pulls her out of the canopied area to the entry point and they stand under the night sky.  There’s a giant slot machine and she looks up, thinking, wow this is some hit, but in fact it’s real, just like the 37 foot tall models of showgirls, one dressed in a turquoise bikini that looks like the outfit for one of her numbers.  She points, giggles, ‘It’s me!’

From the top of the monstrous mechanism there are zip lines that lead into the canopy of lights.  People dangle from them on contraptions that look like a toddler’s safety harness and reins.

He stops at the ticket office and whispers to her, reading from a list of rules on the side window of the booth, ‘Do not go on the ride if you are under the influence of drugs or alcohol,’ then adds, ‘but it’s so much more fun that way.’  He hands over eighty dollars for two tickets and gets into the lift to take them up to the top of the canopy arch.   They hold onto poles suspended from the wire while they are strapped in.  He goes first.  Claire follows easily, feels fearless, unbreakable sees the roof and all of the neon rush up towards her and thinks she will soar right through, hit the sky and keep ascending. The Four Queens and Golden Nugget Hotels fly past, and she is above them all, moving ever more rapidly towards a dazzling immensity of brightness.  

She begins to descend far sooner than she wants to in a rush of air that blows through her hair rendering her free and fast. But still she believes she won’t stop, will keep going, will climb up again, somewhere into a white, shining light.  But the ride ends, and she’s at the other end of Fremont Street, under the Golden Gate casino.

He’s there waiting when she lands, takes her back to his flat, just as the tiredness hits her, the utter exhaustion.  And with the weariness comes the worry that he might not want her anymore.  His phone rings and he ignores it and she feels sure he just doesn’t want to speak to whoever it is when she is there to overhear and says so. ‘You’re coming down,’ he says, ‘let’s go to bed.’  She walks through the living room and there’s a snake on the glass table. No, it’s gone; it’s the memory of an image, not a real one.  

In the bedroom, fully clothed, they fall onto his bed and into drug induced dreaming.
 
One Year Ago
 
It’s the longest flight she’s ever been on.  Eleven hours.  The only other times she has been out of Scotland were the Blackpool trips when she was a kid and the holiday in Spain when her dad got his redundancy money.  She’s watched Ocean’s Eleven three times and Leaving Las Vegas twice but still when she finds it on the plane’s classic film list, she puts it on again.  Claire has a travel guide, Lonely Planet, and for the umpteenth time she looks at the photo of the hotel where she will be working.

Her flat address, shared with two other girls, is just off Fremont Street which sounds amazing, but overwhelming too.  The world’s largest projection screen, five football pitches long makes a sky over blocks of hotels and casinos.  She imagines a cocoon of strobes, mirrors and lights if the book’s description is anything to go by.   She also wonders if she’ll be able to sleep or if the Queen and Jon Bon Jovi tribute bands will play all night through her apartment window.
She’s never been one for parties; there was never time; she’s had dance classes straight after school, five nights week and dance workshops all Saturday, for the past six years.  It’s all so unreal, this flight, the life that awaits her, a dream of sorts, just not the one she started out with. Her true desire was a job in a ballet company but she was too tall, just two inches short of six foot, so instead she’s going to be a chorus girl, and not just anywhere but in the showgirl capital of the world.

The audition was easy, at least for her, after all those classes, and the guy who checked out her breasts seemed more like a medical person than anything else.  She was sure he’d hate them, notice that one was slightly bigger than the other and send her home. He was very detached and professional, reassuring, but also engaged enough to show he was pleased with what he saw.  He made her rub ice on her nipples and then praised the outcome, something in his business-like manner stopping her shyness, relaxing her somehow.

She knew she’d done well after the second set.  There were ten shortlisted girls altogether, all after one place in the troupe, but only two of the others could pick up the steps as quickly as she could, and none except her after only one run through.
 
One Decade Ago
 
Claire’s mum is coming out of the Post Office when she hears the tinkling of a piano.  It’s not the usual sound she expects round there, on the bad end of the High Street, where the old men and the junkies sit on the bench by the War memorial, so she does a double take and sees the door of the YMCA has been jammed open because of the unusually warm weather.  Claire’s beat her to it, has already spotted the little girls through the windows at the side and is dragging her mum, who isn’t putting up much resistance, towards the concrete building.

‘Can I go, mum?  Can I, can I?’

They go into the big hall with its parquet floor and wood panelling and see a dozen girls and two boys, all about Claire’s age, give or take a year or two.  Claire’s mum thinks they look adorable.  Some are in leotards and pink shoes, other are in shorts and T-shirt and barefoot.  One girl is wearing a party dress and smiling broadly as she does her ‘step, point, step point’.  Claire’s always been shy and this could be just the thing she needs to bring her out of her shell.  Her mum watches the confident, grinning girl and imagines Claire just like her, doing her steps, beaming at an audience. A newly confident child, not one that’s too afraid and nervous to speak to visitors and hides behind the couch, but perhaps, instead, one who shows off a few of her ballet steps in the living room.  There’s an elderly man sitting at a white desk with a tin full of cash and she goes over to him.  He’s the dance teacher’s dad.  The lessons cost very little so she hands over some money and Claire, so very unusual for Claire, who always hangs back, would usually wait to be asked, runs to the far side of the room where kids’ shoes and clothes and bags are piled against a wall and various parents sit on plastic seats looking on.  Claire pulls open the Velcro strips to unfasten her shoes, very carefully takes off the socks with the angel wings at the ankle and places them neatly on top of a chair.  Her mum sees the other mothers watching in envy at this display of innate neatness and feels proud.

By the time Claire stands in the second row and raises her arms to fifth position, copying the girls in front of her, she is already smiling and her mum settles in a seat between two other parents to watch.  The pianist plays the opening bars of a waltz.  The room smells of beeswax polish, flowery soap and hopefulness. Claire begins to dance.
 

---

Lorna Gibb has written two biographies – Lady Hester (Faber) and West's World (Pan Mac) and most recently a novel, A Ghost's Story (Granta), as well as published lots of short pieces. She's currently working on another book for Granta. She lectures part time in creative writing at Middlesex University, and she used to be a professional dancer (many, many years ago), hence the idea for this story. She lives in London with her husband and three cats.

Nostalgia High: Watch Your Favorite 90s Childhood Show Clips

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

Because lunch breaks can either be spent working or basking in broken-hearted nostalgia. Because today's world is stiff and bleak and social media is a prison. We compiled our favorite 90s shows (from when we were little-little, like before Party of Five) so you can listen to the simple delicate sweetness of Little Bear or the creepy weirdness of Pete and Pete...

Enjoy!

Good Medicine January 4, 1988 David explains what the daily life of the gnomes is like. He tells about his job as a doctor and the time he saved a goat who had swallowed a wire and a badger that had a splinter in his eye.

"Toads Dream" - a clip from the stop-motion animated childrens' film Frog and Toad Together (1987). Please visit http://JohnClarkMatthews.com

Subscribe for more videos! http://bit.ly/1tvxJ1R in this episode of Gumby, Gumby takes a trip to Mirrorland! Kabillion is a Free Video On Demand network for kids carried by all major US cable providers in over 50 million homes, by YouTube, and by your phone or tablet via the YouTube App.

Angelica Pickles knows that growing up isn't all fun and games. In fact, sometimes it's no fun, and there are no games. Scene from Rugrats episode "Angelica's Birthday" Subscribe: http://bit.ly/TheSplatSubscribe Check out The Splat's official website: http://bit.ly/SplatOnline More From The Splat: Facebook: http://bit.ly/TheSplatFacebook Twitter: http://bit.ly/TheSplatTwitter Instagram: http://bit.ly/TheSplatGram Tumblr: http://bit.ly/TheSplatTumblr Vine: http://bit.ly/TheSplatVine Pinterest: http://bit.ly/SplatPinterest What is The Splat?

Get Paid to Play Video Games: http://tinyurl.com/ab2ja5z In this episode of Are You Afraid Of The Dark, a girl named Melissa becomes obsessed over her friend Susan's mysterious disappearance -- until she discovers a strange doll-house in Susan's attic and finds that Susan has been trapped inside; an evil magic turns however stays inside of it (after coming in through a secret door) into dolls if they stay too long.

LeVar bumps into a familiar friend at the local library. What's Kermit the Frog up to in the "Pig" section of books? This famous Muppet has a few tricks up his sleeve on this Reading Rainbow Classics segment. Subscribe to the Reading Rainbow Channel here: http://www.youtube.com/subscription_center?add_user=ReadingRainbow In This Video: Kermit joins host LeVar Burton on this classic episode of Reading Rainbow.

Take a look... with your eye. You'll see how it works. You'll see things right side up that start out upside down. It's a quick trick your brain pulls. Your brain by the way is the part of your eyes that you can see. Click, and have a look-see.

berenstain bears Trouble At School Visit the Dentist

No copyright infringement intended. All pictures and videos are copyright of the DiC Enterprises DHX Media and / or their respective owners. Copyright Disclaimer:I have followed the copyright law correctly, its non-profit and the songs are credited."

Uploaded by Official Little Bear on 2014-12-15.

Mister Rogers' Neighborhood

Uploaded by Weylon Solis on 2016-02-25.

Uploaded by Skye Tronn on 2013-10-07.

The adventures of Pete and Pete Season 1 - Episode 4 What we did on our summer vacation All rights reserved to the owners.

Enjoy

"This is a Liberry!"

All about Arnold, psychological aspect, so theres a lot here, I don't repeat any exact clips. It's NOT supposed to about just Helga, it's about his feelings of his parents being away to. Actually, everything ties together. He feels like he can't love Helga because he loved his parents and they left on him.

Uploaded by SuperKidscartoons on 2013-06-09.

Uploaded by Ciara Fernanda on 2016-02-12.

Sailor Moon Episode 1 English

TV-Y | After a miserable first day of middle school, Alex Mack winds up getting drenched with an experimental chemical, leaving her with unusual powers.

As events unfold in her life, Clarissa explains to the viewer the motivations behind people's actions. As events unfold in her life, Clarissa explains to the viewer . As events unfold in her life, Clarissa explains to the viewer the motivations behind people's actions. As events unfold in her life, Clarissa explains to the viewer ...

Uploaded by Ladefolo Gavogekar on 2015-07-11.

Molly wakes up with tangles in her hair, but she won't let Loonette comb them out. Rather than face the music, Molly ties a rain hat tight to her head. Loonette has to ask for help, but Granny Garbanzo is too wrapped up with Snicklefritz's stubbornness.

Barney brings out his Game Machine for an afternoon full of fun and games. But when the machine is empty; Barney and his friends look for games to fill it up so they can play a big game. After the machine is filled with games, the kids turn the crank and out comes one big gameboard filled with fun and surprises!

Goosebumps 2 Hours Scariest Episodes In this particular story, a girl named Amy Kramer performs with her dummy, Dennis, every Thursday night at her family's little "talent show". Unfortunately, Dennis has become almost unusable with age, and his head keeps falling off. Jed uses it to pretend to be Dennis on one occasion.

Care Bears Movie - Big Wish Care Bears Movie - Big Wish Care Bears Movie - Big Wish Care Bears Movie - Big Wish Care Bears Movie - Big Wish

Rupert bear And Mum's Adventure prt 1

With Babar and Celeste spending all their time tending to the needs of her new baby sister Isabelle, Flora's feelings of being unwanted ultimately lead her to run away from home. Inspired by the famous books by Jean and Laurent de Brunhoff, this is the animated story of Babar, a young elephant who undergoes many challenges and adventures.

"The Old House, sorely in need of repair, is condemned and the girls are forced to move to a small apartment where their snooty neighbors hate kids and dogs. But just before the wrecking ball destroys their beloved abode, Madeline enlists the aid of the ladies of the Historical Society, who help get the Old House renovated to perfection."

Turtles are slow, but Franklin's penchant for constantly stopping to smell the roses makes him slow even for a turtle. But when it comes to his best friend Bear's surprise birthday party, Franklin is determined to be on time. However, he discovers too late that once again he's allowed his preoccupation with the little things to sidetrack him.

FAIR USE "Copyright Disclaimer Under Section 107 of the Copyright Act 1976, allowance is made for "fair use" for purposes such as criticism, comment, news reporting, teaching, scholarship, and research. Fair use is a use permitted by copyright statute that might otherwise be infringing.

A freak accident from a transporter turns April into a cat-woman. Irma meets TMNT in order to rescue her.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CqFdSVKPSmM - Caillou - Learn the ABC - letter "C" Want more Caillou? The only official source for Caillou! Grandma brings over some delicious treats for the kids to try - only theyre full of olives. Caillou doesnt like olives, but he doesnt know how to tell Grandma he doesnt like her cherished dishes...

Order here: http://di.sn/PoohBRDVD Now available on Blu-ray™ & DVD Combo Pack and Movie Download. Take the Winnie the Pooh personality Quiz here: http://di.sn/WTPQuiz Become a fan on Facebook: http://facebook.com/WinniethePooh http://www.Disney.com/Pooh Walt Disney Animation Studios returns to the Hundred Acre Wood with "Winnie the Pooh," the first big-screen Pooh adventure from Disney animation in more than 35 years.

A cloud appears in Teletubbyland. The Teletubbies watch some children playing in the rain. Dipsy steps in a puddle. Three magic ships sail through Teletubbyland. ► Click to subscribe: http://bit.ly/SubscribeTeletubbies Visit our website! http://www.teletubbies.com/ Follow us for all the latest Teletubbies news! ► Facebook https://www.facebook.com/teletubbies ► Twitter https://twitter.com/Teletubbieshq Experience the Teletubbies like never before!

Gadget searches Scotland for a missing scientist who vanished near a lake that is supposed to harbor a monster.

Pink works on a building site. The Pink Panther, sauntering casually along, sees a "Construction Workers Wanted" sign on the fence of a building under construction and hops over the fence unannounced and goes to work.

Uploaded by Severin Murray on 2013-05-13.

Stop Telling Me To Smile: 2 Rad Parsons Students Photograph Sad Gurlz as A Reponse

BY TABITHA SHIFLETT

Meet SAD GURL Ashley! "I'm a sad gurl because I'm a single 20 year old virgin with a heavy sexual appetite. I hate going to clubs but my friends force me to go out and I never get in." #sadgurl #lookrookie #portrait #SADGURLZ

A photo posted by SAD GURLZ™ (@wearesadgurlz) on Feb 29, 2016 at 8:07am PST

If you’re a woman, then you’ve probably experienced the whole You Should Smile More charade. We’ve heard it all before – those gross, sexist comments ranging from, “Life isn’t that bad, honey!” to the plea, “Smile!

Usually, a man, grinning ear-to-ear like a Cheshire cat, is behind this annoying string of cliché phrases just waiting for us to have an epiphany – thanks to his underhanded compliment – and smile like we’re told.

Fed up and completely unamused with what society has dubbed as “resting bitch face,” Parsons photography students Sam Lichtenstein and Jess Williams took matters into their own hands.

The cheeky photo collaboration, “SAD GURLZ,” is a collation of portraits of bold, badass women redefining what it means to have a poker face – or just a face that walks down the street, minding its own business. Radiating rebellion, the images project power and major self-respect.

Your favorite SAD GURLZ are celebrating LGBT pride this month!

A photo posted by SAD GURLZ™ (@wearesadgurlz) on Jun 3, 2016 at 8:57am PDT

Both Lichtenstein and Williams spoke with an air of certainty and seriousness.

“We tell our models to look as bored, unamused, and annoyed as possible,” says Lichtenstein.  “Which is contrary to how women are normally portrayed in photos....Women are always being told to smile, whether it’s in a photo or when they are just walking down the street, so we want to push that idea aside.”

To become a SG, models must apply via an online form with a theme and color backdrop in mind. Each model is accompanied by a short narrative further explaining the meaning of their photo.

Model Ana, who posed with a handful of Wendy’s French fries, writes "I'm a SAD GURL because eating healthy is the new black. Personally, I'd pick chicken nuggets over an apple any day.”

Meet SAD GURL Haley! "I'm a SAD GURL because I enjoy alone time, and writing about the people in my life. I have been trying not to hide myself anymore, and having my photo taken makes me uncomfortable, so that's why I wanted to be a part of this project."

A photo posted by SAD GURLZ™ (@wearesadgurlz) on Apr 15, 2016 at 7:03am PDT

The photoshoot is a two-step process – once the accepted candidates are photographed against the background of their choice, a compilation of items that correlate with the theme are also shot. The two photos are then displayed side-by-side on the SG website, Instagram account, and Facebook page.

“It’s hard being a woman and even more so for those in the LGBT community,” says Williams. “We want SAD GURLZ to be an outlet for all women to speak out without actually having to say anything.”

The project began in February as an online photo album. But once word got out, the dynamic duo found their inbox overflowing with inquiries. They participated in Parsons' PHOTOFEAST, a bi-annual pin-up exhibit open to New York photography students. That was in April. 

“We’re in contact with an all-female gallery in Tempe, Arizona and there’s talk of doing a collaboration and having our very first SG gallery show,” says Williams. “There’s also a magazine based in Spain and Belgium that plans on featuring us and our work.”

And, as if that wasn’t exciting enough, the two say they’re in the process of publishing a 75-page book that features the models they’ve photographed thus far.

“It feels so good to have our work recognized by the people around us,” says Williams. “But, it’s exhilarating to find that our work is being acknowledged by others across the country and the world.”

SAD GURLZ LUV SPRING BREAK ☀️🌊🐠 #SADGURLZ #springbreak #portrait

A photo posted by SAD GURLZ™ (@wearesadgurlz) on Mar 20, 2016 at 11:15am PDT

Meet SAD GURL Miranda! "I'm a SAD GURL because I love living in New York City but I also love nature and hiking and the beach. It's hard to find a balance between the two without going crazy."

A photo posted by SAD GURLZ™ (@wearesadgurlz) on Jun 17, 2016 at 5:22am PDT

Meet SAD GURL Alexis! "I'm a SAD GURL because I am aware that I don't know everything but through self empowerment and knowledge I am finding out more about myself everyday."

A photo posted by SAD GURLZ™ (@wearesadgurlz) on May 13, 2016 at 4:24pm PDT

Fans can currently pre-order the book on the SG website. 

---

Tabitha Shiflett is a graduate of the Dub (The University of North Carolina Wilmington, UNCW). She's written for Her Campus, Seahawk Chic, CBSLocal and Elite Daily. She is currently enrolled in the Creative Publishing and Critical Journalism MA program at The New School in New York City. 

Things Break Easily in My Big Hands

BY SUSAN RUKEYSER

The night I found the chinchilla, I was on crutches, snooping around the newly-built mansions behind my aunt’s subdivision. I looked into empty rooms where nothing had happened yet. Life might still be pretty, inside and out.

It used to be thick Georgia forest back there, but they stripped it to clay, trucked in sod and saplings and built nine distinctive homes for no one. Flags on stakes heralded a Spring Open House, with pony rides and a petting zoo for the kids.

I figured that’s where the chinchilla came from.

He lay on a bricked driveway, wet from sprinklers. He looked like a tiny squirrel with huge ears. Fur twisted in dark curls. It took some doing, with leg casts, but I managed to pick him up. I tucked him into my messenger bag. Back in my aunt’s kitchen, I laid him on the counter. I tried to dry him with a towel, then my hairdryer. An internet search showed me what he should look like. Chinchillas were beloved for their beautiful, dense fur. Farmers raised a hundred for a single soft coat. Or they were sold as cuddly pets. Beneath the fur, he was a scrawny, pink-skinned rodent. You weren’t supposed to see that.

He wasn’t dead, but he was close.

After what happened in New York, my aunt invited me to Georgia, to live in her house until it sold. She didn’t know me well, her Yankee niece. But she understood the need for escape. 

She’d just moved to Orlando with her new boyfriend. She said I could keep tabs on her good-for-nothing realtor. Keep the nosy HOA off her back. They didn’t like vacant homes. They worried their houses looked shabby, compared to those nine new mansions. They planted more crape myrtles at the entrance.

“People like crape myrtles, I guess,” said my aunt. “But every winter they’re hacked back. The branches are blunt as fists. When they finally bloom again, I can’t look. Ornamental trees, where there used to be wilderness,” she scoffed.

I didn’t mind the crape myrtles, but then I only saw them at night. My aunt told me her neighbors turned in early. I’d have the sidewalks to myself after dark. She’d heard from my mother, how people stared.

I’m big. Tall, but more than that: I’m hefty. Large. Thick limbs, dense trunk. Not a pruned ornamental, but a tree that crowds out the neighboring flora.

When people stare, they seem angry.

The New York detective said my size probably wasn’t a factor in the balcony collapse. Balconies should be locked, even on the lower floors, in a building full of NYU undergrads.

Thankfully I’d been alone.

Awnings broke my fall. No one on the street was dead, but some were close.

In my hospital bed, I burned with pain the narcotics couldn’t reach. Humiliation squeezed my heart until I gasped. My pulse looped.

The chinchilla wasn’t interested in the lettuce I ripped up for him or the carrots I diced. He wouldn’t rouse himself to sip water from the dish. He was utterly still, at peace or in shock. 

Next door, Mr. Patel went out back for a cigarette. His smoke hung in the thick, humid air. When he was done, he flicked the cigarette away from his azaleas, into brush. I watched until the ember went dark.

Fire scares me. I imagine air sucked from my lungs, flesh melted to bone, my body reduced to weightless ash. I want that so much it scares me.

Before NYU, there was a doctor who wouldn’t help. He said my hormones were normal. No pituitary tumor. My weight was okay, for my height, which appeared to be levelling off.

“Your weight doesn’t qualify you for bariatric surgery,” he said. “And, Gerry, you are not a giant. Leg shortening is very rare. Extreme. You don’t want surgery. You’re just a big girl.”

“Worst kind of girl you can be.”

“Fashion models are tall,” he said too brightly. He gave me a kind, reproachful look, like my father did sometimes. Then he stood to leave. That also reminded me of Dad.

Hours later, the chinchilla hadn’t moved. His fur was still damp. I found the number of an emergency vet.

“Lethargy, diarrhea, cloudy eyes,” she repeated. “There’s only one thing I can do for him. But it won’t be long. Keep him home.”

I told the detective I went out on the balcony for some air. In the common area by the elevator, I shoved aside a couch that blocked access to doors that were locked, but things break easily in my big hands.

It was Friday afternoon, classes done. My roommate and a cute Hellenic Studies major sat on her bed and licked ice-cream. I left, wishing I had a cone, too, but I won’t eat in public.

I imagined my roommate’s sticky hands on that boy. Skin meeting skin: it was easy for some people.

I imagined it was easy.

I wanted to leave a hole as big as me. Free up the space I’d taken, more than my share.

If only that surgeon had cut me down to size.

By dawn, the chinchilla was dead. I tucked him back into my messenger bag, made my way on crutches to those empty mansions. One of the never-used backyards had a young magnolia tree, the base circled by stones. I brushed away leaves like leather scraps, pulled back a corner of sod and dug a hole. I whispered a eulogy: He was more than his fur. He was forgotten, but I’ll remember.  

Then I put one of the stones in my bag and hobbled to the glass patio doors. Inside were rooms full of lies. I threw the rock, hard as I could. Sometimes you need to hear something splinter.

Later, back inside my aunt’s house, I watched Mr. Patel toss another cigarette. This one also failed to catch.

---

Susan Rukeyser is the Reviews Editor for Necessary Fiction, a Copy Editor for Newfound, and Managing Editor of the Twitter-zine escarp. She is the author of Not on Fire, Only Dying. 

How My 85-Year-Old Mom Rebooted Her Modeling Career

BY ANNA MURRAY

“Does your mother have an agent?” the creative director asked.

Eileen Ford died two years ago. “Um. Not at the moment.”

“What about travel to Paris? Is she up for it?”

I was waiting in line for chopped salads. Ninety seconds prior, I saw the overseas number and answered my cell phone. Now I was talking to a woman from my past about pitching my mother and me in a global ad campaign.

A photo essay I wrote for Vox was going viral. It was about my mom, Patsy Shally, a former world-famous fashion model. 

From 1948 through 1960, my mother was the apex of commercial beauty – young, thin and exquisite. Discovered at 13, she was a top model for Eileen Ford, on the cover of practically everything. She went for screen tests with Rock Hudson and one-on-one interviews with legendary Hollywood producer Melvyn Leroy.

Mom and I recreated her most famous Vogue, Glamour, and McCall’s covers. The piece I wrote was about beauty and aging.

A particular series of photographs was drawing the most attention: our twist on my mother’s 1956 Irving Penn Vogue cover.

It is July 1956. Mom is the fresh bloom, the ingénue and prize in marriage. Today, on the brink of turning 50, I am the November rose, the last of summer. At 85, Mom is still gorgeous. She is the petals pressed in a diary.

“The elderly shouldn’t be invisible,” Mom said. “We matter.”

It was clear from our photo shoot Mom, at 85, still “had it.”

The project hit home. We were picked up in the Daily Mail and ran in their network worldwide. We were being tweeted by Racked, by Newsweek and by the producer of Rizzoli and Isles.

People were contacting me from all nooks and crannies of my life, including Sam, a long-past acquaintance, and the current creative director for an international ad agency. She said our story resonated. The brand was thrilled. We could be big.

“I think she can probably travel,” I answered. Mom has her frail moments. But we were talking Paris.

“I’ll need whatever additional photos you have. Also traffic and social shares.”

Over the last few weeks, Mom and I had received hundreds of comments from people who said our project touched them.

Here’s what I found most surprising:

·       People called us “fearless.”

·       People said they cried.

·       Men said the essay touched them.

·       Someone suggested my mother might be the next Mrs. Donald Trump.

Mom and I had joined a great zeitgeist-y army of age-barrier-busting beauty warriors.  There was Elon Musk’s mother, 68, now elbowing out Botox blondes for ad campaigns. And Vogue putting a 100-year-old on its cover for their 100th anniversary.

“It's important that all women and consumers are featured on the runway and in advertorials. Women of all ages wear clothes- why should they be left out?” said fashion designer Carrie Hammer, famous for her recent fall 2015 show called, “Role Models Not Runway Models.”

“Your recreations of your mother’s covers are a powerful message of love, courage and understanding,” said Nyna Giles, author of the upcoming book The Bridesmaid’s Daughter.

Giles was one of the most amazing out-of-the-woodwork surfacers. Her mother, Carolyn Scott, modeled with mine. Giles book recounts her mother’s career, including Barbizon roomie Grace Kelly. It will be published by St. Martin’s Press next year.

It’s important, Giles said, even at this late date, to give our mothers their names back. “They were the first super models. Today they would have been household names. But back then, only the photographers were credited.”

A modeling job in 2016 would be quite a capper to Mom’s career. What a terrific irony: My mom, who defined the mainstream ideal of youth and beauty, was challenging that very ideal in her 9th decade.

The next few weeks were ferociously busy. Sam’s team prepared the pitch and she contacted me daily for additional information—copies of comments, web stats, requests for more photographs. Dad, 88, got their passports renewed.

Mom was calm. She knew the gig, literally, despite the 56-year gap between this and her last job. She only asked, “Did they say how many days would we be working?” There would, after all, be shopping to do.

Then, a week ago, Sam said the brand in question was favoring an alternate concept her agency had pitched.

I was disappointed. Mom shrugged: That’s life in super model fast lane. Sam salved the blow by saying I would be shocked and “so proud” once I knew who actually got the job. “You won’t believe who you were up against and almost made it!”

Who could it be? I conducting a quick survey of Mom’s and my new fans—asking them to guess who won out over us.

“Lord, I hope it’s not Kim Kardashian and Caitlyn Jenner!” Howled one. That might rattle even professional Mom’s sang froid.

Here are the guesses. The leading candidates for Mom’s and my nemeses:

·       Gwyneth Paltrow & Blythe Danner

·       Goldie Hawn and Kate Hudson

·       Isabella Rossellini and Elettra Rossellini Wiedemann

·       Ellen & Betty DeGeneres

·       Madonna & Lourdes Leon

·       Jerry Hall & Georgia May Jagger

·       Iman & Lexi Bowie

·       Jada Pinkett Smith and Willow Smith

·       Twiggy and Carly Lawson

·       Zoe Kravitz and Lisa Bonet

·       Anderson Cooper and Gloria Vanderbilt

I’m keeping watch on Ad Age to see if someone gets it right.

In the meantime, we are receiving other interesting nibbles. And Mom could really use an agent.

---

Anna Murray is CEO of emedia, llc., a technology consulting company, and a writer. Her essays have appeared in Vox, The Daily Mail, Soundings Review, Piker Press, Adanna, and The Guardian Witness. Her recently completed new novel is represented by David Black Agency. It features a once-famous model and her look-alike daughter. Her non-fiction title, The Complete Software Project Manager, was published in January 2016 by John Wiley & Sons. One reviewer commented, “This is a technical book that reads like a novel.”